UNCLE DON’S VIEWS OF NIL REPUTE

In the vastly expanding universe of bad Kevin Costner films, the

blackest of all black holes has been spotted. Nothing can escape this dog

star of a movie, “3000 Miles to Graceland.”

You will not see quality acting, decent screenwriting or cool effects.

From the idiotic beginning that was supposed to be a metaphor for

something I’m too shallow to figure out, to the even more idiotic ending

that was supposed to be a metaphor for something I’m too shallow to

figure out, “3000 Miles to Graceland” is the ultimate in gawdawful

Costner films. (I know that’s oxymoronic.) The Santa Ana River in July

ain’t never as shallow as this flick.

This barker starts with Kurt Russell showing up in the desiccated

garden spot of Armpit, Ariz., on the lam in his ’59 Caddy. What’s he

fleeing? Goldie Hawn? Parole? The agent who signed him up for this

cinematic disaster?

He isn’t fleeing, though he should be. He’s meeting. With the one and

only legend-in-his-own-mind, Kevin Costner. Costner -- who smokes more

than a World War II destroyer, wears sideburns you could land aircraft

on, and hides behind sunglasses that could eclipse small planets and a

wig that would scare Phyllis Diller -- has got attitude and bad acting to

burn.

Their goal is to dress up like Elvis impersonators and rob the Riviera

in Las Vegas of a few million bucks. That, folks, is the entire premise

of this movie.

At least it wasn’t the lousiest movie I’ve seen this week. Anyone

check out “Traffic”? Now’s that’s classic schlock. From the “Cops” style

hand-held cameras to the washed out photography, “Traffic” is the artsy

pseudo-realistic garbage that vapid fools recommend to their equally

clueless friends. “3000 Miles to Graceland” beats “Traffic” all to hell.

Sure enough, within moments of Russell and Costner opening their

mouths, the cliches disembark at an alarming rate. Pulitzer Prize stuff

like this exchange: “It’s not that simple.” “It is that simple.” “I can’t

trust you.” “It’s me you can’t trust.”

And then “Graceland” goes downhill. Yep, we even got Costner on the

run with George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” blasting in the background.

Maybe this thing’s a satire, and I’m too stupid to figger it out. I’m

only a columnist. I don’t wanna think. That’s why I’ve got me an editor.

She’s supposed to do the thinking. Of course, if she really were

thinking, she wouldn’t be publishing this baloney.

As a subplot, Costner really thinks he’s Elvis’ illegitimate son.

Well, if that’s true, his mother must have been one ugly, um, mother.

From this, we are supposed to extrapolate his looks, his actions and some

reason for the existence of this movie. Well, money is the root of all

bad movies.

Russell, who kinda pulls off the Elvis look, has the table manners of

John Belushi and all the social graces of a Visigoth. He winks, he

smiles, he bores.

Russell, Costner and a trio of hellions head to the Riviera for fun,

games, money and the opportunity to drag “3000 Miles to Graceland” out to

the requisite 90 or more minutes. These dribble-heads shoot up the

Riviera, escape with the loot, kill each other while arguing over how to

split up the loot and, most importantly, keep the cliches coming.

Cliches such as cops who quick draw like Marshal Dillon, bratty kids

smarter than the resident dim-bulb adults, conniving broads out for only

the money, hemi-wit cretins whose IQs barely equal the caliber of their

ammo and an ending so idiotic that one can only watch, mouth agape, drool

hitting the belly, marveling in the incredible stupidity of it all.

My brain hurts.

* UNCLE DON reviews b-movies and cheesy musical acts for the Daily

Pilot. He can be reached by e-mail at ReallyBadWriting@aol.com.