FILM REVIEW: BLOODWORTH

E. F. Bloodworth (Kris Kristofferson) in Bloodworth.

Sounds and furies

By Don Simpson

After a health scare, E.F. Bloodworth (Kris Kristofferson) returns to the family he abandoned 40 years ago. He left his rural Tennessee home — as well as his wife, Julia (Frances Conroy), and three sons — for a life of troubadouring and aimless wandering. The 40 years have been hard on everyone: Julia has withered to an emotionally and physically fragile skeleton; Warren (Val Kilmer) has evolved into an ego-maniacal womanizing alcoholic; Boyd (Dwight Yoakam) lives in a constant state of depression and anger after being ditched by his wife; and Brady (W. Earl Brown) relies on his bible and witchcraft to protect his mother.

Julia and her three sons share a common hatred and resentment for E.F., so when E.F. arrives in town he is promptly ushered by Brady to a disheveled old trailer home on a secluded corner of the family property. Brady attempts to keep E.F.’s reappearance a secret from his mother, which serves as punishment for E.F. and protection for Julia.

Fleming (Reece Thompson), Boyd’s only son and E.F.’s only grandchild, is the only Bloodworth who treats E.F. with respect and admiration. He has probably been told many horrible stories about his grandfather, but Fleming allows his grandfather to commence their relationship with a clean slate. In fact, Fleming seems to relate, physically and mentally, more to his grandfather than the rest of his kin. Not satisfied with the cards he has been dealt in life, Fleming is trying to find a responsible way to escape from his hometown and family — literature appears to be his best chance at success. Fate delivers Fleming into the arms of Raven (Hilary Duff), a beautiful and seductive young woman from a nearby town. Raven’s mother (Sheila Kelley) works from their home as a prostitute — Warren is one of her favorite clients — and she has raised Raven to follow in her footsteps. Like Fleming, Raven’s home life is oppressive at best, so it is only right and natural that Fleming and Raven will find a way to run away together.

Adapted from William Gay’s novel, Provinces of Night, Bloodworth is the story of an ardently literate (read: intellectual) teenager who yearns to escape his backwards back-country family and he wants to take his hussy girlfriend with him. (It is very interesting that Fleming is a high school dropout, yet an enlightened reader of literature.) 

Unfortunately, this is a story which is propagated by stereotypical white trash Southern characters (alcoholics, womanizers, prostitutes, bible-thumpers, musicians, weak women and controlling men) limping along as it relies on one age-old cliché after another. But it is this preponderance of stereotypes and clichés — as well as the timeless production design and Tim Orr’s lush cinematography — that helps Bloodworth play like a classic Southern Gothic tale of redemption.

Quite ably directed by Shane Dax Taylor (The Grey), Kristofferson is amazing as the Bloodworth family’s estranged patriarch and Duff lends her most emotionally realistic performance to date. In fact, the acting of this mostly seasoned ensemble cast is excellent all around. (Keep an eye out for Hank Williams III as Trigger Lipscomb.)

And then there is the music…Executive music producer T-Bone Burnett’s soundtrack is — as we have come to expect from Burnett — pretty damn amazing. Age has rendered Kristofferson’s vocals grizzled and foreboding, yet soothing and graceful all the same; his voice, like so many of his golden generation of singer-songwriters (Kevin Ayers, John Cale, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Neil Diamond), has aged beautifully like a fine wine. I think it is about time for Kristofferson (like Johnny Cash and Diamond) to collaborate with Rick Rubin or maybe Daniel Lanois.

DVD REVIEW: BRIAN ENO 1971-1977

The cover for Brian Eno 1971-1977: The Man Who Fell to Earth.

Brain One

By Don Simpson

Brian Eno 1971-1977: The Man Who Fell To Earth is, surprisingly enough, the first documentary film produced about, but not authorized or sanctioned by, Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno, otherwise known as Brian Eno, or simply just Eno. The documentary captures what are arguably the most important years of Eno’s fruitful career in 154 minutes. This would be 60 minutes too long for most music documentaries, but considering Eno’s countless seminal contributions to music as a musician, arranger, producer, innovator and theorist during those eight years, even 154 minutes seems all too brief of an overview. For better or worse, Eno is probably best known today for his production duties for U2 and Coldplay. The purpose of Brian Eno 1971-1977: The Man Who Fell To Earth is to school the uniformed on Eno’s golden years.

