“I say, Tonto, another fine day to be righteous and white, eh?”

 A stranger Ranger.

The Lone Ranger (in radio, television and film) has made Gioachino Rossini’s galloping theme so famous that the term “intellectual” has been defined as “a man who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger.”
— Wikipedia.

No one’s a stranger to the Ranger. Popular in entertainment media since the 1930s, if you are alive right now, you were exposed to The Lone Ranger at some point in your life.

The story of the masked Texas Ranger who seeks Justice with his Native American sidekick has always been a pretty simplistic endeavor, which probably explains the Lone Ranger’s popularity. I remember the cartoon best. Straightforward. Baddies were one-dimensionally bad, and good guys were just as one-dimensionally good. As far as I can remember, The Lone Ranger was never shadowed by the darkness of vigilantism or moral ambiguity. Even the irony of him operating outside the Law to bring Justice is lost on his demo.

THE LONE RANGER 2013 retains this same simplistic notion of bad and good, with a little origin story thrown in, cartoonish action pieces, and a lot of people holding a gun on someone else and talking instead of shooting.

The team that brought us the PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN create this kids’ adventure tale (writers Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, and director Gore Verbinski); thus, a kid is the voice of the audience. The tale is told in flashback, after a young boy (Mason Cook) at a 1939 San Francisco fair, dressed in Lone Ranger duds, visits the Wild West exhibit and encounters an ancient Tonto (Johnny Depp) as one of the exhibits. Tonto spins a tale of what really happened 60 years ago, deconstructing the Lone Ranger legend. So the movie proper (set in 1869) is interrupted jarringly at intervals by these scenes of the boy and old Tonto, the boy voicing some plot hiccup or mythology we’d all like to point out at that juncture.

It’s like the movie is being too self-effacing; playing devil’s advocate with itself too harshly; like it’s attributing outlandish plot elements to the ravings of a senile Injun. And that old adage “If you don’t like yourself, how can anyone else like you?” works against the filmmakers, because these segments prove they do not have faith in their own product; that it needs some kind of self-conscious apologia. They seem to scoff at the childishness of the Western format and the unblemished integrity of the lead character.

Armie Hammer is the new chiseled face of the Ranger aka John Reid, a lawyer who returns from the big city to bring law to the frontier via the gavel, not the gun. Riding with his Sheriff brother (James Badge Dale), their posse is ambushed by the Butch Cavendish gang (William Fichtner). The whole posse is killed, with Reid left for dead. Tonto, also on the trail of Cavendish (believing he is a Wendigo spirit, throwing nature out of balance), finds the wounded Reid and, at the prompting of a mythic white horse, nurses Reid back to health.

Tonto urges Reid to wear a mask whilst seeking his “killers,” the rationale being: they think him dead, “better to stay that way.” Which spurs the running gag, “What’s with the mask?” A very modern phrasing that rankles on the “legend” aspect.

Tom Wilkinson is the railroad baron, laying track through hostile Comanche territory. (Wasn’t he the railroad baron laying track through hostile territory in THE GHOST AND THE DARKNESS?) Ruth Wilson is the Michelle Monaghan lookalike whom Wilkinson threatens with rape and whom Reid crushes on – it’s Disney, so any chance that we’ll see rape or sex is dashed before it ever progresses to hand-holding. Helena Bonham Carter (veteran of starring alongside Depp) is a whore. And here, she plays a whore. Barry Pepper is a cavalryman with a mungabush to rival Custer’s. And Stephen Root is a councilman with a mungabush that puts Pepper’s to shame.

Saginaw Grant, legendary Native American elder, states the most profound truth, when told that attacking the white man will cause war and ultimately the death of his people: “We are already ghosts to them…”

THE LONE RANGER is best appreciated by younger folk not picky about the cartoonish nature of its bombastic action, where people escape explosions right next to them, and walk away without a bruise from massive falls that would kill a lesser Wile E. Coyote. Some of the stunts and gags are original, and the soundtrack will eventually cascade into the majestic gallop of the William Tell Overture during the final audacious chase scene. But this finale, atop two trains on two different tracks, rolling alongside each other along cliff faces, is especially made for that young audience, as I lost count of how many times I wanted to punch the movie, with its coupling and decoupling of carriages, crashes and explosions and splinterings, shooting across moving carriages, jumping on and off train roofs and generally doing all those things that only Bugs Bunny and the Roadrunner can get away with.

