Rob Roy and The Island of Dr. Moreau

reviewed 1996??

Here's my public service announcement:  do not, under any circumstances, watch Rob Roy.  When I started watching the movie, I first thought, Gee, the "Scottish" accents (since when is Eric Stoltz from the old country?) are pretty hard to understand.  Then I thought, Gee, the acting really isn't very good (and why on earth would anyone want to see Liam Neeson naked?).  Then the movie suddenly became appallingly vulgar, crude, and demeaning to women, and I thought, "Where's the remote control?"  I'm no prude, but it was so stomach-churningly repulsive that I turned the movie off halfway through.  Hey, I sat through Showgirls, and I couldn't sit through this.  The dialogue sounded like someone's attempt at a medieval porn flick; it sounded all the worse because it was so jarringly out of place (at least in Showgirls you're expecting to be sickened).  What I want to know is, what movie were all those critics who called it "a poignant love story" watching?  About as poignant as Debbie Does Dallas, you freaks.
 

The Island of Dr. Moreau
This movie has "cult classic" written all over it; it's got the confusion and campiness that just cry out for midnight showings at artsy theaters.  It's one of the few movies that I can honestly say would be improved by some visible zippers on the animal costumes.

You all know the premise:  for unclear reasons and through even more unclear processes, wacky (he paints himself white!) yet brilliant (he won a Nobel Prize!) Dr. Moreau creates hybrids of man and animals that should have been called Manimals, but maybe they couldn't get the rights to the name.  The first half of the film is enjoyable for two reasons:  Marlon Brando and Val Kilmer.

Brando reminded me of ... Brando, in Apocalypse Now.  He plays Dr. Moreau like Col. Kurtz on Prozac, ruling with benevolent paternalism over his isolated enclave.  Dotty yet doting, he imparts an endearing campiness to the proceedings, not to mention a pasty white glow.

Kilmer manages to be both steamily sexy and menacingly unbalanced at the same time, an unnerving mix that made me think of one reviewer's comment about Michael Madsen in Reservoir Dogs:  "You don't know whether to kiss him or run for cover."  He does a dead-on imitation of Brando that I'm sure had producers all over Hollywood yelling into portable phones:  "Brando biopic, starring Val Kilmer!  Get me a script!"

But, unfortunately, Brando and Kilmer die, and their bodies are left to rot, along with any sense of fun the movie had.  We're left with the flat and unappealing David Thewlis who mainly stares blankly at the mayhem of nasty, hairy, screaming, homicidal Manimals.  Frankly, it's pretty hard to care when the lead actor doesn't seem to.

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