Eno studied at art school and considered himself to be a non-musician when he joined Roxy Music as their keyboards and synthesizers player in the early 1970s. As with everything else he touched from here on out, Eno’s unique influence, otherwise known as “treatments” or "Enossification," on Roxy Music’s first two albums -- Roxy Music (1972) and For Your Pleasure (1973) -- is undeniable.

After one too many clashes with Roxy Music frontman Brian Ferry, Eno began a solo career releasing four groundbreaking “vocal” albums (all of which would be “desert island” picks for me): Here Come the Warm Jets (1974), Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) (1974), Another Green World (1975) and Before and After Science (1977). Eno also began releasing instrumental albums, which eventually became his forte as a solo artist, such as Discreet Music (1975) and Ambient 1/Music for Airports (1978), thus laying the groundwork for ambient music.

Eno simultaneously began involving himself in many collaborative projects such as No Pussyfooting (1973) and Evening Star (1975) with Robert Fripp (King Crimson); The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (1974) with Genesis; End (1974) with Nico (Velvet Underground); Lady June's Linguistic Leprosy (1974) with Kevin Ayers (Soft Machine) and poet June Campbell Cramer; Diamond Head (1975) and Listen Now (1977) with Phil Manzanera (Roxy Music); Fear (1974), Slow Dazzle (1975) and Helen of Troy (1975) with John Cale (Velvet Underground); Cluster & Eno (1977) with Cluster; and Low (1977) and "Heroes" (1977) with David Bowie. Also by the close of 1977, Eno had produced Ultravox’s Ultravox!, Talking Heads’ More Songs About Buildings and Food and Devo’s debut Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!.

And that is -- literally -- only about half of what Eno did between 1971 and 1977. Brian Eno 1971-1977: The Man Who Fell To Earth touches upon even more Eno-related projects than I just did, dedicating a few minutes to each release and spending a bit more time on the major milestones in Eno’s career. Archive footage of live performances and studio recording sessions is interspersed amongst interviews with music journalists, colleagues, collaborators and friends; and of course there is a healthy dose of Eno’s music (most of which is matched with visual accompaniment).

Eno is debatably one of the most influential individuals to have ever worked in the music industry. As one of the more innovative musicians and producers in the history of rock music, no matter what role Eno plays during the recording of a song, he approaches the studio as a painter approaches a blank canvas. His specialty is adding more dimensions to the music, highlighting aspects of the song structure to make it stand out more, while morphing other aspects in order to blur them into the background. Everything Eno has touched during his 40+ year career has been gold to my ears.  

Now available on DVD, Brian Eno 1971-1977: The Man Who Fell To Earth suitably represents Eno’s genius, though I would argue that his golden years continued through the 1981 release of his collaboration with David Byrne, My Life in the Bush of Ghosts.

FILM REVIEW: PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN IV

Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) in Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides.

Slow ride

By Allan Heifetz

Truth be told, I’m not a fan of the first three installments of Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. They always left me wanting less -- less characters, less CGI spectacle and less of a convoluted and confusing story. These movies, inspired by an amusement park ride, bludgeon you over the head with swashbuckling until you just want to close your eyes and experience something close to nothingness.

At any rate, I was sort of looking forward to Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, which comes four years after the third and most hated chapter, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End. This time there is no Orlando Bloom (Will) or Kiera Knightley (Elizabeth) mucking up the works; Johnny Depp’s “delightful” Captain Jack Sparrow is now front and center and ready to give us a good time.

After pulling off the daring rescue of his pal, Gibbs (Kevin McNally), from a London jail, Jack runs into Angelica (Penelope Cruz), an old flame turned adventurer who happens to be the daughter of the infamous Blackbeard (Ian McShane). Against his will, Jack ends up on Blackbeard’s ship and is forced to guide the scary captain and his daughter to the fabled Fountain of Youth. At the same time, Jack's old rival, Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush), is sailing to the fountain as well, having snagged the job of captain on a royal expedition to plunder the fountain’s powers. Oh yeah, the Spaniards have a ship in the race, too (just one of many story elements that could have been easily ripped out of the movie). On their way Blackbeard and crew must find some ancient chalices and snag a mermaid’s tear to help them activate the fountain.