This Western can’t quite figure if it wants to be a comedy with high action or a statement about villainy told comically. While it’s trying to decide, it keeps losing favor in many ways:

• The constant regression to the museum display with old Tonto and the young kid.
• A WHITE MAN playing a RED MAN. (Is it 1956 up in this biznatch?) Well, unlike Burt Lancaster’s APACHE, the producers don’t pretend the movie is high art, and Depp is having fun creating another eccentric role. YET… there are numerous sad nods to the Native Americans’ cruel treatment at the hands of white “pioneers” – a message that would be infinitely more impactful if a WHITE MAN were not playing a RED MAN!
• Saginaw dies – at the hands of Pepper’s mungabush. A tragic moment that led nowhere and was not teachable or plot-dependent. Maybe Pepper’s character might see how cruel it was to kill old folk in the name of the railway, but no. The moment is simply cruel.
• There are many contraventions of canon, such as “kemo sabe.” Upon researching this phrase that Tonto has used on the Lone Ranger for nearly a century, its meaning is still in contention, taken to mean anything from “trusted friend” to “soggy bush.” Tonto tells Reid it means “wrong brother” – because he wanted to save Reid’s brother, who was a better frontiersman than Reid, a book-learnin’ fella.

No one’s a stranger to the Ranger. But this Ranger is a stranger to us. THE LONE RANGER deconstructs the legend so thoroughly that the Ranger comes off looking like an “unwitting” hero, not the instigator of justice. Tonto is clearly the brains behind the outfit, while the Ranger is led by the aquiline nose like a righteous, vapid blonde. (Hammer played this role once before (in MIRROR MIRROR); if he’s not careful, he’s going to end up Brendan Fraser.) This rejiggering of the partnership’s power structure was not to deconstruct legend, but because it just looks screwy in this age of pc tolerance – for a red man to devote himself so unquestioningly to a white man like a – ahem – slave… In the early 1900’s, there was no question that the “noble savage” would aid the righteous white man as he trampled the beloved frontier into “civilization,” but now, that inherent subservience doesn’t wash. Hence, Tonto is boss, and on his own mission.

And even THIS doesn’t quite wash. Because the underlying reason Depp is cast as Tonto is because they couldn’t realistically cast a Native American who would be lording over an actual white man. No audience would stand for it! That’s how deep the racism river runs! They HAD to cast a white man in the role of red man because he was written to be the leader of the duo. And we can’t have an ACTUAL red man as boss now, can we, racist America?

The one time the Ranger rears up on his horse with that famous cry, “Hi-Yo, Silver!” a startled Tonto berates him, “Don’t ever do that again!” With the film’s rancid critical reception, it’s a safe bet he won’t…

END

Ridiculous is as Ridiculous does…

It’s Sandler versus Tarantino in a battle of the adjectives. SPOILER ALERT: Tarantino wins.

So you’re going to call your movie THE RIDICULOUS 6? An unsubtle spoof of the title of Quentin Tarantino’s upcoming humbucker, THE HATEFUL 8. In what universe are audiences unaware of this? It’s not even a spoof on the Tarantino movie itself, just a dig at its title, a joke so sophomoric and misleading that the filmmakers shoot themselves in the foot right outa the gate.

With a title like THE RIDICULOUS 6, we’re expecting a satire on Tarantino’s stylish violence, a mincing of his devil dialogue, a lampooning of his cinematic signature…  we’re expecting a comedy of the highest order. And when we say highest, we don’t mean how baked the writers were. And when we say comedy, we mean Rob Schneider shouldn’t be anywhere within puking distance. Unfortunately, co-writers Tim Herlihy and Adam Sandler must’ve been on some good shit to write something so bad and think it was good shit. And Rob Schneider is here. So the path between Netflix and my bathroom becomes puking distance.

