Holding out for a hero

Ben Affleck? Matt Damon? Johnny Depp? Those guys aren't action stars -- they're pussies! Next up: Moby does Dirty Harry and James Bond goes gay.

By Ian Rothkerch

June 11, 2002 | Never mind those whooshing sounds you hear. They're just the sighs greeting another summer movie season fraught with rancid remakes ("Mr. Deeds"), sorry sequels ("Halloween: Resurrection"), tawdry teen comedies ("The New Guy") and the obligatory Freddie Prinze Jr. flopperoo ("Scooby-Doo"). Even the presence of literate, prestige pictures like Sam Mendes' "Road to Perdition" and Christopher Nolan's "Insomnia" redo isn't enough to redeem 2002's stale slate of studio-driven muck.

The only distinguishable thing about this summer's "event" releases is their utter inertness -- particularly those in the action department ("The Sum of All Fears," "The Bourne Identity," "Reign of Fire"). The problem is that not one of them has a real action star. Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, two of the bigger names to appear in this season's blockbusters, just don't measure up.

Summer '02 marks a mournful turning point in Hollywood. Where once stalwart, middle-aged movie icons like Harrison Ford and Mel Gibson firmly ruled the action roost, they're now being phased out by a younger breed of screen heroes with twice the leg power -- and half the charisma. These days, Ford and Gibson find themselves relegated to bloodless roles in spectacle-free vehicles like "K-19: The Widowmaker" (a waterlogged submarine opus) and "Signs" (another pretentious paranormal thriller via M. Night Shamaylan) -- two films that almost make you forget about the bygone days of "Indiana Jones" and "Mad Max." And, in yet another unholy Hollywood alliance, the decidedly unheroic Johnny Depp just inked a two-picture deal with inveterate action whore Jerry Bruckheimer, effectively squandering the indie cred he earned on personal films like "Dead Man" and "What's Eating Gilbert Grape." What truly makes this overthrow of yesteryear's leading men so intolerable is that the actors leading the revolution possess none of the gravitas or virility of their predecessors. They're emasculated by comparison.

In probably the most heretical bit of miscasting since stiff George Clooney filled Batman's oversize codpiece, Paramount Pictures picked Ben Affleck to replace Ford as beleaguered CIA op Jack Ryan in "The Sum of All Fears," the latest techno-thriller from Tom Clancy. In the trailers, Affleck delivers his lines with the same phlegmatic, phoned-in nonchalance that characterizes most of his performances. My guess is that here he'll seem even more vanilla than usual since he's paired opposite a class act like Morgan Freeman.

Then there's Affleck's bosom buddy/screenwriting enabler, Matt Damon, who's toplining a spy thriller based on a novel by Robert Ludlum -- one pulled out of the TV vaults, where it featured Richard Chamberlain. While casting against type paid off for "Spiderman's" Tobey Maguire, I find it hard to believe that audiences will buy a diminutive slice of milquetoast like Damon as a studly, world-class assassin.

Sure, there's Vin Diesel, the pectorally protuberant star of the upcoming "XXX" (his mind-numbing follow-up to the equally mind-numbing "The Fast and the Furious"). But guys like Diesel and meatheads like the Rock are always going to be around. The problem is that the real action stars have all turned into sissies. Proof? Here are just a few films on the horizon guaranteed to make you steer clear of the multiplex:

"Superman Rocks"

Following the highly publicized defections of Nicolas Cage and Tim Burton, Warner Bros.' oft-delayed plan to restart their dormant Superman franchise is finally taking flight. In a desperate bid to pander to a younger demographic (i.e., indiscriminate teenagers with disposable incomes), W.B. muckety-mucks signed America's favorite nebbish, Jason Biggs, to don the Man of Steel's cape. This casting faux pas ignited such a storm of controversy among die-hard fanboys, a radical sect calling itself "S.O.S." ("Save Our Superman") even threatened to kidnap Biggs unless his part was recast with an actor whose claim to fame isn't having fucked a pie.

Not content to ruin one iconic comic character, hack director McG ("Charlie's Angels," those cheesy Sugar Ray videos) decided to round out the cast with fellow "American Pie" alums Tara Reid and Eugene "Mr. Overexposed" Levy (as Lois Lane and Lex Luthor, respectively). When asked why he put sandpaper-voiced ditz-pot Reid in the role of a hardened newspaper journalist, McG reportedly asked, "Did you see the ass on that girl?"

At press time, the producers of "Superman Rocks" find themselves locked in a fierce battle with the MPAA, which has branded the pic with a kid-spurning R rating. The bone of contention is a risqué scene in which Superman pops "a supersized stiffy" (as one character refers to it) while rescuing a buxom cheerleader from a falling goalpost. Also on the editing block are various and sundry gross-out references to "super splooge" and "Kryptonian carpet-munching."

"Dirty Harry: The Turntable Murders"

Given the indefinite retirement of big-screen badasses like John McClane and Martin Riggs, the "renegade cop" genre has gradually gone the way of Mariah Carey's acting career. Observing this void in the marketplace, Warner Bros. has set in motion plans to resurrect the granddaddy of rogue detectives, "Dirty" Harry Callahan.

After an exhaustive search to find someone who could do justice to Clint Eastwood's creation, the studio went outside the box and ultimately settled on omnipresent electronica pusher Moby. Bowing to pressure from gun-control groups and anti-violence advocates, studio boss Alan Horn promises "a more humane and tolerant Dirty Harry designed for these sensitive times in which we live."

At the behest of Moby, the screenplay underwent a complete overhaul, transforming Callahan from a Magnum-toting carnivore to a pacifistic vegetarian (not unlike Mr. Moby himself). "Vigilantism is so passé," opined the chrome-domed musician at a recent press conference. "We're gonna bring this prehistoric character into the new age, replete with a PETA card, an acceptance of minorities, a sunny disposition and a newfound appreciation for break beats."

Although much of the plot remains cloaked in secrecy, we hear that the central story line revolves around a fanatical Motörhead groupie who is systematically bumping off San Francisco's top nightclub DJs. "The filmmakers may consider that a crime ... I consider it a public service," said the jazz-loving Mr. Eastwood, who has since issued an injunction against W.B. to halt production on this cinematic travesty.

Next page: 007 explores his feminine side