Clash of the Titans

Bruckheimer's latest speaks loudly about race, but says nothing

Once the players pass through the crucible of basic training, the film slips uneasily into its guise as underdog sports movie; it becomes Wildcatsmeets Malcolm X--Hoosiersin cleats. The film's second half--in which the Titans roll on to victory, endure a crippling injury to a teammate, and watch Boone and Yoast come together as brothers under the pigskin--is obvious and anticlimactic, the post-game show after a blowout. There will be those who will celebrate Remember the Titansas inspirational and motivational; they will look past its facile façade and think there's depth beneath the glare. They're Bruckheimer's audience, those who confuse manipulative with moving. This is indeed a true story, but it reads like the worst kind of fiction, one in which characters are made of tissue and dialogue is penned on placards.

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