So RIDICULOUS 6 has nothing to do with Tarantino’s movie (except for marginally being a Western); rather, a simpering farce about a Caucasian raised by Native Americans (Sandler) who joins forces with five half-brothers (discovered individually when they reveal their name to be Stockburn, sired by the same father from different mothers) on a journey to rescue their mythic pater, Frank Stockburn (Nick Nolte, wheezing and gulping lungfuls of oxygen like he’s about to keel over). 83 weak jokes, 45 aborted jokes and 325 non-jokes later, we realize this “comedy” is failing because it is trying to be two movies in one: a poignant tale of familial love juxtaposed over a comedic road tale where nothing is funny.

Sandler himself actually gives a fine straight-man performance as Tommy aka White Knife, rasping like Clint Eastwood, adept at everything manly – like a MISSION IMPOSSIBLE guy – whose superhuman skills in combat and knife-play leave everyone agog, with the refrain, “Man, that was some mystical shit!”

Through a series of misadventures, White Knife discovers his brothers, who are identified simply by mentioning their last name. Everybody just accepts it as truth. No one checks birth certificates or does anything Republican. And each new brah willingly joins the quest to find their dad, because I guess in the Old West there was really nothing better to do. There’s Terry Crews (who confesses he’s black), Jorge Garcia (who looks like director Kevin Smith and communicates in unintelligible grunts – like Kevin Smith), Taylor Lautner (who is surprisingly hilarious as the crossbreed of Forrest Gump and Simple Jack), Luke Wilson (miscast, looking for a way out), and Schneider (whom we will speak no more of).

“My momma says: Life is like a box of Adam Sandler films. Mostly shit.”

Directed by Frank Coraci (veteran of attempted comedies like ZOOKEEPER and HERE COMES THE BOOM, and the last Sandler belch-fart, BLENDED), RIDICULOUS boasts a cavalcade of droll cameos that keep it watchable (read as distracting from the weak comedy of the actual stars): John Turturro with an impeccable British accent, inventing baseball; Steve Zahn gouging out his only good right eye to be a part of The Left Eye Gang; Harvey Keitel as town sheriff Smiley (a Tarantino crossover!); Danny Trejo, Jon Lovitz, Whitney Cummings, Julia Jones, Will Forte, Nick Swardson, David Spade as Custer, Vanilla Ice as Mark Twain; and the most gross-out funniest cameo by Steve Buscemi as the town barber with all-purpose ointment – a fistful to swab a donkey’s ass with lube, then putting the remaining swab directly into Taylor Lautner’s mouth as soothing lip balm. Wolfboy enjoys.

The tone of RIDICULOUS resembles another Sandler absurdist comedy, YOU DON’T MESS WITH THE ZOHAN (2008), which succeeded because Sandler found a sweet spot for playing it straight with a funny premise. He is most tolerable when he’s playing adept, as in ZOHAN – a fighter, a lover, a he-man. Under its authentic Western-styled soundtrack (by Rupert Gregson-Williams and Elmo Weber), RIDICULOUS might have been a revealing, serio-comic role for Sandler, had it not been for the uneven tone of the movie and the lack of conviction from his supporting players. Especially mouse-talented Rob Schneider, playing a Mexican like the best racist you ever saw.

Tell Tarantino he needs to be afraid. Be very afraid. Because THE RIDICULOUS 6 is going to challenge his film making skills, i.e. if he watches it, he’ll be too dumb to direct anymore…

END

Like A Bat Out Of Invercargill…

To Go Faster: that was the single-minded purpose of Herbert J. “Burt” Munro (1899 – 1978), whose life story was an “inspirational movie” just waiting to happen.

World’s Fastest Cucumber

The tagline boasts, “based on one hell of a true story,” justifiably it would seem, as Munro – a fearless, free-spirited New Zealand rider who broke land speed records in his 60s – was one hell of a character.

