Posted 4:36 PM by Dr. Daniel

Moulin Rouge. Okay, here's the deal. I've never been to Paris, France. I do not wish to offend any of our French friends and neighbors, but, quite honestly, outside the Eiffel Tower, there's really not anything there that captures my imagination. I know the Mona Lisa is about the size of a bulletin board, and the whole "smile" thing has never done it for me. If I were stuck in Paris for the day, I'd spend most of my time outside the Cathedral of Notre Dame asking people if they'd seen Lon Chaney, just to tick them off. The rest of the country looks beautiful, particularly around Montmartre, but Paris just ain't my style.
That being said, I wasn't particularly drawn to Moulin Rouge out of historical perspective. I was interested because I was, quite literally, both amazed and horrified by director Baz Luhrmann's version of Romeo and Juliet. I thought to myself, "Self, there's just no way this one is going to be the same way. Nope, not going to happen."

May I say for the record that, while I am an admitted egotist at times, I continue to flabbergast myself at my capability to underestimate the Hollywood mentality.

Nicole Kidman plays Satine, an "entertainer" at the Moulin Rouge, the number one nightspot in Paris in 1899. Into her life walks Christian (McGregor), a struggling writer who immediately falls under Satine's spell of amour. As it turns out, though, Satine is (get ready, you're gonna love this) dying of consumption, as well as being promised to another man (I told you so -- one curse is not enough.) The "other man" in this case is a wealthy duke, played by Richard Roxburgh. If Satine will be the Duke's "private dancer," so to speak, the Duke will pour a ton of francs into the Moulin Rouge, making it possible for the scandalous nightclub to reach a level of respectability. The manager of the Moulin Rouge (Jim Broadbent) has apparently tired of being the owner of the hottest nudie bar in town, and wants to be the owner of an "adult entertainment palace," as such places are now referred to in America. Remember when they used to be "strip joints?"

Now, before I start getting e-mail from the same folks that still send monthly hate-mail for my thoughts about Dirty Dancing, let me say this - this movie is nowhere near a disaster, as disasters go. I have sat through disasters before, and that horrible feeling of drowning didn't occur this time, like it has so many times before. But, folks, plain and simple here, there's only one question to be asked about Moulin Rouge. The question is this -- "What the hell was that?!?!?!"

Let's start with the obvious points first. Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor are cast in a musical, and neither of them are particularly known for their singing prowess. I can buy this piece, because I have seen everyone from Clark Gable to Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin cast in movie musicals. Believe it or not, Lee Marvin actually did a passable job singing in Paint Your Wagon. McGregor and Miss Nicole, though, should not have been pushed into singing. Neither of them are much past the "shower-stall virtuoso" stage of their voice talent. McGregor is a bit stronger than Kidman, but that's like saying one of the "Dawson Creek" kids has more depth than another. A puddle's still a puddle, no matter if it gets your shoelaces wet or just the soles...

Another screamingly maddening point: can someone please, for the love of all that is good and pure, please explain to me this sudden fascination with taking a subject from the past history of the world and dumping things from the twentieth, and even the twenty-first, century into the mix? Look, people, I am not a purist by any stretch of the soul. I know West Side Story is just Romeo and Juliet updated to New York in the 1950's. I know A Thousand Acres is a disguised version of King Lear. I enjoyed O Brother Where Art Thou, knowing full well it is a retelling of the Odyssey written by Homer some 2000 years or so, give or take a century. I accept that. I also accept that, every now and then, a little anachronism thrown into the mix of a period piece can be humorous. But, what started this summer with Brian Helgeland's A Knight's Tale has only grown into some virulent form of disease here. Do I honestly need The Police's "Roxanne" and Elton John's "Your Song" in a movie taking place in 1899? Do I need a profession of love from a man to a woman to be scripted by lacing a half-dozen dumb song titles together? Do I need Jim Broadbent, outstanding in Topsy-Turvy, condemned to be remembered for singing the most horrifying version of Madonna's Like a Virgin since, well, since she sang it in that gondola in Venice? Hellfire, why do you need John Leguizamo playing Toulouse-Lautrec in this movie? Why not grab Kurt Russell in his outfit from 2000 Miles to Graceland, and have him play Elvis playing Toulouse-Lautrec? It would have fit perfectly! Oh, and, while you're at it, why not let the guy that does all the emceeing in the Moulin Rouge be played by Casey Kasem?! "And, before you go, ladies and gentlemen, remember, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars...."

Point Number Three: Baz Luhrmann is quite possibly insane. I mean that in the nicest way possible, but Bazzie-boy, your combo plate is missing a taco. Not only do you install two admittedly beautiful non-singers into a musical, and not only do you pollute what's left over with your music choices, you just had to go berserk with the sensual overload, didn't you? Everything in this movie is positively soaked in alarmingly bright color. And I mean colors that do not exist in the normal world, friends. Colors you only see in the unused row of the 64-Crayola box are here, front and center. Unless, of course, they're buried under the 90 tons of glitter and confetti and sequins that virtually rain down in every scene. Here's a thought, Baz - think "muted' just once. Make a point in at least one scene by making it black and white. Make an emotional statement by having Miss Nikky's lips, just once, not be the color of Ronald McDonald's pompadour hair. Or, better yet, give us a break and let one scene be in "Miami Vice" pastels before our brains explode from sensory bombardment!

All this adds up to a fascinating phenomenon though. After about the third reference to the absolutely ridiculous fact that Satine is both dying and girltoy to somebody else, this film takes on the same quality as one of those television shows on Fox, the ones that show people getting mangled by animals and police chases that end up in wrecks. You find yourself fully mesmerized by the fact that none of this makes any sense, you could care less about anyone in this movie, but you cannot bring yourself to leave. The weight of your brain, swollen to capacity by explode-a-color, wretched singing and anachronistic pop tunes, will not allow you to walk out. And you're stuck like a jujube on a wet floor until the final credits run.

Diagnosis:
Folks, I say it again, I know I am setting myself up for a chorus of hate mail from every point of this globe, and, quite honestly, I don't care. I'm telling you point blank -- Moulin Rouge is like a two-hour acid trip, one where the radio is stuck on a light rock* station. I'm sure there are people out there raving about this film's "courageousness," "style" and "eye-popping" visuals. But, lemme tell you, if you have to catch your eyes during this movie, it's because they jumped out of your head trying to escape the pain.

* If it's truly rock, how can it be lite?