You know you are in trouble when you begin to see about 1,000 Elvis impersonators
strutting about across the screen and you're already looking at your watch as
the credits start to roll. Well, what can I say, except good gawrsh, not again?
This movie has more Elvis apes than working brain cells.
If you're like Elvis who, then do yourself and the rest of humanity a favor
by staying put at home. But then again if you're like Elvis, ah, then do yourself
a bigger favor and stick around at home. 3,000 Miles... is an attempt at serious
filmmaking by a director who doesn't seem to know the difference between his
elbow and his ass. It's a pokey story of a posse of ex-cons led by once-upon-a-time
Kevin Costner as they plan to loot a casino during an annual Elvis convention.
They want to clear the safe of its contents, and hence the whole Elvis garb
Murphy (Costner) is the hard-boiled egg who's leading the heist, Michael (Kurt
Russell) is the one who's programmed with a superior conscience, and Christian
Slater and the rest of the actors just tag along for kicks. And the rest of
the movie is peppered with plots and chunky, jangly sub-plots and clichés that
you can smell from 3,000 miles away.
There's loot to be looted, people to double cross and sideburns to fertilize,
and all the while the film's struggling with the excess baggage of a tedious
subplot - a dumb love twist in the form of Russell's Lord-knows-what Courtney
Cox, and her 11-year-old. Write to me if you can figure out what the hell that
was all about. Anyway, Cox (Monica of 'Friends') looks like she's just missed
her appointment for her facelift. What's Kevin Costner's excuse for doing a
flick like this? Why can't he stick to the hills and clear Hollywood of his
wooden almost-toxic presence? He can't act for all the weeds in the world.
The movie sucks - but there's enough action if you're generally looking for
some blind-on random killings, guts and gore. The flick goes from militarily
offensive stupid to plain mind numbingly dumb in 3 nano seconds flat, real time.
The brutality is the sorts that would make Hannibal seem like a pussycat stuck
on a rose bush.
Well, all I can say is that I regard this flick as a public calamity and I fear
it will be viewed in no other light but that throughout Hyd and Sec. If you
do want to see it, take along a wooden mallet and some nails... it completes the