THE WORLD’S FASTEST INDIAN is the quixotic tale of Munro’s first trek from his provincial home town of Invercargill, New Zealand, to Utah’s Bonneville Salt Flats, to tilt at the land speed record in what he hopes will become The World’s Fastest Indian – his modified 1920 Indian Scout motorcycle. Reading like the archetypal Hollywood tearjerker, it is fortunate that archives of Munro interviews and riding footage still exists, to corroborate that his tall tale was indeed a real life template for underdog movies.

Anthony Hopkins gives a startling performance as Munro (for his utter divergence from all things Hannibal or Uptight Butler), paying supreme tribute to Munro by burying himself in a role which is part absent-minded professor, part master mechanic, all nutjob – the type of guy who, when told to mow his thigh-high lawn, torches it with gasoline, not through any malice, but with an ingenuousness that would somehow endear him to all he came in contact with.

As with any “true” story, director-writer Roger Donaldson (whose resumé is a laundry list of recognizable films: THE BOUNTY, NO WAY OUT, COCKTAIL, SPECIES, DANTE’S PEAK) composites events and characters to squeeze Munro’s storied life into 127 minutes of fish out of water hell on wheels. Lifting many of the anecdotes and dialogue from Munro himself (from a documentary Donaldson directed in 1973, which appears on the DVD: OFFERINGS TO THE GOD OF SPEED), Donaldson admits to Munro’s legend blurring over the years, “There were many stories that I’d heard that just could not have been true and then there were stories that I knew to be true that were hard to believe.”

The numerous cameos ably support Munro’s need for speed : Chris Williams, Bruce Greenwood, Paul Rodriguez, Christopher Lawford, with notable appearances by Annie Whittle and Diane Ladd, to further the fact that “dirty old men need love too.”

Accompanied by the Indian he worked on for decades like a lover, Munro’s quest would see him paying his way across the Pacific as cook onboard a tramp steamer, using a log as a wheel when the desert highway claims his makeshift trailer, choking down a Native American’s gift of powdered dog’s balls for his prostate, stealing petrol from the official race supply, letting his tailpipe char his calf during a record attempt rather than stopping, battling his own ailing heart, butting heads with regulation-raunchy officials and – the most horrible trial of all – spending a night in Hollywood.

Was Munro such a yokel that, instead of finding a hotel in Long Beach (where he would pick up his bike from Customs the next day), he would rather trek all the way north into Hollywood for the night just to “see film stars”? Apparently so. With scenes that read like a clunky CROCODILE DUNDEE, Munro winds up at the Flamingo Sunset hotel, promptly getting ripped off by a fake flower-girl, propositioned by an old hooker and meeting a transvestite within the space of two minutes. (When I first moved to Hollywood, it took me a whole week to get taken by a small-time hustler, propositioned by a skanky hooker and befriend a she-male.)

Cutting down on the weight of his bike – and against all regulations – Munro saw no need even for brakes (“I’m planning on going, not stopping”) or a parachute (“I’m not planning on bailing out”). From the poverty-stricken, ascetic life he led, it was no wonder he was eternally ready to die with his boots on. If Munro had nothing else, he had balls. And plenty of ’em. Which accounts for his simple philosophy, “You live more in five minutes on a bike like this going flat out than some people live in a lifetime.” And also accounts for the trail of bodacious, wrinkled squeeze he left in his wake.

For those who believe in planetary alignments and other such nonsense, the whole solar system must have conspired to aid Burt Munro in those days leading to the 1962 Bonneville Speed Week, as fortuitous event after fortuitous event nudges him towards his goal, everyone’s heart melting over Burt’s cause (from competitors to race officials alike), creating a syrupy Disney contagion that seems non-believable at times, but which must have some basis in reality, as the shattered records are testament to this broke, obsessive, neighborhood nuisance becoming a living legend.

Some of Munro’s land speed records still stand to this day.

It’s a sobering thought that there must be thousands of fanatical old tinkerers out there who obsess over seemingly ridiculous, esoteric pastimes, any of which, with the right set of circumstances, could land them in history books.

Burt Munro just happened to be the wrong man in the right place at the fastest time.

END