Kelly’s long-awaited return is lackluster to say the least
Two things in this life truly suck — mealy fruit and flat beer. Now, thanks to Richard Kelly’s “Southland Tales” there are three. As a devoted “Donnie Darko” fan I, like most Sci-Fi afi-cionados, was looking forward to Kelly’s first film in almost five years with intense anticipation. Not since “Star Wars: Return of the Jedi” with its sappy Ewok-party ending, have I been more disappointed in a film.
“Southland Tales” starts out in Abilene, Texas, with a gripping scene of a nuclear bomb erupting during a suburban Fourth of July celebration. Unfortunately Abilene is not the only thing that disintegrates, so does the remainder of Kelly’s epic. The powerful opening is followed by a painful 20-minute barrage of multiple TV screens of indecipherable images and vistas edited MTV style, over which is layered tedious narration attempting to describe the convoluted “backstory” — all of which will make you lurch for the nearest restroom.
Stay with me here as I attempt to outline the “plot” — an amnesi-ac actor, Boxer Santaros (Dwayne Johnson) hooks up with porn-star Krysta Now (Sarah Michelle Gellar) who’s developing a script called “The Power” and Santaros assumes the role of its fictional lead — Jericho Cane. His actions are supposed to tie in with a missing cop Taverner (Seann William Scott), time travel, an alternate energy source — provided by … the Germans, drug use, and the end of the world (which you will be crying for, after sitting through two hours of this tripe). Even Johnson jokes that he began to give up fully on comprehending the final product. He’s not alone.
As a reader of Philip K. Dick I get what Kelly’s trying to do here — his cop character (Taverner) is a direct reference to Dick’s protagonist in “Flow My Tears.” The book features a “collective hallucination,” which is replaced here by, “Fluid Karma” a drug giving its users psychic insight, the ability to transverse time, with the added perk of transporting them into their own personal Justin Timberlake music video surrounded by the same optical effects I see when I get a migraine. And though he tries to pay homage to these references one gets the sense that Kelly really doesn’t know Dick.
Kelly also alludes to T.S. Eliot, Kurt Vonnegut and the Bible’s Revelations combining them with Dick in the hopes of creating a cohesive metaphysical theme, but throwing all the best elements together won’t help if you still need a story. Betty Crocker can throw a sack of flour, a pound of sugar and some Valrhona chocolate in a sandbox and stir it till the fourth Dimension converges with ours, but it doesn’t mean she’s going to pull out a prize-winning cake. Maybe Kelly needed another producer to help him? There were only 10 on this project.
Gellar (who has never been a favorite and borders on that list of things that suck) is surprisingly the best thing about the movie.
She delivers a brilliant, satirical line, “Scientists are saying that the future is going to be far more futuristic than originally predicted,” with just the right inflection to get the film’s one laugh.
In addition to its structural inconsistencies, character weaknesses and costume design flaws (don’t get scared when you see Wallace Shawn and Bai Ling sucking face in Fellini-esque garb) it’s incredibly miscast — with current and former SNL players in the roles of Neo-Marxist terrorist that include: Jon Lovitz, as a disgruntled cop/lover, (his scenes made me nauseous); an over-the-top Cheri Oteri (simmer down now — please), Nora Dunn (you get the feeling she simply needed a job … any job) and when Amy Poehler (who spends the majority of her time on screen screaming expletives) is shot dead, you’ll stand up and cheer.
None of these dreadful cameos can trump the two Hummers having sex (yes folks, those are the cars I’m talking about). Nothing screams, “Date Movie” quite like a tailpipe turned pulsating vulva.
The good news here is the graphic novels written by Kelly and illustrated by Brett Weldele are spectacular. You have to wonder why Kelly didn’t simply follow the storyline in the novels?
They’re cogent and don’t try to hit you over the head with on-the-nose references and bald exposition.
Someone suggests I see it again to catch all the nuances I may have missed. That reminds me, I have to order more Fiorinal w/codeine for my headache. If Kelly’s next film “The Box” is only one percent better than “Southland Tales” it will be a masterpiece.
TAYLOR VAN ARSDALE is a writer/producer and movie reviewer for the Daily Press. She can be reached at Tailfish@roadrunner.com
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on November 16, 2007. Read the original PDF.