Another movie that was even more of a disappointment than "The Fountain" is the magnum opus from Emilio Estevez (better known as Martin Sheen's son and Charlie Sheen's less talented brother) about the life and times of the late New York Senator Robert F. Kennedy.
Well, actually, it's about 10 minutes in the life and times of Robert F. Kennedy; the rest of the movie's 112-minute running time is filled with boring, unnecessary fictional vignettes about idiots working in Los Angeles' Ambassador Hotel, where the senator was assassinated in 1968.
Why on Earth would someone name a film "Bobby," proposing it to be a homage to the brother of a recently assassinated president coming into his own, and then stuff it with the most banal and uninteresting stories? I have no idea, friends.
All of these tales take place on June 6, 1968, the day of the California primary, in which Kennedy is battling another anti-war dove, Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy, and LBJ's conservative vice-president, Hubert Humphrey.
This little description is about the only real history you will get from this mishmash of a film, which soon meanders off into a wildly-spinning series of unrelated concoctions; very loosely tied to the upcoming assassination. In fact, had it not been for several actual newsreels of Kennedy on the campaign trail, this picture would have had nothing whatsoever to do with his life (and death).
I only wish they would have just spliced these images together and we would have a film to remember. These small clips give more insight and revelation on what Robert Kennedy was and what the country lost than anything Estevez could have dreamed up. Don't believe me? Then take a look at some of the vignettes:
Anthony Hopkins (portraying another old American) is a longtime hotel employee who now plays chess with an addled Harry Belafonte; Estevez (wearing an ascot and carrying a poodle) is the effeminate husband of drunken singer Demi Moore; Heather Graham is a hotel switchboard operator having an affair with aging manager William H. Macy (the biggest work of fiction in the whole movie); Macy, on the other hand fires kitchen manager Christian Slater for racism, but is chastised himself by beautician wife, Sharon Stone, for infidelity; long-winded cook, Laurence Fishburne, lectures everyone on the meaning of life; two Mormon missionary-types, Shia LeBeouf and Brian Geraghty, who work for the Kennedy campaign, buy LSD from Ashton Kutcher; Helen Hunt and Martin Sheen play a middle-aged couple who come to celebrate the primary; and Lindsey Lohan is a woman who marries Elijah "Frodo" Wood to keep him from going to Vietnam.
Who cares about any of this?!
The only compelling story was the one surrounding Mexican busboy, Juan Romero (Freddie Rodriguez) one of the few actual real people portrayed in this film, who ended up cradling the mortally-injured senator. Still, this particular part of the quilt is given as much time as the rest of the ridiculous, made-up stories. Yeah, I really care that Helen Hunt forgot to buy shoes or that Anthony Hopkins once met FDR or that a waitress from Ohio dropped acid once.
And speaking of that, the LSD freak-out scene was one of the most insipid and embarrassing pieces of trash ever slopped onto celluloid. It's something even "Mystery Scinece Theatre 3000" would have gladly passed on. I actually though I was hallucinating while watching it.
Finally, however, after almost two hours of nothing happening, even I was almost ready to take a few shots at some of these people.
In fact, when Sirhan Sirhan finally arrives at the hotel, most of the audience was relieved to see the only likable character who could end this colossal mess. Sirhan should have first gone after Estevez (who seems to direct this film with a circus mallet), though, and spared us from an intellectual and cinematic assassination we may never get over.
Bobby Kennedy was one of the most unique and compelling men of our generation. I can't say I would have agreed with all of his politics had he lived, but he deserved a much better honor than this ham-fisted, unfocused, passionless motion picture gives him.
Well, actually, it's about 10 minutes in the life and times of Robert F. Kennedy; the rest of the movie's 112-minute running time is filled with boring, unnecessary fictional vignettes about idiots working in Los Angeles' Ambassador Hotel, where the senator was assassinated in 1968.
Why on Earth would someone name a film "Bobby," proposing it to be a homage to the brother of a recently assassinated president coming into his own, and then stuff it with the most banal and uninteresting stories? I have no idea, friends.
All of these tales take place on June 6, 1968, the day of the California primary, in which Kennedy is battling another anti-war dove, Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy, and LBJ's conservative vice-president, Hubert Humphrey.
This little description is about the only real history you will get from this mishmash of a film, which soon meanders off into a wildly-spinning series of unrelated concoctions; very loosely tied to the upcoming assassination. In fact, had it not been for several actual newsreels of Kennedy on the campaign trail, this picture would have had nothing whatsoever to do with his life (and death).
I only wish they would have just spliced these images together and we would have a film to remember. These small clips give more insight and revelation on what Robert Kennedy was and what the country lost than anything Estevez could have dreamed up. Don't believe me? Then take a look at some of the vignettes:
Anthony Hopkins (portraying another old American) is a longtime hotel employee who now plays chess with an addled Harry Belafonte; Estevez (wearing an ascot and carrying a poodle) is the effeminate husband of drunken singer Demi Moore; Heather Graham is a hotel switchboard operator having an affair with aging manager William H. Macy (the biggest work of fiction in the whole movie); Macy, on the other hand fires kitchen manager Christian Slater for racism, but is chastised himself by beautician wife, Sharon Stone, for infidelity; long-winded cook, Laurence Fishburne, lectures everyone on the meaning of life; two Mormon missionary-types, Shia LeBeouf and Brian Geraghty, who work for the Kennedy campaign, buy LSD from Ashton Kutcher; Helen Hunt and Martin Sheen play a middle-aged couple who come to celebrate the primary; and Lindsey Lohan is a woman who marries Elijah "Frodo" Wood to keep him from going to Vietnam.
Who cares about any of this?!
The only compelling story was the one surrounding Mexican busboy, Juan Romero (Freddie Rodriguez) one of the few actual real people portrayed in this film, who ended up cradling the mortally-injured senator. Still, this particular part of the quilt is given as much time as the rest of the ridiculous, made-up stories. Yeah, I really care that Helen Hunt forgot to buy shoes or that Anthony Hopkins once met FDR or that a waitress from Ohio dropped acid once.
And speaking of that, the LSD freak-out scene was one of the most insipid and embarrassing pieces of trash ever slopped onto celluloid. It's something even "Mystery Scinece Theatre 3000" would have gladly passed on. I actually though I was hallucinating while watching it.
Finally, however, after almost two hours of nothing happening, even I was almost ready to take a few shots at some of these people.
In fact, when Sirhan Sirhan finally arrives at the hotel, most of the audience was relieved to see the only likable character who could end this colossal mess. Sirhan should have first gone after Estevez (who seems to direct this film with a circus mallet), though, and spared us from an intellectual and cinematic assassination we may never get over.
Bobby Kennedy was one of the most unique and compelling men of our generation. I can't say I would have agreed with all of his politics had he lived, but he deserved a much better honor than this ham-fisted, unfocused, passionless motion picture gives him.