In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale / Phillip Stephens
Film Reviews | January 11, 2008 | Comments ()
I don’t even know what to say anymore. Another January, another Toilet Boll fiasco lurching abominably into theaters, filled with an ill-fittingly large budget and a mix of good actors incomprehensibly slumming and bad actors happy that someone checked them out of rehab for the weekend and gave them enough ludes to get through their scenes. And guess what? It blows. And guess what? No one needed to be told that. And guess what some more? No one will go see it, and yet I’ll still be here come January 2009 weeping tears of sulfur for my lost youth and jamming needles into my Uwe Boll voodoo doll’s eyeballs and crotch while cursing this anathema to filmmaking and his German tax shelter.
So, really, what more can I tell you about the gauche mouthful that is In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale? The films of Uwe Boll belong on VHS tapes in one of those quaint rental stores where they’re grouped with Deathstalker III, Hawk the Slayer, and Ator — The Fighting Eagle for those who appreciate delicious fantasy camp, not in theaters with budgets and actual actors, however low they’ve fallen.
Let’s get this over with: A farmer named Farmer (Jason Statham) lives the quiet life with his busty bride (Claire Forlani) and son. And he enjoys farming. One day, some nasty orc-pigs come a-raiding, killing Farmer’s sire and making off with his comely damsel. The orc-pigs are led by a wizard, Gallian (Ray Liotta), who is conspiring with Duke Fallow (Matthew Lillard) to take over King Konreid’s (Burt Reynolds) kingdom. Jesus, I wish I were making those casting choices up; rounding up the ensemble are John Rhys-Davies as a wizard, Leelee Sobieski as a wizard/whore, Ron Perlman as a warrior-ape, Brian J. White as a general, and Kristanna Loken as a telekinetic Amazon.
The plot oozes like toothpaste across 127 of the longest minutes you’ll ever endure, punctuated with fight scenes edited into a visual miasma. Boll continues to think that more violence = more entertainment, but watching bloodless beat ‘em ups involving characters to whom you’re palpably indifferent is more boring than I can describe. At least BloodRayne had cheesy violence. And I’m fairly certain that most of the cast is in on the joke: only Statham and Perlman assay their roles with the niche fun to be had in an awful movie, while everyone else either chews scenery unconvincingly (Forlani and Liotta) or is numbingly dull, except Lillard, who was so bad he may have given me cancer.
But that’s all the rancor I’m going to muster for Dungeon Siege, and I’m sorry if that disappoints on the scathing/bitchy front. The fact is everything about Uwe Boll has been said quite thoroughly by now. His films are achieving more and more technical competency as he progresses, but this actually works to the detriment of the films since they were only worth so-bad-it’s-good value in the first place. Hating on this guy has become old hat, and his publicity stunts, such as beating up his harshest decriers and making a film as self-consciously offensive as Postal informs a peculiar psychological malady: this man actually yearns to be hated, and every action in this vein smacks of a sad little man raging against his own obsolescence. Well, I’m through validating this imbecile with scorn; besides, anyone who’s capable of writing this to a critic makes it feel politically incorrect to make fun of their subnormal ass. The time for mocking Toilet Boll is over, and the time for ignoring him has begun.
Phillip Stephens is the lead critic for Pajiba. He lives in Fayetteville, AR, and says to hell with boxing Uwe Boll. He’ll come at the motherfucker with a chainsaw.
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