Three Kings

Reviewed by: Hashke

November 15, 1999

Return

Yesterday I wasted time on yet another piece of drek from Gollywood --Three Kings. The usual explosions (wise up, an explosion is a signal to go to what's playing next door), the usual pseudo actors, the usual corpses, the usual executions, tortures, (this is supposed to be in Iraq after the Gulf War) the usual usual. Strictly Sam Peckerpaw stuff. They even exploded a cow which got pieces of boo vein not only all over the camera lense, but splattered one of my best shirts, all in you guessed it, slow motion.

And a guy throws a football at a helicopter and you guessed it, blew it up -- in slowmo.

A large family filed in after the "film" had begun, slanting downward from tall pop to small tyke and sat there in front of us like patients anesthetized against the screen, sniggling and chuckling through their popcorn in all the wrong places, like when an "Iraqi" shoots a woman in the head and she falls over in you guessed it, slow motion. There are also some cutsie scenes of what happens to interior body parts after bulletry, you know, punctured lungs, perforated and bubbly abdominal cavities, maggoty brain stems, you name it. WHO MAKES THIS SHIT? (see answer below). And a foul-mouthed female reporter keeps appearing higgledy-piggledy here and there? Why? Where did she come from and what is she doing in this movie?

The plot involves three or four brain-deads who decide to steal gold bullion ripped off by Sodom Hussein from the Kuwaitis and somehow twists and turns into the same three or four morons -- minus one who gets zipped and laced with the usual Uzi -- accompanying what may be Kurds (and whey?) to safety at some border or other. One of these idiots is captured by Sodom's troops and in his bunker prison manages to find a cache of cellular phones, one of which he uses to call his wife in Oklahoma City or Sioux Falls or somewhere so that she can call back to Iraq for the troops to rescue her clown husband.

This flic is made by no-cluers for strictly the nincompoopery booboisie, the inner-directionless mobile vulgus. If you are dumb enough to go to this turkey, and after the first explosion decide to go next door for something possibly worse, like Haunted House on a Hill, or somesuch dribble, leave your popcorn. It is certain to have some bits of Sam Pecker's paw in it.

 

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