The Da Vinci Code (2006)

When Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code hit it big — and “big” really isn’t an accurate word for it — it was inevitable that Hollywood would pounce to make it into a movie. It also was inevitable that the result would mine box-office gold. What I didn’t expect is that said motion picture would be a leaden, crashing bore.

Say what you will about Brown’s book — that means you, offended Catholics and people who now pretend they never liked it when they totally once did — but there’s no denying that sucker had a pace that rivaled a toddler after downing a sippy cup full of Red Bull. By comparison, Ron Howard’s The Da Vinci Code — already overlong at 149 minutes — crawls on the floor, about as speedily as the assassinated character who opens the film, with every scene drawn out past its welcome, overstuffed with interminable speeches. There’s something to be said for brevity – a concept likely eradicated from Opie’s brain once he won the Best Director Oscar.

It makes one colossal mistake: treating the source material as if it were literature. Look, I loved reading Code, but it’s a B-level thriller. Screenwriter Akiva Goldsman treats it as if it were a work of serious art, where every sentence had been constructed with precious care, like a Jenga tower, with designs on a Pulitzer Prize. In doing so, the fun is sucked clean out of it, leaving us with one history lesson (and quasi-history lesson) after another, all of which numb our attention. Although it hews closely to the original story, there’s nothing here that sheds light on why the novel sold 2 bazillion copies and counting.

Things distract us: Tom Hanks’ ill-advised academic mullet, Audrey Tautou’s neck mole, Ian McKellen’s shameless honey-baked ham of a performance. The listless tempo carries with it an unintended side effect: highlighting how entirely preposterous Brown’s puzzle-upon-puzzle plot is. Never mind how an old man with mere minutes to live could plant hidden clue upon hidden clue by the razor-thin chance that the people he intended to follow it would indeed — one wonders why the treasure hunt be so elongated when, honestly, it needs no steps beyond the first one. That’s something easily forgiven in the reading experience (if thought is even given to it at all), but maddeningly apparent in the movies. —Rod Lott

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The Longest Yard (2005)

The original The Longest Yard was a landmark of ’70s-era, anti-establishment sentiment. It was violent, savagely funny, mean and an unapologetic spit in the face of authority. As directed by the gifted Robert Aldrich, The Longest Yard of 1974 was about as cutting-edge as mainstream comedy got at the time.

Fade in to 2005 and an ill-conceived remake, with Adam Sandler in the Burt Reynolds role of Paul Crewe, a fallen NFL quarterback rotting in a Texas prison when he is tapped to organize a football team of convicts to play the guards. What is deemed cutting-edge a generation later? Hollywood doesn’t have the cojones to focus too much on the sociopathic tendencies of convicts. 

Nope, nowadays cutting-edge means anti-gay. And The Longest Yard of 2005 is chock full o’ backwards, redneck, stereotype-embracing, queer-is-ha-ha-funny gay-bashing:
• We’ve got a prissy fella who develops an instant crush on Sandler because our hero is boorish and has crashed his girlfriend’s Bentley after going on a drunken joyride. (Gay people love brutes, don’cha know).
• We have a gaggle of flamer convicts who make up cheers like, “Gimme a D! Gimme an I! Gimme a C! Gimme …” (Get it? They want, well, you know …)
• We have two inmates caught making out over a surveillance camera.
• We have Rob Schneider in a cameo (reason enough to avoid the picture) as an overzealous convict all aflutter over the possibility of a group hug in the showers.
 
It appears that gay-bashing is the one remaining widely accepted form of bigotry left in America. —Phil Bacharach

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A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

I am unconvinced that Wes Craven is a great horror director. I’m not honestly sure he’s even a good one. His filmography is at best spotty; some watchable films, many outright stinkers, one great grindhouse flick (The Hills Have Eyes), and nothing remotely approaching the artistry of his peers John Carpenter and David Cronenberg. And the film that cemented his reputation, A Nightmare on Elm Street, ain’t the classic many people want it to be.

