Making a list of overrated movies is risky for a few reasons. The word “overrated” is frequently misunderstood to mean “not good.” In fact, something can be, of course, terrible and overrated; something can be tremendous – a heralded masterpiece, even – and still be overrated. The problem is, judging whether something is good or bad is a subjective sport of its own. Therefore, applying an “overrated” label is layering an addendum of personal opinion over another, more widely held, assessment that placed the object in higher esteem. So, it’s all built on shaky ground to begin with, like a house on a Malibu cliff or honor among thieves. Another conundrum is whether it’s the object that’s being overrated or the jurist overrating the value of his own opinion. What’s more, when you profess that something – a movie, for instance – is overrated, you’re kind of telling people that they didn’t enjoy it after all. Or that they should have enjoyed it less. Now that I’ve acknowledged the inherent problems with the term, and in honor of it being post-Thanksgiving, I’m going to list a few films that are turkeys after the fact. Well, maybe not turkeys – but they gobbled up too much box-office and critical adulation.
Blue Velvet: Maybe I’m disconnected from the vision of David Lynch, who puts his sleazy gothic spin on the prosaic notion of suburbia. Or maybe, in his weird-for-weird sake universe, Lynch’s baroque exaggerations take on a laughable seriousness. In every frame of this influential ‘80s touchstone, the director is showing us how twisted he is; he’s like a puppeteer of shadows, yanking around the dark desires of his characters. Eventually, they become caricatures. Dennis Hopper using a gas mask for sexual gratification is not a disturbing image; it’s not even hilarious. It’s pathetic. It’s supposed to be. It’s the director putting all his eggs in one basket case. The movie does have one redeeming factor: the always spectacular Isabella Rossellini. She could star in a series about animal reproduction, and still be riveting.
Star Wars: Put down your light sabers, hardcore fans. I’ll admit Star Wars is a great movie – well, a very good one. But considering all the mediocre movies it inspired (including some of its own sequels), considering the oxymoron of its mainstream cult, and factoring in the lack of character depth and its reliance on a retooled plot (it came straight from The Wizard of Oz and The Searchers), Star Wars is one acutely overrated movie. It also came along like cinematic crack, hooking George Lucas on increasingly computer-generated sci-fi -- specifically, more Star Wars movies -- whereas at a promising early point in his career he was an exciting director of actual human beings. I’m nostalgic for American Graffiti, which is about the only real-life major release he’s ever directed. As a producer, Lucas is extremely prolific, but otherwise he’s like a brat who’s locked himself in a room with all his toys. And, with all his success, he has the luxury of taking all the criticism on the chin. Well, sort of.
Million Dollar Baby: Considering all the kudos heaped on this draggy “tearjerker,” it’s bound to be a let-down for anybody going into it high on the good reviews. Clint Eastwood can be a great director, but he’s not beyond critical reproach. And in that sense, he’s overrated as an American auteur. As a filmmaker, he has more in common with King Midas than King Vidor. Everything he touches turns into box-office gold. Million Dollar Baby might have been an artistic knockout, if only Eastwood realized the story ended long before the movie did.
No Country For Old Men: Yes, it won for Best Picture; but so did The Life of Emile Zola – and who remembers that one? The Coen brothers are overrated to begin with. Certainly, they’re talented movie-makers, with a film-history course implanted in their two-headed brain – and, unfortunately, a streak of cynicism that can become pretentious on its way from the typewriter to the screen. In a way the Coens are manicurists; not great directors of great actors, but style buffs who probably buy into Hitchcock’s comparison of actors to cattle. In another way, they’re the cinematic equivalent of hackers – hacking into classic genres, hacking into their own movies in a way that’s just short of winking and a little beyond the boundary that’s supposed to keep insinuating directors at bay. Of all the Coens’ films, No Country for Old Men is certainly not one of their worst. And because it’s based very closely on a novel, one could expect the literary source to be the tale wagging the Coens. And expect – or maybe hope – that their smarmy shock quality would take a back seat to a solid story; that they might finally say more by doing less. To a great degree, the Coens succeeded. But the movie, which begins as a thriller, makes a blindsiding genre switch. And to those who haven’t read the novel, the film is bound to disappoint once it becomes a character study of Tommy Lee Jones’ sheriff, and shifts rather abruptly into his point of view, putting the Brolin character on the back burner and robbing Javier Bardem’s villain of his nearly supernatural presence. No Country ends with a fizzle. Sure, it’s faithful to Cormac McCarthy’s book. And, knowing the Coens, they reveled in defying our expectations – all the more so with the plot being on someone else’s dime.
Jordan Oakes is a local journalist who has written for publications such as St. Louis Magazine and the Christian Science Monitor. He has strong opinions that begin to atrophy if he doesn't exercise his right to express them. Tune in every Wednesday for another installment of Mediatribe - and if you missed last week's post, click here.
