No amount of prayers will help your movie, Momoa
Since the colossal success of The Lord of the Rings, studio execs have been trying to bank on the grand-scale epicness perfected by Peter Jackson. He managed to take the works of Tolkien to a level never dreamed possible while sticking true to the story and pacing them beautifully. Why other directors can’t follow suit is beyond me. These days they feel the need to bombard their audiences with quick/random cuts, grand swooping shots from the sky, and random scenarios that seem to say “hey, what do ya think of this?”. Sadly, the 2011 take on the classic epic Conan: The Barbarian did just that.
I have to say that I was super pumped going into this film. Aside from the trailers and junk, the one thing that solidified my decision to see it was shown to me by my buddy T-Bone. Here it is:
Looks incredible, right? Well, I hate to say that this was the best part of the movie. My buddy Steve summed it up wonderfully on the drive home: “That movie died with Ron Perlman“. From that point on, the film slowly continued on a downward spiral into the bowels of suck. Apparently Steve’s wife (and best roommate ever) Dorothy could feel the degenerating enthusiasm emanating from my body as the film went on.
Jason Momoa has proven himself highly capable of playing the roll of a big dumb barbarian. However, the furry blood-soaked boots of Conan were meant for Arnold and Arnold alone. There is no way the world can be convinced otherwise. Sorry. But even though Momoa was given a dialogue heavy version of the Cimarian, he did manage an okay new take on the character. I will always remember him best as Khal Drogo though.
“you call THAT rape?! I’ll show you rape!”
It was cool to see Rose Mcgowan getting at least a secondary role in a Conan movie after the Red Sonja film was axed. Her super sexy outfits were doubly cool. What wasn’t cool was the stupid-ass Freddy Krueger finger claws her character had. They even went to the extent of shooting a “nail scrape on wall” scene. Seriously? Why would they put that in a movie about crushing your enemies, seeing them driven before you, and hearing the lamentations of their women? KRUUUUM! Maybe if there was some mild girl-on-girl action I would’ve been okay with it. But there wasn’t any so it doesn’t matter.
“How do you like my French tips?”
Morgan Freeman manned the narrator’s booth, a position last held by the late great Mako. As always, Freeman hit a home run. It just sucked that his wonderful reading gets washed away by a torrent of forgetful characters, cities no one cares about, and horses that went un-punched (HE DIDN’T EVEN PUNCH A HORSE!).
Now that I’ve gotten this anger out of system depression has begun to set in. I’m going to go drown my memory of this movie in the watered down booze at Dodge St Bar & Grill in Salem. With any luck I’ll be drunk with Krum in Valhalla by morning.