![]() so yes amidst the carnage Perlman and wife share some tender and distraught words, she wishes to see her son before she dies, and without even really looking he takes a nasty looking knife and performs the fastest C-section known to mankind, and voila. apparently Conan is "battle born", in other words his father Ron Perlman is surrounded by countless merciless foes, of which he takes down a couple while screaming, and then he tends to his pregnant wife, akin to a scene from the recent Cowboys & Aliens, we are taught that during Hollywood battles you are allowed respite from the enemy if you enter an emotional two shot close up with a loved or cherished one, no one will dare attack you, it simply wouldn't be fair. from the very first scene, you are basically told this movie is going to be over the top in a bad and very lazy way. but it's good to know Momoa is in line to join these guys. but I still feel Johnson has a lot of untapped potential to be one of the real action stars of the decade along with Diesel and Statham. I liked Momoa from Game of Thrones, he had the perfect physical quality to portray a warrior, and despite being a character of few words he really sold it for me, and as a result I really could see how he was ideal casting for Conan, he's a more rugged Dwayne Johnson. an R-Rated warrior action film with slight elements of the supernatural that was more about entertainment value than high art, suffice it to say, suffice is probably too complicated a word for the audience this remake is aimed at. but I still knew the general idea of what to expect before going into this reboot. Perhaps the noble Conan will someday get his proper due in a modern film. Hopefully, as many heads as roll on screen will also roll in Hollywood for this abortive, dreadful garbage. Its hyperbolic Hyborian cartoonishness makes you either wince or chuckle derisively. I bestowed two stars on this flick, as the second is for unintentional hilarity, of which the film has much. Video games often have more character development than this film, and yes, I'm specifically thinking of the comparatively Shakespearean struggles portrayed in Donkey Kong. The filmmakers are so afraid that if some big action sequence doesn't occur every ten minutes, that we'll be bored and of course, this quickly has the opposite effect, as we instead become bored from so much pointless, poorly shot and edited action unsupported by character or story. Weep! I'm totally sick of the short-attention-span style of storytelling. ![]() Ron Perlman, as Conan's father, is simply wasted. And post plastic-surgery Rose McGowan as his witchy daughter Marique is so outrageously goth that you half-wish for a Sisters of Mercy musical cue every time she steps on camera if only her performance received the same attention as her over-the-top costumes. Stephen Lang (Colonel Quaritch of "Avatar") is the half-assed villain Khalar Zym, who inspires zero awe and no respect on his whatever quest for some supernatural thingy, which is such an afterthought that you constantly forget about it. The noted line "I live, I love, I slay, and I am content," is meted out with such lack of panache or feeling that I wanted to wash out Jason Momoa's mouth with soap, right after forcing him to watch Schwarzenegger - not a great actor, by any means - deliver the unforgettable tagline: "To crush your enemies, drive them before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women." But then again, John Milius bothered to direct his actors. The script inconsistently sticks to any epic poetic flair in the dialog, so that when such words are delivered, they feel forced and flat. Howard's stories is a smart, tough, brutal survivor - and instead seems to reveal to us the underwhelming idea that Conan's just another hunky sword dude with a knack for slaughter. The story fails to find the real Conan - who in Robert E. ![]() This ham-handed disregard for appropriate tone haunts every frame of the film. One of its most jarring aspects is that it begins with Morgan Freeman's narration, which sounds so utterly out of place, with his comforting, slightly Southern drawl the total opposite of everything bloody and Cimmerian, that it instantly comes across like self-parody, as if we were seeing some schticky Mel Brooks interpretation after the fact. Remarkably, the movie gets bad immediately and stays that way. Director Marcus Nispel is undoubtedly the long-lost offspring of trash master and fellow German, Uwe Boll, as this film is so profoundly awful on every level that it's hard to think that it wasn't intentionally made this way.
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