ARTS

Wild Wild West proves to be a waste of time

by Rossiter Drake

This past summer, when Wild Wild West galloped into theaters across the country over the July 4th weekend, it was with an almost palpable sense of anticipation that I made my way to the local cineplex. Perhaps my appetite for expensive, action-packed comedies starring Will Smith had been whetted by 1997's Men in Black, a surprisingly clever and thoroughly entertaining romp that had somehow rinsed the sour taste of 1996's Independence Day out of my mouth. Perhaps it was my fondness for Kevin Kline, a talented dramatic actor who shined in comedic roles in films like A Fish Called Wanda and Dave.

Or perhaps it was that West was directed by Barry Sonnenfeld, the man responsible for improbable winners like The Addams Family, MIB and the instant classic Get Shorty. Whatever the reason, I was prepared not only to disregard the negative hype surrounding the film, but to wait in line for nearly 20 minutes on its very first night for tickets.

Alas, it was time wasted. Unlike MIB, which succeeded on the virtues of its witty script and the undeniable chemistry between Smith and reliable veteran Tommy Lee Jones, Wild Wild West is not built around engaging characters or even an intriguing story. Instead, it is a film built around fancy gadgets and special effects, a film that exists solely to support its promotional tie-ins with Burger King and the Pepsi Corporation. Finally, it is mindless and dull, stuffed with state-of-the-art sound and big-budget fury that never come close to signifying anything.

The plot is comical enough, if only because of the rampant stupidity that clearly led to its conception. It is also complicated, but I will nevertheless attempt to describe it here: a group of disgruntled southerners, led by Kenneth Branaugh, attempt to restore the days of institutionalized slavery by wreaking havoc upon post-Civil War America in a large mechanical spider. (I promise you that I am not making any of this up.) Widespread panic ensues, and the President turns his weary eyes to the nation's top crime fighters, James West and Artemus Gordon, two fiercely independent mavericks with very different approaches to law enforcement. Naturally, the two spar with each other throughout much of the film, only to forge a convenient friendship by its action-packed conclusion.

As played by Smith, whose winning personality proved indispensable to the success of MIB and television sitcoms like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, West is an utterly charmless character whose arrogant, humorless demeanor quickly grows tiresome in a film that is desperate for a reliable source of comic relief. For his part, Kline breathes as much life as he can into Gordon, a bland inventor whose wacky gadgets fail to provide the big laughs envisioned by Jeffrey Price, Peter Seaman and Brent Maddock, the three stooges responsible for the Wild Wild script.

But together, Smith and Kline fail to reproduce the chemistry that once made Smith and Jones such an appealing duo. They don't play off each other, as any good comic team must; they merely talk at each other, constantly engaging in a tedious battle for the last laugh. (I will spare all those involved with the making of this film the indecency of actually discussing the glaring flaws of the Branaugh character, which begin with his ridiculous goatee, or the Salma Hayek character, whose mere presence is painfully superfluous.)

Despite its half-baked plot and its poorly scripted protagonists, the film does feature a handful of memorable scenes. One particularly funny moment comes when Smith uses his sharp tongue and quick wit to assuage an angry lynch mob by discussing the etymology of the word 'redneck;' another comes when Kline manages to hijack the robotic spider for a destructive joyride. Sadly, though, such moments are few and far between. After all, Wild Wild West rarely places its characters in situations that actually strive to be humorous. For that matter, it doesn't even ask its principal stars to act. Instead, they stand around for a couple of hours, playing second fiddle to belligerent androids, flying thimbles and other expensive props that cannot conceal the creative bankruptcy at the heart of the film.

Indeed, I found it easy to sympathize with Smith and Kline, rather than condemn them for their inability to seek out a more worthy script. In the end, they seem trapped, stranded on the set of a brain-dead movie that goes nowhere and takes a long time getting there.

Unfortunately, I found it more difficult to forgive Sonnenfeld. He and his crew of scriptwriting monkeys stole two hours of my life. I may never have that time back, but I now regard it as a moral obligation to warn my fellow students against repeating my horrible mistake.

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Copyright © 1999, The Oberlin Review.
Volume 128, Number 3, September 17, 1999

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