Pearl Abhor
by
Rolando
Recometa

There are only two kinds of bad movies: one kind makes you like yourself for hating it (Bruckheimer's Armageddon), the other makes you hate yourself for not hating it as much as you'd like to (Bruckheimer's Coyote Ugly). I really, really wanted to really, really hate PEARL HARBOR. The trio of Bruckheimer, Bay and BEN! may be the most loathesome combination in the history of moviemaking. And even if their movie turned out to be great, it still wouldn't justify the ridiculous amount of money spent on making and promoting it. So it is with the utmost self-abhorrence that I admit to actually not hating Pearl Harbor as much as I wanted to.

I will leave it to the experts to debate the movie's alleged historical inadequacies and inaccuracies. Although if one is willing to suspend disbelief during Ben Affleck's many Top Gun heroics, it would be pointless to withhold suspension during the rest of the movie. For one thing, history is merely a distraction in Pearl Harbor. Its central plot is a love triangle between three stupid, selfish and beautifully lit people. They're stupid and selfish because they're in love (anyone who claims that falling in love isn't stupid and selfish has yet to fall out of love). They're beautifully lit because it's only a movie, an expensive Bruckheimer fantasy. The audience I was with applauded enthusiastically at the end. Were they genuinely touched or did the movie make them genuinely want to touch themselves?

I did not applaud, but I genuinely touched myself a few times during the movie. I couldn't help but fantasize about looking like Josh Hartnett and making love to a hot babe like Kate Beckinsale. For most of the movie's three hours, I felt as stupid and selfish as I was when I was in love. I did not care about the rest of the world then. I thought about sex with my lover all day long. Watching the movie, I couldn't care less about the thousands of lives wasted during the Pearl Harbor attack. I just wanted Danny (Hartnett) and Evelyn (Beckinsale) to live stupidly, selfishly and beautifully ever after.

There are no nuns in Pearl Harbor (a historical inaccuracy I can vouch for), but I still touched myself. And I hate myself for doing it. Like most critics, I hate Pearl Harbor for making me do it. But
unlike the critics, I would rather leave the theater knowing that I
touched myself than sit through a movie not feeling touched at all. Pearl Harbor is only a movie, folks. It's only a bad movie. How badly can one hate it?

©2001 Rolando Recometa
CineScene