To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar: Review By B. Alan Orange

An Uncle Critic tattoo on the forehead can jog any average mind into seeing that branded mark as a sign of bitterness. It's an assumption that applies to the writer of this column with much aptitude. An unforgivable trait, this week's jaded straining of the face should be overlooked. It's not often a movie will force itself into that way-back seat, only to kick forth atop a barbwire crutch. Jungle's basic idea held vast interest and keen complexities, yet faltered at the white line with its big toe slightly over the edge. Even if the material had managed to redeem itself, there is one fact I cannot deny: My total hate for John Leguizamo has grown out of proportion with the rest of my body.

With the exception of your average executive producer; it's my susp*cion that those in Hollywood have never been around a mentally challenged person before. Thus far, only two performances stand out as being accurate, aside from individuals in the acting field who are truly disabled. The first is W. Earl Brown's portrayal of Warren in There's Something About Mary. It's easily written off because of the film's comedic nature. The second and strongest "faked" presentation of a man dealing with the complexities of a mental deficiency came from Ewen Bremner in Julien Donkey-Boy. His is as close to the real thing as I've ever seen.

The rest, from Mickey Rooney in Bill to Juliet Lewis & Giovanni Ribisi in the Other Sister, are all rude supplements of retarded mannerisms. They are fake, cartoonish performances where the actor in question generally mimics a "short bus" cliche, wearing observed ticks on their sleeve. This can be as offensive as any bigoted caricature. Most actors seem incapable of becoming truly deficient in a sense. That notion asks an audience to take a giant leap of faith. We require a suspension bridge of disbelief just to consider any given thespian handicapable. John Leguizamo fails in preparation for what is possibly the biggest challenge of his career.

Sure, he can pat his head and speak in the same mumbling speech pattern he studied while attending a Kids of Widney High concert in the parking lot of a comic book store. He just can't deliver a believable performance at this, his time of crucial dramatic convergence. He's like a trained seal, dong tricks. That's as far as his hand reaches. At times, there are glaring breaks in this performance. Especially painful is an improvised scene where he grabs Rosie Perez by the tit. He does things out of nature of character, usually to gain a cheap laugh. There's a real inconsistency in his work that damages the piece as a whole. This is the wrong season for him to be doing drama that demands such detailed work in study. He's going from mostly comedic roles into a serious figurehead that needs in-depth layers of humanity.

On a personal level, I can't take anything I've seen, performance-wise, seriously. When I see Leguizamo imitating the nature of a disabled man, it's like watching him perform a laughable skit. At times, I'm ashamed to look at the screen. One star's vanity shouldn't be able to account for this. Drama was a ladder Leguizamo needed to step down gradually, arriving at this role near the bottom. Instead, he jumps from the top with no worry for ankle impaction. John's on-screen father believes him to be faking this implied lack of intelligence. The film has forced me to side with Dad. I, too, believe this is an ingenious ploy carried out to gain the upper hand of those around Seymour's handicap. That's the only truly believable explanation.

One problem with accepting any actor as a member of the Down Syndrome society is familiarity. The reason Ewen works so well in Donkey-Boy is that we haven't really seen him in anything else (except Trainspotting and Pearl Harbor). We're willing to accept that he has schizophrenia. The same goes with W. Earl. As a producer, Leguizamo should have swallowed his pride and seen that he was wrong for this role. Instead, he took it on as a career "challenge."

The real challenge would have been to cast an actual mentally disabled person. If I was Chris Burke, I'd be super pissed right now. Look at all the roles he's past up for so some sh*t-f*ck drama queen can try and win an Oscar. Hollywood is too afraid of placing someone like Chris in a movie. It's a shame an independent film such as this has taken a similar route. I think it would be wonderful. Crispin Glover attempted to make a movie with an all Down Syndrome cast, and it was shunned by the moral majority. Titled WHAT IS IT?, I think it's one of the most interesting, well made features never to win a wider audience. I hate that actors like Burke can't gain a little notoriety in the field.

Leguizamo's performance isn't the only thing wrong with King of the Jungle. This sucker's off the map. Talk about high concept in a sovereign field. Let's see: we'll take a retarded man, give him a Latino Mom harboring a lesbian lover and a Jewish father who hates his guts, then on top of that, we'll throw in an inexplicable murder and some award winning talent as extras. The synopsis looks worthy on paper: Retard goes on a quest for the man who shot his mother. Sounds like a fun road trip to me.

But, no!! This aspect only comes in near the end. We have to suffer through a sh*t storm just to get to the fun stuff, and when we get there, it ain't all that fun. Jungle takes pains in setting up a series of unconvincing relationships. Seymour's mother sweats her way through some uncomfortable lesbian tongue action, and it's impossible to conceive that Marisa Tomei ever won an Oscar after watching her stumble through a five second performance that leaves silent-dead stillness in the air. There is absolutely no motive placed behind the killing of the mom, and there is not one likable presence apparent on the screen. This material is handled worse than a family of masturbating monkeys in a 3rd rate Alabama Circus.

It's the kind of pee stream that misses the bowl, dampening the shag floor matt and ruining your freshly laundered socks. It will make you loath every single person involved. Anyone who can suffer through the entirety of John Leguizamo hopping about with condiments on his nose and retard mannerisms clinched in his teeth while shouting, "I'm King of the jungle!" can pretty much suffer through any misfortune heaped upon them in life. Your whole family dies in an automobile accident; you'll be at the funeral saying, "Remember King of the Jungle? This whole dismembered family member thing is peaches in comparison."

Leguizamo pulled in some favors with talent, and managed to waste every single one of them. As the film progresses, familiar faces will pop up urging a bit of excitement. That excitement is quickly dribbled away like saliva off John's chin. Jungle becomes a production of discomfort. "Hey, there's Annabella Sciorra...Oh, she kind of looks embarrassed to be playing that hooker. Must be why she's keeping her back to the camera. Hey, it's Casper from Kids! Hmm, he kind of sucks in this movie, what happened? Awesome, Rosario Dawson, you can't...go wrong...with...Never mind."

I'm at a total loss when it comes to her. She shows up for two minutes, maybe less, berates Leguizamo behind a fence, threatens him with a knife, talks about eating p*ssy, then disappears never to be seen again. She's fifth billed in credits, and isn't even in the movie. What gives? The short screen time could only help her career. Spike Lee and the New York Knicks show up for a fleeting second. Judging from the look of shock on Spike's face, he probably doesn't even realize he's in King of the Jungle. (And tell me the truth, can you tell Leguizamo and Rosie Perez apart? I can't.)

If I could scrawl this review in kitten's blood, believe me, I would. It truly must be the work of Satan. Just recalling certain scenes in my head has me wanting to drop the back end of a bus on my chest so that my left lung comes popping out my mouth. Sitting there, suffering; if I was told the only thing that could heal me was another viewing of King of the Jungle, I'd tighten one of those rubber bands used for denutting a lamb around my esophagus and wait for the light of God to take me in.

How absurd can you sell something? Jungle is thrown together like some last minute Humanities project fashioned out of corkboard and No-Doz. It's an insult to every Handicapped individual out there. Too bad they wont be able to comprehend how truly awful it is. It's a movie that might actually even appeal to them, it's that simple minded. Bottom line, if I had access to a shovel right now, I'd burry myself.