Uncle Don -- Uncle Don’s Views of Nil Repute

Uncle Don

If it were a racehorse, it would be a claimer. It it were wildlife it

would be road kill. And if it were a cake -- no matter how many times the

fork was stuck in -- it would remain half-baked.

Chick Hearn, had he suffered through the opening credits (of which there

were none), might have stuck “Battlefield Earth” in the refrigerator with

the door closed, the lights out, the eggs coolin’, the butter getting

hard and the Jell-O jigglin’.

The movie was over before it started: DOA, MIA, DWI and EIEIO.

In this cinematic pantheon of pathetic pabulum, the insipid infect the

uninspired as dreadlocked dimwitted dullards repeat, ad nauseam, oral

histories of the decline of the human race.

Aspiring to a “Blade Runner” look with miniatures built by first-graders

and scenics painted by the artistically impaired, “Battlefield Earth”

subjects the unsuspecting audience to a plethora of soft-focus, slo-mo,

sepia-tinted shots that must have been filmed by some guy with one leg

shorter than the other, ‘cuz the camera’s tilted most of the time.

John Travolta, playing a grown-up Vinnie Barbarino, is some sort of

greedy, pseudo-capitalist slave driver hairball in platform shoes who not

only stars, but produces this “Plan 9 from Outer Space” for the new

millennium. He’s assisted by Forrest Whitaker (what’s he doing in this

reject?), whose ambition is converse of his intelligence.

“Battlefield Earth” is one of those flicks of which you wish someone tall

sat in front so you couldn’t watch. But you would still have to listen,

and listen you would, to a sound track that sounds like a sixth-grade

band warming up.

The bad guys, of whom Travolta is in charge, are called Psychlos,

naturally from the planet Psychlos. This motley amalgamation of

overdressed and underwashed Morlocks expend most of “Battlefield Earth’s”

script in laughing more than the bad guys in a Clint Eastwood western.

This pseudo “Independence Day” is filmed several stops underexposed to

hide all the set defects. Extraneous things appear here and there. The

whole thing appears to have been filmed in some large weedy field where

the director (whoever that is) kinda used whatever was available.

Anyhow, the few remaining nonenslaved humans finally get it through their

semi-functioning synapses that if they don’t save the Earth, then mankind

is extinct.

Now these clowns are stoopid, dull, dimwitted and technologically

decrepit. In their hard-scrabble existence, though perfect of teeth and

makeup, they must fight papier-mache monsters while quoting Hallmark-card

philosophies. Their leader’s idea of dramatics is to get right in the

camera’s lens and make ugly faces. Kinda expected him to pull out his

ears and stick out his tongue. Maybe rub his tummy and pat his head.

Not letting deficient intelligence get in the way of plot contrivances,

this motley collection of yabba-dabba-doos manages to fly to Fort Knox

and steal some gold. They then get to Fort Hood and steal some

thousand-year-old Harrier Jets that are still functional -- fuel, weapons

and all. They then build a galaxy-spanning death bomb that destroys the

Psychlos’ planet. All this from meatballs who just 15 minutes earlier

were threatening each other with sharp pointy sticks (and poorly made

ones at that).

Meanwhile, the audience gets to suffer through a compendium of special

effects so cheesy that one expects to see the strings on the various

aircraft and space ships as they saunter by. The backgrounds look like

they’d been scanned from the covers of sci-fi paperbacks, enlarged, and

then conveniently kept out of focus.

There is something good about “Battlefield Earth.” After sitting through

credits (who, but who, would want to take any credit) for everyone from

Wild Woodsmen to Psychlo Handlers to One-eyed Jacks, it mercifully ends.

Eventually.

For a two-hour movie, it’s 120 minutes too long.

UNCLE DON reviews B-movies and cheesy musical acts for the Daily Pilot.

He can be reached via e-mail at reallybadwriting@aol.com