By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
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. Of course it makes hash of the Arthurian legends. 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 Gwen, 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.
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 real Arthurian legends. In fact, the choices detailed by William Nicholson's script are resolved in insultingly cheap, contrived ways. That is, when they're resolved at all: 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 mid-sentence.
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 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 and accountant. 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 day-care center. But a lack of physical conviction is the least of his troubles. Gere is so appallingly self-infatuated that even the 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?
Casting him as Lancelot was probably a mistake from the start. Gere can be effective playing 20th-century alienated loners, but as a romantic warrior of Arthurian stature, he's a zero, because it's tough to believe Gere could be in love with anyone but himself. 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 worldview; and of course, the patented Ain't-I-Just-The-Livin'-End? strut, which he seems to have learned from watching syphilitic pimps hold court on Hollywood Boulevard. The way Gere grooves on himself suggests not Lancelot, but Fonzie. 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, and Gere's mind-blowingly inappropriate line readings give her plenty to react to. But she has another problem, and it's more daunting: the old-fashioned plot requires Guinevere to be repeatedly placed in jeopardy, but the scriptwriters, who are too cowardly to make her a straight-out pawn of fate, toss her a spunk bone now and then before returning 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 two minutes later. 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 crap like The Presidio and Medicine Man and Just Cause and this one?--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 offered (and has gladly accepted) one starring role after another that trades on our memories of his greatness without actually giving him anything demanding to say or do.
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