What I like most about the Pirates of the Caribbean movies is the makeup; a real sense of griminess and decrepitude permeates every scene. Everyone has horribly decaying teeth and is covered in soot. I could barely pay attention to the story for imagining just how ungodly these characters must smell. No toothbrushes? No showers? No vitamin C? Dear lord, can’t we just kill them all and let god brush their teeth? Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides coasts along on sheer spectacle for a good long while before that inevitable fatigue hits us. In the meantime there are some great set pieces, breathtaking crane shots of awesome looking ships and a pretty cool scene in which Jack's crew falls victim to a school of seductive and super vicious killer mermaids.

Running for a total of 136 minutes, Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides makes us wait two hours to get to the Fountain of Youth only to do absolutely nothing with the idea of a mythical magical fountain. Nobody ages rapidly and disintegrates in front of your eyes; nobody drinks too much from the fountain and turns into a baby or anything. Imagine if, at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), Dr. René Belloq (Paul Freeman) opens the ark to find nothing but sand and then…that’s it. No screaming ghosts and no melting faces. That’s sort of what the finale of Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides is like.

Depp’s charm is palpable in Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides, but after two hours of Jack cracking wise, messing shit up and acting like a goof you sort of want him to stop the shenanigans, get angry and be a real hero. I prefer an action hero like an Indiana Jones who is serious, troubled, super-focused and will crack a joke only when cornered. Jack is too silly and unreliable to really get behind. All he does is stumble into tedious sword fights and swing on things. I hate to say it, but isn’t sword fighting in general fairly dull to watch? It’s especially dull in Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides since the film’s violence is completely sterilized and bloodless. After any given large scale sword fight you’re never sure whether everyone was killed or nobody was killed. Since nothing is at stake, you are never fully involved in the action. You know what Indy does to swordsmen? ‘Nuff said.

Cruz’s Angelica has all the gravitas of lovely Spanish wallpaper. She made me pine for the enchanting and smashed-in face of Knightley. Cruz was super shrill, annoying and hard to understand in Blow (2001) -- the first film she appeared in with Depp and in Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides -- and she continues from there. Clearly Jack and Angelica are supposed to have Indy/Marion Ravenwood (Harrison Ford/Karen Allen) like chemistry, but Pirates of the Caribbean: Stranger Tides has no classic reunion scene like the one in Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indy walks into Marion’s Tibetan tavern after all those years only to get punched in the jaw. Jack and Angelica run into each other, spew a lot of awkward exposition about their past and continue to bitch back and forth until the end. We don’t care about their love. McShane’s Blackbeard is quite frightening at first, but over the course of this endless movie he loses his presence. It would have helped if we knew why he had supernatural powers and if we got to see a bit of his back story.

Of course Keith Richards pops in for a meaningless cameo as Jack‘s pirate dad. What a horrible relationship this father and son have. Senior surprises Junior. Junior says “Hi, Dad.” Senior gives Junior some quick warnings in a pub and then vanishes into thin air when Junior isn’t looking. Wouldn’t a hug have been better?

Directed by Rob Marshall (Chicago; Nine), and credited to nine different writers, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides doesn’t really improve on the previous films and, unless the next one gets an R rating, costs two million to make and is directed by Neill Blomkamp (District 9), I don’t have much hope for the franchise.

Oh, and of course the 3D glasses made everything a little darker and therefore had me wishing I could watch it in 2D. Idea: why not boost the brightness on the entire film one stop so the glasses will make the picture normal? Genius.

DVD REVIEW: BEETLE QUEEN CONQUERS TOKYO

A scene from Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo.

Bugging themselves

By Don Simpson

What sounds like a title for a Japanese monster movie (Godzilla’s toughest match yet...Beetle Queen! Conquers! Tokyo!!!) is actually an artsy audio/video essay about the Japanese obsession with insects. Writer-director Jessica Oreck’s film is way too meditative and meandering to be considered a documentary, yet not experimental enough to be considered -- well -- experimental.

