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| Clive Owen reigns in King Arthur. |
The new Jerry Bruckheimer production, King Arthur, directed by Antoine Fuqua, claims to be the real (historical) deal. Arthur, it seems, was actually Lucius Artorius Castus, and he lived much earlier than we thought—in the Dark Ages. In this revisionist version, Arthur (Clive Owen) is a reluctant Roman leader who takes his Knights of the Round Table—the usual suspects—on one last mission in Britain, to defend against the invading Saxons, led by Cerdic (Stellan Skarsgård), who looks like a yeti and speaks like one, too. (Don’t ask me how, I just know.)
Along the way, Guinevere shows up, but—ah, revisionism!—she’s practically feral. Under the sway of Merlin (Stephen Dillane, who has a disappointing lack of screen time and performs no magic), Guinevere and her fellow Britons rally—humiliate, actually—Arthur to their defense. Guinevere (Keira Knightley), a great archer, suits up for the final battle against the Saxons by smearing herself in some kind of green paste. Pre-paste, though, she has exactly one love scene with Arthur, and it’s shot in that lyrical what-body-part-am-I-looking-at? mode that seems to be fashionable again. (Troy had one, too, with Achilles and his Trojan gal pal.)
The film may be set in the Dark Ages, but the clichés are vintage sixties Hollywood. Lancelot, for example, tells King Arthur, “You fight for a world that does not exist,” and who can argue with him? (You can always tell in a movie when something weighty is being intoned—no contractions.) Arthur is fond of saying things like “My faith is what protects me,” but it’s clear that the Round Table squadron—modeled rather too closely on the Wild Bunch—has a big hand in guarding his flank. Fuqua actually draws on a host of directors besides Sam Peckinpah for his battle scenes, and I suppose if audience members have never seen Alexander Nevsky or The Seven Samurai or Orson Welles’s Chimes at Midnight, then all this clanging and broadswording, presented in gory close-up and edited rapid-fire, will seem impressive. Fuqua deliberately downplays the fantastical in King Arthur, but the gritty faux realism wears itself out quickly. You’ve seen one lancing, you’ve seen them all. Forget revisionism. Sometimes the old ways are the best. Take a look at John Boorman’s mesmeric Excalibur sometime, and tell me if I’m right.
(2 hrs. 10 mins.; R)
—PETER RAINER
Opens July 7
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