|
|
|
January 02, 2005  I'll begin 2005 with a post about the funniest movie of 2004: Alexander. I barely know where to begin with this one; its supply of bad ideas and snicker-inducing moments seems neverending. Add some hardcore sex and you'd have Caligula. The script is probably the most disappointing part of the whole enterprise. Oliver Stone has written some brilliant screenplays--including Midnight Express, Conan the Barbarian and Scarface--but this is not one of them. Most of Alexander's conquering seems to happen off camera, the dialogue rings hollow, and the script unwisely chooses to focus on the sexual forces at work in Alexander's troubled head. Maybe Oliver Stone has had other things on his mind lately. The directing is replete with sloppy oversights, editing room fixes, and lousy shots. In at least one instance the audience is unclear after a lengthy battle sequence whether Alexander has conquered anything. The story lurches to and fro with no idea of where it's going and not even any signposts for the audience that their three-hour ordeal may soon end. In one inexplicable sequence about two hours into the movie that just dares the audience to walk out, the movie cuts back to events that were already covered during the interminable prologue ... with the helpful subtitle "8 years earlier." The acting has already been dissected by numerous critics, but it was still amazing for me to witness with my own eyes exactly how off the performances are. Colin Farrell is a great vacuum at the center of the movie, mostly looking like he's auditioning to be the new lead singer of Journey and with about as much sincerity. Angelina Jolie is simply awful; I doubt anyone could have done worse. Val Kilmer is reduced to self-mockery as Alexander's father, Philip. Poor Anthony Hopkins is the framing device, dressed in a costume-shop toga and playing an old Ptolemy telling the story of Alexander to a scribe. He narrates, and when he appears on screen it's on a set that looks recycled from the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Only Christopher Plummer--who, as Aristotle, is forced to redeem a speech about the prospects and pitfalls of "men laying with men"--escapes unscathed in the acting department. And the much-discussed homosexual moments are simply too ridiculous to take seriously. Instead of any sort of exploration, we get Colin Farrell wearing fur coats and eye makeup and spending half the movie exchanging knowing glances with effeminate shirtless guys. The moment where he declares his love for Hephaistion (Jared Leto) is maybe a nice try to illuminate the sexual feelings of the Greeks, but trust me when I tell you that it misses the mark to a cringe-inducing degree. Leto's death scene--in which he experiences out-of-focus death throes in the background while Farrell delivers a windy speech about their glorious future together--plays like an outtake from an 80s Zucker comedy. The one saving grace of the movie is the score by Greek synth god Vangelis. Looped endlessly are the score's finest moments, which hearken back to Vangelis' best film scores (1492 and Chariots of Fire). In the soaring analog synth melodies, we can see what Stone must have wanted the movie to be like--an orgiastic fantasy vision of the distant past. |