Even Oreck’s motive is somewhat oblique. Maybe Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo is meant to be a video poem and sound collage about the philosophical obsession of Japanese to make small scale replicas of the world around them for telescopic contemplation (haiku poetry, bonsai trees, Zen gardens, insect aquariums, etc.); or possibly Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo is meant to draw visual similarities between the cultural and societal traditions of the Japanese and those of the insects they admire so fervently; then again, Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo could be read as a fairly broad statement about the commodification of bugs for profit.

I suspect that Beetle Queen Conquers Tokyo is purposely indirect in its intent in order to allow the viewer to come to their own conclusions. For example, someone interested in humankind’s relationship with nature might walk away from this film pondering the impact this obsession has on the natural population of the insects in Japan. This person might ask: Does this truly represent the Buddhist notion of having a harmonious relationship with nature? (Personally, I suspect that the insects would possess more harmony if they were not held captive by humans in small plastic boxes.) It seems fairly selfish to assume that the bugs are happy. Then again, I have two indoor domesticated cats -- and, yes, there are certain species of stinging and venomous bugs (and roaches) that I do not have any qualms about squashing -- so who am I to cast judgment?

Upon sight of most of the creepy crawlies featured in Oreck’s film, most of the Western world would scream “exterminate!” faster than a Dalek at the site of Dr. Who, but the Japanese purchase insects (and related supplies) -- the stranger and scarier the better -- at pet stores, insect collector conventions, roadside stands and even vending machines. The prices are so outrageous that some insect hunters earn enough income by merely shaking beetles from trees to purchase a Ferrari.

In an odd sort of way, Oreck (a docent at New York's American Museum of Natural History) collects Japanese bug collectors as if they are the specimens, capturing them with Sean Price Williams’ gorgeous videography and trapping them within the confines of the silver screen for audiences to marvel. Oreck’s film does not appear to be condescending or patronizing towards its subjects; her motives actually seem quite innocent and sincere -- similar to that of the bug collectors -- as if she merely means to encapsulate a much larger world in a 90-minute video for viewers to ponder and reflect upon.

FILM REVIEW: THE PEOPLE VS. GEORGE LUCAS

A George Lucas in The People vs. George Lucas.

Yes, Sir, may I have another?

By Don Simpson

Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope is one of the first movies I remember seeing in a movie theater. I was five-years-old at the time. I instantly became my parents’ worst nightmare: a  desperate addict in dire need of everything and anything related to Star Wars. There were millions of others like me, young children brainwashed into a zombie-like state of mass consumerism that was impossible for most parents to combat (that is without lopping our heads off). With our Star Wars action figures, we immersed ourselves into daydreams of the Star Wars universe, building upon the foundation George Lucas laid out for us, developing brand new scenarios, ideas that (as it turns out) Lucas himself could never match in his wildest dreams.

If only Lucas could tap into the collective consciousness of his fan base, the franchise may have taken another path. There is no debating -- amongst fans, at least -- the legitimacy of Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back; so it was not until Star Wars: Episode VI - Return of the Jedi that fans of Lucas’ franchise first had to deal with disappointment.

That disappointment then boiled into disdain in 1997, when Lucas released new versions of A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi. Not only did Lucas tinker with the special effects and editing, but he also added new material (including a universally detested new scene in A New Hope in which Han Solo’s altercation with the bounty hunter Greedo plays out much differently). Lucas the almighty “Creator” declared the new versions of episodes IV - VI to be not just the definitive ones, but the only surviving ones -- therefore the version of A New Hope that was inducted into the National Film Archive no longer exists?! 

(Note: In the mid-1980′s, Lucas led a campaign fighting against Ted Turner’s attempt to colorize the black and white films that Turner owned. These films were not originally created by Turner, which would probably be how Lucas would justify how this is not contradictory to his own actions.)

The backlash against Lucas only became increasingly tumultuous with the long-awaited release of the prequel episodes I - III. Many Star Wars fans protested against the inclusion of an all-too-comedic -- and depending on who you ask, racist -- character, Jar Jar Binks; while most felt as though the patronizing and childish tone of the prequel trilogy was contrary to episodes IV - VI. Nonetheless, Star Wars fans returned to the cinemas time and time again to watch these horrendous films. Why? Did they hope to glimpse a fleeting moment of Lucas’ genius that they missed during their first 10 viewings? Or were they just addicted to Star Wars?

