With Battlefield Earth, John Travolta says he has finally done the project he wants, causing me to hope that he never again gets to do what he wants. Since his come-back in Pulp Fiction, he's done a number of good films: Primary Colors, the Thin Red Line, Get Shorty. Unfortunately for him, Battlefield Earth is a misfire of epic proportions, an embarassment with barely a few unintentional laughs.
A harsh assessment, indeed, but a well-deserved one. Battlefield Earth will be remembered by future generations ("Is it as bad as Battlefield Earth?" moviegoers will ask about future sci-fi disasters) much like Ed Wood's ouevre is lovingly cemented in the annals of bad cinema. It IS as bad as you've heard and read and may be worse.
Our story begins with a lone, uncompelling subtitle: Man is an endangered species. Apparently, the Psychlos, a race of hirsute, hubris-soaked aliens have conquered all but a few enclaves of earthlings. American cities destroyed, man has reverted to hunter-gatherer ways of life. Led by Jonnie Goodboy Tyler (what a name!), the humans (or man-animals as the Psychlos call them) rise up in a fight for freedom against their oppressors. Tyler is captured by Terl (Travolta), who educates him to achieve his own sinister ends. It turns out to be a mistake, as Tyler uses his Psychlian education as a weapon in the war. The man-animals get weapons, including United States Air Force jets, which they master in 7 days using a flight-simulator machine (if the cities are essentially annihilated, where the Hell is the power the machines coming from?). A showdown ensues and the result seals the fate of mankind forever.
First-time screenwriter Corey Mandell shows his green. The script is chockfull of trite '50's b-movie lines; Tyler and Terl are stock hero and villian (when Kelly Preston arrives as Travolta's tongue-inclined mistress all hope is lost). Everything is conveniently placed--the Air Force jets and "learning machines" just happen to be fully gassed and powered. Props are just as bad. Psychlo guns look like well-crafted Super Soakers and the alien fingers must have been purchased at a shopping mall Halloween store. Increasingly moronic is the open-ended conclusion, leaving room for a sequel. Please don't do it, Mr. Travolta. One self-aggrandizing tribute to Scientology is more than enough.
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