Code Orange Alert #39241: RED DRAGON
Yeah, it's a movie. You can quote me on that. You go, you watch, it's over, you leave, unaffected. It's the type of entertainment that will move you to dryly whisper, "Eh, it was decent," as you urinate next to some guy who hogged your armrest through the darn thing.
I think we have enough movies. There should be a mandate set forth, governed by law. No one should be able to make a film unless it's truly inspired and new. Are we at such a low point, we need to be remaking movies first released in the mid-80s? Oh, I get it. The producers of the second Hannibal failed to secure Brian Cox in the lead role. That didn't seem like such a big deal until Silence of the Lambs started raking up those Oscars. They might have been able to live with it had the third film been any good. But no, they couldn't leave well enough alone. Red Dragon exists solely for the bucks it's bound to bring in. No more, no less. It's a movie of the week done in high fashion with an exceptional, above-rate cast. Aside from its slick look and pedigree, we, as an audience, are given nothing new; no bones of hope, no tasty meal. But what was I expecting? It is a prequel; a remake of a flawless, if dated, stretch of photography. It isn't purely a waste of time. It's watchable, yet you could come across this same type of enclosed story on CSI, done to a lesser degree.
I don't trust any horror movie that wins awards by the boatload. How can I care about and worship a Serial Killer when he's adored by old women? Hannibal Lecter is no friend of mine. He's Michael Myers on a senior citizen's discount. He's the type of 'spooky' guy who'd turn up at the Boogeyman Jamboree wearing a black tie. That kind of sh*t ain't kocher. Sure, he can talk the talk, but can he walk the walk? I'm fairly certain the answer is, "No." Stand him next to any given God of Slash and let him jibber-jabber in that Limey accent, I guarantee he's coming back without a head. I don't care who; Freddy, Jason, heck; even Chucky would reign victorious. This dude, Lecter, he's all dictionary and dentures. The man's got no bite left. By the time they make part four, George Burns' corpse will be able to give him a good ass-lickin'. Yuck, who'd want to see that?
Me.
Is anyone buying this Hannibal Lecter schtick anymore? Sure, when Anthony Hopkins first slid into the skin of this slippery cannibal, the audience at large was fairly unfamiliar with his English accent. Since 1989, though, we've seen him knighted. The actor has greased us into his own personal web, and the media at large has introduced this jerk as a handsome, gentlemanly scholar. Over the course of these last thirteen years, he's become a joke. Maybe you can take his role, here, seriously, but I can't. I don't see Hannibal Lecter anymore, I see Anthony Hopkins having a gay old time at it. Those dumb f*cks in charge of throwing this into production should have quit while they were ahead. Roger Moore didn't jump back and remake all the Connery Bond films. I doubt we'll see Jodie Foster attempting to remake Hannibal in the years to come.
These films have already played within the bounds of a character change-up. Remaking Manhunter will never rearrange that notion. I mean, Manhunter looks and feels of the period it was shot. This new interpretation takes place in that same decade, but we can't really tell that by looking at the fashions bandied about; with the exception of some hooch in a library (But she looks current in her trends, so it's a revisionist's nightmare). Red Dragon is as elusive with its timeline as last week's Moonlight Mile. About the set dressing, there's no real indication of when this is taking place. The film's Eighties timeline is a moot point. It shouldn't be. That's what makes Michael Mann's epic the better of the two. (Plus, I noticed when Ed Norton is rummaging through a box of videotapes, there's a copy of Jaws: the Re-mastered Edition that wasn't released until the late 90s. And Bustin' Loose is the Good Times release, which also didn't make it's way into stores until 96 or 97. What gives? Just because these are old movies, don't think we won't notice you're showing them in their new box art covers. Sheesh, what do you take us for? A bunch of naives?)
Even before walking into the theater, I was feeling pretty grouchy. I've never liked this series. I've always found it kinda blase. That Brett Ratner, occupying a director's chair that has already housed some extraordinary talent, could take the material he's been given and turn it into something slightly worthwhile is a shock. Here's a guy who doesn't really have anything of any artistic value on his resume. Rush Hour and Money Talks are two of the blandest throwaways to generate receipts in a long time. Aside from the talent locked inside those two frame structures, there is nothing extraordinary about the look of his last couple of popcorn flicks. Here, he's able to really pull it together. This looks and feels like a real, detailed, beautifully shot canister of celluloid. Hopefully, he can keep his eye level enough to make his Samurai Jack feature something above average. Red Dragon had the potential to be above average, but its script is scraping the scum out the bottom of the barrel. It's strictly deja vu; a cocktail mixed with house whiskey and a dash of 'seen-it-all-before'.
Red Dragon suffers from a raging case of the Blahs. Even its bad guy villain can't generate enough electricity to keep a dildo vibrating in the crotch of a dead albino hooker; whatever the Hell that means. We're given a guy who wears his Grandmother's moldy dentures and bites people with them. Ooh, scary. He's a pisser; a drama queen of a mama's boy. The most horrifying thing we see him do on screen is eat one of Robert Blake's paintings. But the credits tell us this is a falsified move, the artwork hangs unharmed in a New York City museum. Our lame show would have been much more interesting had it been strictly about Frances Dolarhyde and his blind girlfriend. If the movie had left all the FBI business and the Hannibal card on the floor, in the bathroom, where it belonged, something inspiring could have been built out of the rest of it. But no, this is a sequel of sorts. An original idea would have never been green lit. Well, what we're left with is no more entertaining than Jason goes to Hell, and Red Dragon has landed Doctor Lecter in the same cliched sea that the rest of those B-Movie rapscallions swim in.
The one cool thing Red Dragon does give us is a chance to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman lit on fire and rolled down the street in an old wheelchair. If this doesn't have you busting a gut and falling into the isle, nothing ever will. God, that guy cracks me up, all dying and sh*t. He even gets himself Super Glued and chewed on. Yeah, he's a member of the upstanding thespian brigade. He deserves some sort of gold-plated medal for this one. And Harvey Keitel isn't bad. At least he hasn't become the walking joke that his peers, Christopher Walken and Joe Pesci, have. There's still a bit of dignity left in his performance. Not a bad trick for a guy who has flashed his pecker time-after-time for shock value alone. Speaking of which, Ralph Fiennes does a bit of that here.
So, all you Silver Foxes out there, here's a slasher flick just for you. It's not a horrible seat, and it'll probably scare up some hefty ticket sales. But that's as far as its hand reaches. We've been struck once again by the mediocrity that plagues this town's thinking process.
On a parting note: Don Knotts, as Mr. Furley, was funnier than all six F*R*I*E*N*D*S put together, and he never made a million dollars an episode. What's that about? Huh?
Oh, Nevermind...
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