Time and time again, Lucas did not listen to his all-too-loyal fan base but, then again, why should he? Interviewees in Alexandre O. Philippe’s documentary draw comparisons between Star Wars fans and heroin junkies or victims of domestic abuse. The backlash never seems to last as the addicted fans keep coming back for more frustration and disappointment. Even now, if Lucas released an episode VII, I guarantee that fans would still turn out in record numbers to repeatedly watch the next train wreck of a film. Yes, I can also guarantee that it would be a train wreck.

The People vs. George Lucas poses the question: Who owns a piece of art? The creator or fans of that art? A more interesting question, in my opinion, would be: Why do so many people still like the Star Wars franchise? (Lucas’ pompous attitude notwithstanding.) Even the two Star Wars films that are repeatedly placed on a pedestal above all others -- A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back -- are not great films. However, the first trilogy was masterfully crafted to appeal to a specific age demographic for whom Hollywood was not traditionally producing films. Kids do not care about the art of the cinema; they just want to be entertained, and Lucas grasped that. It also turns out that kids can fester into quite the rabid fan base (the Toy Story and Shrek franchises preyed on the same demographic), but who could have ever anticipated that this fan base would remain loyal to Star Wars three decades later? The Star Wars films (and the clever marketing strategies) spoke to the kids of the 1970s and 1980s, and despite being embarrassingly cheesy and not well-written, they still fostered a creativity in youth that has been unmatched ever since.

THEATER REVIEW: THE CHINESE MASSACRE

 

Forget it is fake Chinatown 

By Ed Rampell 

If Karl Marx wrote: “the history of all hitherto existing societies is the history of class struggle,” one can add that American history is also the history of ethnic struggle. In The Chinese Massacre (Annotated) playwright Tom Jacobson takes a Howard Zinn-like “people’s history” look at Los Angeles, revealing a little known, yet significant, event in L.A. history. Long before the 20^th century’s Zoot Suit, Watts and L.A. riots there was a pogrom against L.A.’s then-200 inhabitants of Chinese ancestry in 1871.

There are few – if any -- more important, serious subjects than ethnic cleansing and genocide. Jacobson and Circle X Theatre Co. are to be commended for reminding us of this butchery and burning 140 years ago by dramatizing this stain – or rather, bloodstain – on L.A.’s record and reputation, rescuing the Chinese massacre from our collective amnesia. The killing of 18 Chinese men -- almost 10 percent of Chinatown’s population -- surpassed the number of victims of the Manson tribe yet is as forgotten as Squeaky and Charlie remain remembered.

It’s unfortunate that The Chinese Massacre’s bard undercuts not only the seriousness of his content but its power and cohesive flow with a self-reflective, self-indulgent form that repeatedly disrupts and distracts from what otherwise would be compelling storytelling. So-called “Annotators,” such as Lisa Tharps as ex-slave turned community leader Biddy Mason, frequently interrupt the drama, interjecting “footnotes,” commentary and the like. This, the aud is told, is done in the mode of Bertolt Brecht’s “Epic Theatre,” so as to “alienate” viewers from sentimental emotionalism in order to jog them into thinking about what is, after all, merely a staged performance, and what it all means. Get the point?

Brecht was generally content with just doing it (that is, building his Epic techniques into the body of his plays), but that isn’t good enough for Mr. Jacobson, who, we are told, has written more than 50 plays (although we’re also told that he has a day job), including House of the Rising Son, playing right next door on the Atwater Village Theatre’s other stage. To further compound matters, Annotators reveal that the fact-based drama is fictionalized, that dialogue is derived from sources outside the domain of the action and the like. For example, the central character, Lee Tong (West Liang), is fictionalized. This all reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock’s dictum that flashbacks must never lie about plots, or of a storyteller who keeps interrupting his/her own tale by saying,“But I digress” – and then persisting in doing so.

