The Stench of Bruckheimer was Everywhere

I've had it. I've fucking had it. I've been putting off seeing this debacle for as long as possible, but at the urging of Jonny, I decided it was my duty to suffer through it. If no one else was willing to sit through the worst swill Hollywood has to offer, I would reluctantly take a bullet for the team. Yet, I believe that I took more than a bullet. After all, I sat through the worst film ever associated with Jerry Bruckheimer. For anyone even remotely familiar with his record, that is no small feat. And, after I received the news that this film topped the box office in its opening weekend, I learned something else about the American Public - who I hate with such a ferocious intensity - with all of their distractions, trinkets, toys, and flashing lights, they still, deep within the pits of their tortured souls, had yet to see the definitive "Kangaroo Picture." They were waiting for this day and it seems just that only Mr. Bruckheimer could give it to them.

I have always known that Bruckheimer has contributed to, if not outright caused, the rapid disintegration of taste and culture in American life. With simpleminded plots, over-ripe dialogue, and mind-numbing action, Bruckheimer has tapped, perhaps more than anyone else, the increasing desire to avoid nuance and thought in our daily lives. He has been loud, yes, but has he always been this homoerotic? To a certain extent, all action films or even "buddy pics" have had homoerotic undertones, but I never imagined such things would even extend to what is being marketed as a "family" film. The "friendship" between the two lead characters - Charlie (Jerry O' Connell) and Louis (Anthony Anderson) - is nothing short of a well-oiled, chiseled-abs inspired miracle. They fight, tease, touch, and roll around in the dirt, all without expressing their desires. One exchange does manage to escape their lips that betrays their true desires, however:

Charlie: Louis, quick, stick your hand down my pants.
Louis: Hey man, we all have urges, but this isn't the time...although there was that one time I saw that well-built Latino...

A wink-wink to the audience to show that they realize the implications, or an understanding that the genre has surrendered itself entirely to the fantasies of closeted men everywhere?

Still, Bruckheimer throws in a "love interest" to keep things honest, although I would classify it more as a distraction. The girl in question, Jessie (Estella Warren), is a typically vapid Bruckheimer babe - all tits and legs without any depth whatsoever - and she does marry Charlie in the end, but on the same boat with the newlyweds is, of course, Louis, who will always be around as he is the one Charlie truly loves. The two share an exchange near the end of the film that is so packed with love and desire (they keep telling each other how much they mean to each other and how they've always been there through thick and thin) that I kept wondering if an editing mix-up had accidentally removed Jessie from the scene. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The story, at last.

Charlie is a hairdresser in Brooklyn (I am not fucking kidding?..perhaps this whole thing is more overt than I had imagined) and his shop is owned by his mobster stepfather, played by Christopher Walken (I'd say it was an embarrassing role, but he's done this shit too often to elicit my "shock"). Charlie pals around with childhood friend Louis, a bumbling Stepin Fetchit type who always has a new scheme to make fast money. When Charlie reluctantly agrees to help Louis with a stolen TV job, the two manage to unintentionally screw Charlie's stepfather out of money and stolen treasure (don't ask, although there is a silly chase scene within the first ten minutes of the film). In order to avoid being killed for the error, the two agree to take $50,000 to a man named Mr. Smith in the Australian Outback. But of course, Mr. Smith is actually a hit-man employed by the evil stepfather, and the $50,000 is the payment for the murder of the two dopey guys. Before this can occur, however, the two lovers manage to lose the money after hitting a kangaroo on an isolated dirt road. Thinking the animal is dead, the two pose the kangaroo for pictures and dress it in Louis' jacket (where the money has been placed). Suddenly, the kangaroo springs to life, kicks Charlie in the chest, and runs into the desert. The rest of the film is an extended chase sequence to retrieve the money, involving bi-planes, jeeps, a drunken old pilot, and, in a cinematic first, camels. There are no surprises here, of course, for our "heroes" escape when they must, courtesy of villains with poor aim and convenient dust storms.

Strike that - there was one genuine surprise. After a long day of tracking the kangaroo, Jessie is glimpsed in an erotic scene beneath a waterfall, complete with seductive music and the possibility of glistening, soaking wet breasts. But wait! Bruckheimer has improbably put clothes on this fair maiden, and we are denied the one moment of genuine titillation to be found in this mess. Charlie shows up, teases her, gives her a light kiss, but before going any further, is interrupted by Louis, who has decided to jump into the water for a dip. Sure. The timing is just too convenient and further evidence that these two men are the real cinematic couple.

Without droning on and on about a film that could only be taken seriously by the type of people with whom I shared a screening (slackjawed, the lot of 'em), let it be said that the money is found, the bad guys captured, the kangaroo reunited with his family, and even the evil stepfather put on trial for his crimes. Beyond the gay theme, there were plenty of fart jokes, pratfalls, and insults to satisfy the demands of discriminating audiences everywhere. But before I go, let me mention the audience. While it consisted primarily of children (who laughed wildly throughout while I scowled in the back corner of the theater), there were some adults who should have known better. They too threw their heads back in gleeful excitement, arguably eclipsing the deafening noise of their animal-like brood. I know that I have ridiculed these cretins before, but with each successive screening, I am astounded at the ease by which they are amused. For every rousing speech by President Bush about the "glory" of America and the decency of its citizens, there are moments like this - glaring, 2X4-to-the-face examples of democracy's failings and na?ve faith in mankind. I know, I know, we have the right to be stupid, even obnoxiously so. We do indeed. But in a day and age when we talk daily about the Constitution and what we are allegedly protecting by engaging in a perpetual "war," why must we demonstrate to the world that when it comes to rights, we are content to limit our expressions to those involving firearms or the willful destruction of brain cells? With Kangaroo Jack, we can indulge both.

Ruthless Ratings

• Number of times I urinated before the film, thereby taking away the one excuse I had to leave the theater after it started: 1
• Number of babies I heard crying, yet didn't give a shit: 2
• Number of times I sighed with relief knowing that I got in without paying, thanks to a free pass: 6
• Number of times such relief was tempered by the knowledge that I paid good money the night before to see that piece of shit The Hours: 4
• Number of times I thought to myself, "Oh shit, the Eagles/Bucs game is on": 2
• Number of times I made a move for the door because I am a masochistic fuck who loves wasting time: 0