by John Bear
Daily Lobo
I am an avid hater of all things Steven Spielberg.
A little back story.
When I was about 14 I wanted to be a paleontologist - a dinosaur scientist. I realize this marks me as a horribly nerdy individual, and I am fine with that.
So I was sitting in my room, playing with my fossils, when I glanced at the television because there was a Tyrannosaurus rex on the screen, gnashing its teeth. Then the grainy voice said, "Opening Friday, 'Jurassic Park.'" I must admit that excitement washed over me in tingly little waves. I bothered the entire family for days about this movie until they all wanted my head on a spit.
Then I went to the movie. To say the least, it failed to live up to the R-rated sensibilities on which I was raised. I demanded the head of Spielberg, but apparently no one was listening because he keeps making movies.
Peace to "Schindler's List." I am not dissing that one.
But I digress. As I was saying, I hate pretty much everything Spielberg has put his name on. He's corny and his sense of dialogue is nonexistent.
But I must forgive him somewhat, for he did bless us with one of the greatest films ever conceived of by man or beast - "1941."
Maybe it's not that obscure, but it is widely hated, having been featured in several books about the worst films ever made right along with "Waterworld" - a true crime against humanity.
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The film takes place in Los Angeles after the attack on Pearl Harbor. The panic-stricken citizens believe they will be the next target.
And they are right. A Japanese submarine lurks just off the coast, the crew looking to "blow the shit out of something big" so that they may return home with honor. But the only people who manage to see it are a skinny dipper with poor timing and a drunken Christmas tree farmer (Slim Pickens), who will be captured, will swallow the sub's only compass, be forced to drink an entire bottle of prune juice, and only then escape into the middle of the ocean. Things look grim.
The film switches between dozens of characters, making this film an ensemble piece in every sense of the phrase. John Belushi plays an insane fighter pilot who lands only to shoplift canned soup. Dan Ackroyd is an inspirational speech-spouting army mechanic who drops off an anti-aircraft gun at the home of superpatriot Ned Beatty, describing in tedious detail how not to use it.
Also coming along for the ride are, but not limited to, a sexy reporter who has a severe airplane fetish, a myopic Army colonel who believes the Japanese are parachuting into the alfalfa fields surrounding Pamona, a stoic, samurai-like Japanese sub commander who becomes hysterically giddy whenever he is witness to someone else's misfortune ... you get the idea.
Add all these crazy people, racked with paranoia, to a downtown Los Angeles teeming with artillery-topped buildings and the result is, shall we say, explosive.
Sure, the film is not politically correct like Spielberg's other works. In fact, it can probably be argued that this film is fairly racist, being party to more than a little Japanese bashing. But hey, read a little history regarding treatment of Japanese-Americans around 1941-45 and the film is not that far off the mark. The mass hysteria of the people in the movie is eerily current.
Perhaps Spielberg has launched a vast conspiracy to keep this movie below the radar, effectively clearing the way for the drivel that has comprised the rest of his career.
And lack of political correctness notwithstanding, this film features some great performances. Belushi's Åber-maniac pilot will leave some viewers searching for dry drawers. Ackroyd is also good as the mechanic who is always ready, willing and able to turn an unruly group of soldiers into an angry mob for patriotism's sake. Really, there are so many good actors in this movie that listing them all would be an exercise in futility.
So resist Spielberg's next attempt at stealing two hours of your life. His piäce de rÇsistance is on the $1 shelf at the video store.