I’ve really tried to enjoy it. Freddy Krueger’s a good villain, but he’s better served in some of the sequels, especially Craven’s return to the series, New Nightmare. There are some good scares here and there, great bloodletting and weirdly effective dream sequences to compliment an intriguing, if half-baked scenario.

Craven’s choice of heroine, however, ruins everything for me. Or rather, her portrayer. Heather Langenkamp delivers one of the most utterly wretched performances I have ever sat through. Not one line reading approaches believability, and it only makes it worse that she is obviously trying her best. It’s like watching a high school play: She’s pretending, not acting. Considering Craven had a fairly talented ’80s staple nearby in Amanda Wyss (as Tina), his casting of Langenkamp is all the more puzzling.

Beyond Nancy (and her equally atrocious mother, Ronee Blakley), Elm Street is only passable horror entertainment, one of the few movies improved upon in some of its sequels (parts 3 and 7). I must admit a fondness for the ending, but only for its utter ridiculousness; watching Nancy somehow morph into MacGyver as she sets up her entire house with sophisticated traps in a few minutes somehow makes a demon pedophile who kills in dreams seem plausible. —Corey Redekop

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Moon Zero Two (1969)

Hammer Film Productions was and is known for horror, but give the group credit for its one and only attempt at a sci-fi Western in Moon Zero Two. In the year 2021, the moon is inhabited; its residents play a circular-shaped board game called Moonopoly; and social life amounts to hanging out at the Lazy B Saloon, where the drink of choice — distilled rocket fuel, of choice — runs $35 a shot.

Our hero is Capt. William H. Kemp (James Olson, The Andromeda Strain), who specializes in retrieval of satellite scrap, and doesn’t want to shuttle interplanetary tourists: “I’m a space pilot, not a mechanically minded wet nurse.” However, when safety violations threaten to ground him, a guy’s gotta look long-term.

For Kemp, that means listening to Hubbard (Warren Mitchell, Jabberwocky), the purple-cloaked, eyepatch-sporting baldie about illegally mining the sapphire from a 6,000-ton asteroid. Total fox Clementine Taplin (Catherina von Schell, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service), searching for her missing brother, shows up to provide much sexual innuendo.

The film’s highlights are a gravity-free bar brawl, however brief, and cartoon opening credits in a loony spirit not exhibited by the mostly serious story that follows. Directed by Roy Ward Baker (Quatermass and the Pit), Moon Zero Two certainly looks cool — and sounds it, with a swingin’ ’60s score — but feels forever set at quarter-speed. Good thing that in space, no one can hear you snore. —Rod Lott

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The Mountain of the Cannibal God (1978)

Judging from the opening credits of this juicy helping of Italian sleaze, you’d think this would be called When Animals Attack the Shit Out of One Another, as the film introduces us to the laws of the jungle via real-life, mondo-style footage of how the food chain works. These bits are sprinkled throughout the film at random moments as well, allowing you the full-color spectacle of, say, a snake swallowing a monkey whole.

But there’s a story here, too, albeit a sketchy one. The Mountain of the Cannibal God stars Ursula Andress as Susan, a woman in search of her husband, unheard of for months after his jungle expedition. She and her brother hire Prof. Foster (Stacy Keach, who looks coked out of his mind) to take them into said jungle to locate him, although few doubt her spouse remains alive.

The group encounters poisonous spiders, venomous snakes, arm-hungry crocodiles and spike-laden booby traps. Eventually, they come across natives wearing freaky masks, prompting an admission from Foster that he has been partaken of their unusual rituals before: “You never forget the taste of human flesh!” he screams.

Eventually, Susan does find her husband … dead and partially liquified, with a Geiger counter sticking out of his tum-tum. The cannibals strip her naked, paint her orange and tie her up. One cannibal tries to rape her, so the lead cannibal cuts off the eager man’s penis. In more deviant footage, female cannibals masturbate and a man fucks a pig. I leave it to you to determine whether that’s a recommendation or a warning. —Rod Lott

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