By Stephanie Zacharek
By Charles Taylor
By Chris Klimek
By Chris Klimek
By Amy Nicholson
By Amy Nicholson
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
First Knight, a new effort from Ghost director Jerry Zucker, purports to tell the tale of King Arthur's ill-fated marriage to Lady Guinevere -- a young English noblewoman who fell madly in love with the aging king's most trusted knight, the young, virile, reckless Lancelot. But because this is an astonishingly expensive Hollywood movie, "liberties" have been taken with the story. Unfortunately, they're liberties that make the choices faced by the characters considerably less dark, painful and complicated than they were in the traditional Arthurian legend. Still, even this wouldn't matter if the picture wasn't inept on every level.
The tale has been cast with three weirdly disinterested stars: Julia Ormond as the refined yet feisty Guinevere, Sean Connery as the wise, weary Arthur and Richard Gere as hunky Lancelot (who's been reconfigured for modern tastes into yet another variation on the forest-prowling, blade-swinging, mane-tossing, homily-spouting Man of Nature). The bad guy is Malagant (Ben Cross), a disaffected ex-Round Table knight who lives with his band of evil followers in an abandoned castle that looks like it was constructed from the mudflaps of trucks. While the three leads fiddle around with each other, Malagant burns their houses down. It seems as though whenever the main characters are poised to take a stand on an issue and suffer the consequences, Malagant barges in from nowhere with his band of black-clad toadies and attacks, interrupting them in midsentence.
And unlike the source story, this version has an improbably inspiring, all's-well-that-ends-well finale. I won't reveal exactly what it is, though God knows why not. Does anybody go to a movie based on the Arthurian legends to be surprised by how the story turns out?
Next on the list of outrages is Richard Gere's performance, which seems to have been squeezed in between trips to the hairdresser and calls to his agent. He runs like a wimp, and the clunky way he swings his sword suggests he passed on combat classes in favor of pillow fighting with kids at a daycare center. But a lack of physical conviction is the least of his troubles. Gere is so appallingly self-infatuated that even the most delightfully purplish romantic dialogue oozes stillborn from his mouth. When he looks into Guinevere's face and declares his love for her, his expression doesn't say, I will love you forever. It says, Hey, are you gonna eat the rest of that cheeseburger?
Gere can be effective playing 20th-century alienated loners, but as a romantic warrior of Arthurian stature, he's a zero. His performance is a bag of pseudo-Method tics: the I-Know-You-Better-Than-You-Know-Yourself squint; the smolderingly pursed lips; the snuffling half-laugh that signals a difference in world-view; and, of course, the patented Ain't-I-Just-The-Livin'-End? strut, which he seems to have learned from watching pimps hold court on Hollywood Boulevard. It's sad when a once-promising movie star decides he's too cool to act.
Julia Ormond fares better, but only because she's stuck in a reactive part. She has another problem, though, and it's daunting: the old-fashioned plot requires Guinevere to be repeatedly placed in jeopardy, but the scriptwriters are too cowardly to make her a straight-out pawn of fate. Every now and then they toss her a bone by making her spunky, only to then return to business as usual. This is the kind of movie in which the heroine escapes a would-be rapist by shooting him in the groin with a crossbow, then reacts with flustered, Old Hollywood primness when the muscular hero forces an unwanted kiss onto her lips. Call me an absolutist, but I've always believed that if a movie wants to tell a politically incorrect story, it should go ahead and do so, with energy and invention and without apology. All this postfeminist pussyfooting around isn't just anachronistic -- it's a drag on the plot.
Sean Connery is just a drag, period. Can anybody remember the last time this man actually acted in a movie -- as opposed to puffing out his chest, strutting around patriarchally, and smiling and frowning with rueful, crinkly eyed wisdom? I realize he's a screen legend -- one of the last of the hard-living, rough-loving tough guys, a man so inherently sexy that he doesn't need hair to make women swoon -- but the last time I checked, he was still alive. So is it really necessary for filmmakers to keep casting him in films that stuff him and mount him and hang a sign around his neck that says, "Sean Connery: Icon"? Ever since he won a supporting actor Oscar for The Untouchables, he's been given one starring role after another that trades on our memories of his greatness without actually giving him anything demanding to say or do.
In First Knight, he's as listless and unchallenged as ever. During his allegedly heartbreaking lovers' quarrel with Guinevere, he ought to have such betrayal and rage in his eyes that the very sight of him rips our guts out. But his declaration of disillusionment comes off as no more than a mild scolding, as if, instead of catching his wife flagrante delicto with his favorite knight, he had entered the royal loo to discover somebody had left the toilet seat down.
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