Although The Chinese Massacre does make reference to subsequent racial clashes between Angelenos, these end in the early 1990s. Looking back at the early, troubled history of Chinese immigrants 140 years ago in L.A., what are we to make of the impact of today’s large Asian-American and Asian population in Los Angeles County? It may not be politically correct to say so, and I don’t mean this as a values statement but simply as a matter of fact: parts of places such as Monterey Park seem more as if one is in Asia than America. The melding and conflict between people of Asian ancestry and those of other ethnic backgrounds continues today, and The Chinese Massacre provides some needed cultural context. Perhaps the best place to end the play could be with that UCLA white female student’s YouTube rant about Asian pupils in the library. Racism, alas, remains with and among us.   

In spite of The Chinese Massacre’s self-referring, tautological technique, viewers who enjoy their drama brewed strong and dramatizations of history will likely appreciate the annals of this not so La-La-Land.

The Chinese Massacre runs through May 28 at Atwater Village Theatre, 3269 Casitas Ave., Atwater Village. For more information: 323/644-1929; www.circlextheatre.org.

FILM REVIEW: TRUE LEGEND

Yuan Lie (Andy On) in True Legend.

Intoxicated avenger

By John Esther

What an ungrateful lout. Five years after his stepbrother, General Su (Vincent Zhao) offers the promotion he was originally offered, Yuan Lie (Andy On) comes home to wipeout the family because, hey, it is one of those kung fu "your master (father) killed my master (father)" sort of things. 

Once upon a time Su's superior martial arts skills could have stopped Yuan, but Yuan's Five Venom Fists technique, plus body-stitched armor, are now too powerful for Su. After defeating Su, beating him within an inch of his life, Yuan throws Su into a great body of water whereupon Su's wife and Yuan's sister, Ying (Zhou Xun), jumps in after him, leaving their son behind with his poisonous uncle.

As the years go by, both Yuan and Su train hard at further mastering his martial arts style. Su drinks jugs of Ying's wine while Yuan sticks his fists in a bowl of scorpions. (Impressive, both would be very good pub tricks). When the time comes you can wager the two will do some serious battling; but in a world of an eye for an eye someone must die.

Eventually widowed and homeless, Su drinks himself onto the precipice of self-destruction only to discover that alcohol inebriation which does not kill you only makes a much better fighter. (I just bet the wives down at the local battered women's shelter will find comfort knowing that.)

From the opening credits to its predictable conclusion it becomes clear that True Legend lays its intelligence at the level of a superhero comic strip (or saloon delirium). Time and motion pass by as quick as character outlines are developed. The impressive production design by Huo Tingxiao provides a magical realist, wasted world where gravity, endurance, space and motion recognize fewer limits. Those are some powerful shots.

This creates for quite a few elaborate fight scenes with wildly uneven results. Directed by renowned martial arts action director Yuen Woo Ping (Hero; Kill Bill; The Matrix trilogy), there are some incredibly entertaining combat scenes (mortal, blades, sticks and all), yet for every praiseworthy action scene there is another one as annoying as a teenage jock shit-faced for the first time.

The most sobering non-fighting aspect of True Legend is the incessant emphasis on family ties when it is those very ties that pull the family apart. Yuan, then Su, are so intoxicated with revenge against father, then brother, respectively, that they try to cure the family as a whole by killing of its parts. They should have just thrown a party.

True Legend also hosts martial arts legends David Carradine, who plays a Sinophobic businessman; Michelle Yeoh, as a benevolent doctor; and Jay Chou, as the God of Wushu. While Chou's role is mostly silly and Yeoh's is a throwaway here (she does not fight), the late Carradine's performance, one of his last, is embarrassingly poor. (Are you sure you want to dedicate the film to Carradine's memory?)

Along those lines, On gives a good performance while, I imagine, his strikingly gothic good looks will seduce some audiences members into rooting for this snake to emerge victorious.

Unevenly entertaining, occasionally extremely violent and utterly predictable, True Legend amounts to little more than another martial arts fairytale, full of fists of fury, signifying little else than advocating the consumption of mass quantities of booze in order to improve one's fighting abilities -- which is a lesson we can all carry to our neighborhood drinking establishment.