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Social democracy in peril.
The new fascism.
Coming Together at the Seams
The view from Porto Alegre ...
... and direct action in New York.
Not Just Black and White
LOCAL MOTION: Oak Park, Illinois
A Scandal Bigger than Enron.
An Open Letter to George W. Bush
Kenny Boy? Never heard of him.
Backtalk
McCarthyism redux.
Appall-o-Meter
The military busts the 2003 budget.
Word Games
Bush stealth-attacks reproductive rights.
Hard-liners
Bush hands AIDS policy to the Christian right.
Chechnya remains mired in misery.
Ann Pettifor: Discrediting the Creditors.
Party Animals
BOOKS: Micah Sifry follows the third way.
BOOKS: Randall Kennedy's Nigger.
MUSIC: Something is in the water.
FILM: Let's play Rollerball.
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February 19, 2002
Technical Foul
Why should we be caught rubbernecking? Only because Rollerball is, conclusively,
the Watergate of studio disasters, a coverup you won’t discover in theaters
(hurry, you have but minutes) or on the balance sheet. The smoking gun lies
in the 1975 original—pop it in. Do I hear a chuckle at that first line,
a sports announcer welcoming us to Houston, “the Energy City”? Here
they come now, in their football pads and skates. The team forms a line and
removes its helmets. The crowd rises for the Corporate Anthem. There is silence,
rectitude. None of this makes the cut for the remake; you just might get weepy over the
passing of ’70s sci-fi earnestness. Rollerball was the ripest: a
future world of mighty conglomerates presided over by the executive class which,
having done away with wars, nations and poverty, serenely administers a brutal
outlet to the under-consumers. (Memo to tomorrow’s CEOs: This does not
actually work.) Fully baked or not, Rollerball still commands any self-respecting
anti-globalization slumber party. White-walled living quarters and permawaves—par
for the genre—take on an aptness; dreams are murmured about wearing a gray
suit and making decisions. John McTiernan and his team of screenwriters have seen fit to chuck out this
context, and the error is fatal, like doing Jaws without the shark. The
game is now set in rampantly capitalist pockets of the former Soviet Union,
with lucrative cable deals the goal of its ex-KGB entrepreneur, Petrovich (Jean
Reno, all but twirling his mustache). Hasn’t he heard of the World Wrestling
Federation? No matter, we have, and lacking the corporate stranglehold of the
original, his “entertainment startup” has all the appeal of a bargain-basement
Cirque du Soleil, worth about a second of channel-surfing.
So on we go to Plan B, thrills and spills. McTiernan may not have a functioning
script, but he can claim to have once made Die Hard, as well-tooled as
the scrap heap ever gets. He has plenty to work with here: some pretty flesh,
a good eye and the whirling, sadistic contest itself. Can’t these elements
occasionally cohere into cinematic rock candy? Bad for you, sure, but irresistible
on certain trips to the carnival? Hopes rise early on, when a gaggle of hyperactive
TV commercials scurry by; tastebuds are whetted for, say, a sticky gob of Starship
Troopers. But now like a vengeful ghost, the corporate spirit of the original swoops
down on McTiernan with a fierceness that seems oddly appropriate. (At least
by Hollywood metaphysics.) Poor screen tests and noxious word of mouth led to
a rethink on the part of the studio, forcing him to sanitize his picture to
a PG-13. Thus McTiernan has the dubious honor of releasing a satire on extreme
bloodlust that’s tamer than its 27-year-old inspiration. A collective grimace
develops in the cast, responding to horrors rarely seen. Could they be reacting
to their own predicament, trapped in hiccuping rhythms like Hot Wheels stuck
on a similar figure-eight track? Rollerball is an unbelievable bomb, but one of the most educational—revealing
corporate desperation at its vulgar low. Before that gets interpreted as praise,
allow me to reveal what would have been its secret weapon: breasts. The league
is now co-ed (hubba hubba), but sneak into their discretely decent locker room
and you’ll see there’s good money in computer-generated towels. After
the game, it’s a romp over to the local strip club where the boys like
to ogle some nice, uh, dresses. Even the cars have bras on. Women were the plastic “rewards” in the original too; here they’re
intended as morsels still in their wrappers. Clearly, today’s teens don’t
even rate a dirty treat. And while Petrovich might be the resident baddie, thereby
allowing Jonathan to wrest an absurd triumph from the moral muck, the film points
its gloved finger outward to the real culprits: us, with our global ratings
that spur them on. But if we’re so bad, can’t Rollerball at
least let us earn it? This, finally, is the one thing both versions get wrong.
Audiences would never be treated so discourteously by any smart company. Rebellion
would be instantly packaged and resold to us. This movie is a defect broken
in transit. |
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In These Times is committed to remaining fiercely independent, but we need your help. Donate now to make sure we can continue providing the original reporting, deep investigation, and strategic analysis needed in this moment. We're proud to be in this together.
ife, for all its mysteries and riches, was somehow found lacking. Here, then,
is a remake of Rollerball, MGM having no other choice but to provide
and, in so doing, maybe heal. I did not enjoy this motion picture. I was not
healed. But somewhere a board meeting must be convening, of jubilant men convinced
that an aching need has, by them, been filled. Not for cynical sports futurism
(this version winks with right-around-the-corner nowness) or amplified violence—as
you may have heard whispered, all gratuities have been digitally erased. At
last: a Rollerball for babysitters.
he shift wreaks worse damage on what the Greeks, though not the inventors
of rollerball, might have once termed the Central Drama. In the rapidly improving
first version, Jonathan, the hero player, threatened the synergistic state with
his growing celebrity. (James Caan, dimly unable to grasp the retirement forced
on him, must have required director’s notes of the strongest proof.) But
this new Jonathan has no discovery other than—wait a minute!—the game
is rigged for maximum carnage. While actor Chris Klein cannot fairly be faulted
for this, his agent should be flung in the penalty box for making his client’s
pitch-perfect doofus in Election seem artless.