Now the Alien franchise becomes a Quintilogy–a purely market-driven neologism following the recent Blu-Ray boxset that labeled the first four Alien films not as a “Quartet” but a “Quadrilogy.” Prometheus is made with the same contempt for the public–as if anyone wanted or needed another repackaging of the sci-fi horror tale. Even the 1979 original (the best, seconded by Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Alien Resurrection) was little more than what one critic condensed as “a gorilla in a haunted house movie.”

By Armond White

At a reported cost of over $200 million, according to the London Telegraph, Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood refutes the old altruistic axiom “rob from the rich and give to the poor.” All the charm and meaning has been taken out of this reboot. It’s now a “history,” opening with a detailed inscription to establish the 12th-century tale’s seriousness: “In times of tyranny and injustice, where law oppresses the people, the rebel takes his place in history.” In other words, Gladiator II.

Russell Crowe once again plays Scott’s everyman hero who rises above his taciturn machismo to avenge dreadful memories—clever shtick for the wealthy duo that like to pretend they’re doing something besides just raking it in.

Costner was busy: Crowe in Robin Hood.

Their nouveau-riche narcissism imagines having a populist purpose, yet the clichés of Robin Longstride’s archery skills, put to use in the English army’s campaign against the French while, back home, Marian Locksley (ludicrous Cate Blanchett) tills her impoverished, overtaxed fields, don’t speak for the people, except in distant, almost invisible metaphor. And the motto these oppressed Brits live by (“Arise and arise until lambs become lions”) isn’t about Tea Party insurrection; it merely replaces poetic generosity with vengeance.

Scott and Crowe return to Gladiator’s violent formula because the high-life confessions of their A Good Year collaboration didn’t click. But they also seem to be chasing after Antoine Fuqua (the director Scott replaced on American Gangster) in the way Robin Hood repeats the insipid realism of Fuqua’s 2004 King Arthur, the grungy, anti-poetic reboot of Arthurian tales. Both films represent a dullard’s version of history; Hollywood’s commercial calculation has become so obvious that it removes beauty from storytelling. Screenwriter Brian Helgeland’s period setting over-simplifies the context for violence—reusing his Braveheart formula but without director-star Mel Gibson’s conviction.

Look at Scott’s superficial “beauty”: a couple of dusk landscapes (amazingly subtle lighting by John Mathieson) and a splendid view of French ships roiling on blue, misty waves. But these are not “cinematic” images; they’re mini TV commercials that lack existential vision. Ultra-hack Scott reverts to the slickness of his advertising background. TV imagery has pervaded cinema to the point that Scott doesn’t balance his over-cropped TV-style close-ups with the postcard vistas. Like Gladiator’s jarring F/X, it shows Scott’s disrespect for cinema.

Fake beauty and fake history rob Robin Hood of previous moral value. It’s no longer “legendary” because Scott and Helgeland’s sham realism trivializes history. They pretend how history happened (Monty Python-style) but their embarrassing, anachronistic rip-off of Saving Private Ryan’s beachfront battle scene shows no feeling for how history is constructed and passed down through ritual, repetition and affection. An abstract end-credits sequence is more imaginative (it’s in the style of Scott’s Scott Free company logo). In place of inspiration, Robin Hood has the bloat of a 1960s roadshow presentation: Costly, overlong but with no intermission—or reprieve.
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Robin Hood
Directed by Ridley Scott
Runtime: 140 min.

Why spy? Leonardo DiCaprio disappoints in Body of Lies.

DiCaprio and Crowe portray intensely unlikable professionals-a hands-on killer and a white-collar killer. It’s unsubtly implied that they’re doing our government’s shameful bidding; America’s dirty work exposes their tainted souls. Besides DiCaprio’s brief flush of guilt, nothing else is revealed.
The stars of Body of Lies lack the moral stability Newman evinced even when playing a cynical Korean War vet in The Rack (1956). They indulge a facile ugliness (Ferris outsmarting swarthies, Hoffman enjoying the American Dream while giving out lethal commands) that acts out post-9/11 distress. These actors readily don masochistic psychological garb but neglect the idealism that prompts people to become agents and soldiers. Vain professionals, DiCaprio and Crowe glamorize what French philosopher Alain Finkielkraut has described as the “penitential narcissism that makes the West guilty of even that which victimizes it.” Their twisted American self-hatred is established in the film’s prologue that identifies U.S. Middle-East policy as mere vengeance.
It takes Ridley Scott to push this turpitude as entertainment. The Bourne-like plot shuttles DiCaprio and Crowe, either bodily or by satellite, to Iraq, Jordan, England, Amsterdam, Dubai and Turkey. No James Bond travelogue has looked this sleek (there’s a beautiful rectangular composition of a plane landing on a tarmac with mirage-like black-and-green striations). Ultra-hack Scott has refined his pictorial style into obscenely impersonal depictions of warfare: nifty bomb F/X and sadistic views of wounds that vie with exotic locales. In order to have a hit, Scott amps-up violence, overwhelming the political subject. He doesn’t distill to genre essence-which structures meaning as in Philip G. Atwell’s underrated War. This is just more post-9/11 trauma.
Trauma being a word for damaged tissue, Body of Lies demonstrates the corruption of movie-star ethics in the post-Newman age. DiCaprio and Crowe inspire distaste and disdain-reversing the sympathy of Newman’s greatest roles which once were described as “anti-heroes” (in The Hustler, Hud, Hombre, Buffalo Bill and the Indians). When Pauline Kael complained, “No one should be asked to dislike [Newman's Buffalo Bill],” she missed that Newman actually made the character “likable” to more deeply understand a reviled historical figure. But DiCaprio and Crowe curry political contempt. Their espionage involves oily dealings with Jordan’s General Intelligence Department (GID) agent Hani Salaam (British actor Mark Strong slithering like Andy Garcia). For all these actors, Newman’s emotional connection (his popular belief in political virtue) is a thing of the past. Even when Leo falls in love with a Palestinian nurse, he doesn’t fulfill our political or romantic mandate.
DiCaprio might have brought charisma to Robert De Niro’s complex CIA drama The Good Shepherd, but here he’s simply an American sinner with no chance for redemption. Collaborating with a director who doesn’t give a damn, DiCaprio and Crowe have made a political action flick totally without emotional impact; it merely scolds: Leo’s big moment of penitential narcissism is announced “Welcome to Guantanamo!” A heartless counteragent then specifies, “It’s not torture; it’s punishment.” He could be describing this hateful movie.
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Body of Lies
Directed by Ridley Scott, Running Time: 129 min.
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