Saving Private Mad Max
The Patriot is a sentimental, overbearing, flag-waving crowd-pleaser --
in the best possible sense.
Despite
what many believe, success doesn't come down to explosions, star power, or
millions of greenbacks thrown at the producers. The true indicator of success
for a summer movie is The Moment, that one memorable scene that sticks in your
head, the one that Billy Crystal parodies the following spring because he knows
everyone will get the joke. There are numerous contenders in The Patriot, from
a tomahawk being embedded in a forehead to Mel Gibson literally wielding the
American flag as a weapon (much as he did earlier this year on The Simpsons!), but none so adrenalizing
as a simple, person-to-person exchange of words. As militia leader Benjamin
Martin (Gibson) is leaving the residence of British General Cornwallis under a
flag of truce, sadistic underling Tavington (the
icily English Jason Isaacs) is furious that he can't shoot the emissary, so he
tries to taunt him into launching the first attack, referring to Martin's dead
son as "a stupid little boy." Martin stops dead in his tracks, turns
around, and makes direct eye contact. He slowly walks up to Tavington,
stares him down, and without raising his voice, simply says: "Before this
war is over, I'm going to kill you." Then he turns and walks away. Cue
massive audience applause. Dirty Harry would be proud.
That this dramatic moment comes
from a man who had been swearing off war and violence about an hour earlier
makes it just that much more of a thrill: It's the sort of thing that epic
films (hell, books too) are made of. Before all you peace-lovers get too worked
up, however, let's remember that virtually every action movie justifies
gun use. This is just the latest in a well-traveled genre, and it's every bit
as sentimental and chain-jerking as you'd imagine. It also works like a charm.
All the marks are hit in obvious fashion, but you fall for them nonetheless.
Factor in an opening weekend six days from July 4, and you know this film's
gonna be packing them in.
For maximum enjoyment, however,
it helps to forget about historical accuracy. Ignore, for instance, the
depiction of prewar
"I'm a parent," says
Martin, when an old military colleague tries to recruit him to fight for
freedom on principle, "I haven't got the luxury of principles."
Naturally, it's his role as a parent that will eventually suck him in. He can't
stop his eldest son, Gabriel (10 Things I Hate About You's
Heath Ledger), from signing up to impress the ladies, but when Gabriel is
captured by the dastardly Colonel Tavington, things
change. There's a plea for clemency, as Martin insists that couriers (of which
Gabriel is one) cannot be held as POWs by the enemy under the rules of war. Tavington's curt response: "Well, we're not going to
hold him, we're going to hang him." The
next-eldest son protests, and is promptly killed for doing so. And we all know
what happens to Mel Gibson when the baddies lay their hands on a family member.
It's Mad Max time.
Strapping on the guns and
wielding a mean Cherokee tomahawk, he leads his two remaining sons on a
head-smashing rescue mission to save Gabriel. But even when that's done, he still
doesn't want to join the army, at least until his homestead is burned to the
ground, and Gabriel insists on going back into the fray. "You've done
nothing for which you should be ashamed" says sister-in-law Charlotte,
after Martin has taught his young boys how to kill. "I've done nothing,
and for that, I am ashamed," he replies, at which point we know some
serious blood is about to be spilled. Before long, he and
Gabriel are rounding up a militia and teaching the English, who fight mostly by
a strict set of rules, a thing or two about guerilla warfare.
There are some rather silly
interludes -- including a recurring metaphor about Martin's late wife and the
North Star, and a gag about drinking ink that is drawn out way too long -- but
otherwise screenwriter Robert Rodat has done an
effective job of transposing his Saving Private Ryan screenplay to
Colonial times (accompanied once more by an overbearing John Williams
soundtrack), complete with graphic shots of cannonballs taking people's limbs
off. And while many might be put off by the mere mention of director Roland Emmerich (Godzilla), the fact is, he knows how to
make a good image. It's just that his usual screenwriter, Dean Devlin, can't
write worth a damn. Subtract Devlin from the story equation (he gets only a
producer credit here) and the problem is mostly solved, although Emmerich still can't seem to get a handle on women. As in
every one of his American films save for Universal Soldier, the female
lead is an uninteresting plot device rather than an actual character.
Still, this is a testosterone
movie, and the women will probably be happy staring at Mel. Emmerich
seems to fetishize the