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In The Fifth Element, the all-knowing, all-powerful Supreme Being of the Universe turns out to be Leeloo (Milla Jovovich), an orange-haired babe in a skimpy, Band-Aid-thin mod outfit who speaks in a kind of Slavic scat and cries a lot. It's as if the filmmakers started out to make a feminist science-fiction statement and then went, Na-a-a-ah!
Luc Besson, the co-writer and director, has been quoted in Premiere magazine as saying that there are two people inside of him: "There's Besson, the director, the man, and then there's Besson, the moviegoer, the kid." Actually, there are a whole lot more than Besson the director and Besson the kid in his kangaroo pouch. Judging from The Fifth Element, Besson is also lugging around Fritz Lang from Metropolis, Ridley Scott from Blade Runner and Alien, John Boorman from Zardoz, Paul Verhoeven from Total Recall, George Lucas from the Star Wars trilogy, Terry Gilliam from Brazil and 12 Monkeys, John McTiernan from Die Hard, the auteurs from the Star Trek films and . . . well, I stopped making notes an hour into the movie.
It's not that The Fifth Element is derivative--so are most science-fantasy movies, even the best. In fact, in this genre, connoisseurship is a specialty of the house; for true believers, spotting all the steals and arcana is part of the fun. But The Fifth Element, which stars Bruce Willis, doesn't really work up its derivations into any kind of style; it doesn't build into something radically new.
This might not be so terrible, either, except that Besson seems to think he's creating new archetypes. He's standing atop his heap of junkyard bits and striking the visionary pose. Maybe Luc should be calling himself Lucas--or Leeloo. He may even have lucked out: Because of the tremendous success of the Star Wars revivals, young audiences may end up turned on by his frequent lifts from Lucasland.
Set in the year 2259, The Fifth Element is about what happens when--as it apparently is wont to do every 3,000 years--"a door opens between dimensions" and the forces of darkness attempt to eradicate the good. Mostly, Besson's vision lacks the wit and the awe that can come from concocting a truly imagined future. Maybe that's because in order to imagine the future, it's helpful to have some sense of the present.
And Besson, the French whiz-bang who gave us The Big Blue, La Femme Nikita and The Professional, seems to exist in a movieland continuum in which past, present and future co-exist in a perpetual Nowheresville. (I recall a press screening of his Subway in which the projectionist inadvertently skipped a reel, and no one suspected a thing.) With Besson it's all eye candy; despite all of his mythic posturing, his loop-the-loop camera moves and in-your-face fandangos are the true substance of his films. And that's not much substance. He's a dry-hump orgiast.
When a director is concerned only with plotting his visual pirouettes, it's all too easy for him to lose track of what the story is supposed to be about. In The Professional, for instance, a movie that was ostensibly about a hit man and the underage girl he protects mutated into something far more leering and sleazy. Besson--carried away by Natalie Portman's dewiness?--photographed her with a caress that seemed more like a grope. (The film didn't do too well in America, but--mon dieu!--it's one of the most successful films ever in France.)
That same gliding amorality turns up in The Fifth Element, where Besson displays blacks as hulking oafs and morphed monsters and mincing queens. Our leader, the president of the Federated Territories, is played by Tiny Lister Jr. as a thuggish, slow-witted overlord. It's as if the film were saying, Look what you get when you put a black man in charge. Then there's Chris Tucker's motor-mouth DJ Ruby Rhod, who sashays through all the furious futurism like a renegade from The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, but--just in case we got the wrong idea--also services a woman. ("Service" is the right word: He looks to be about as happy as a piston.) As if this weren't bad enough, the baddies who pass into our galaxy hoping to destroy Earth (they're called Mangalores) are pig-snouted, dog-faced Jabba the Hutt clones who, for the most part, reshape themselves into blacks.
I don't think Besson is being consciously racist here. It's just that he's such a sucker for eye candy that he probably sees blacks in this sci-fi context as more "exotic" than whites, more animal. And, in a way, he's right--at least compared to the likes of Bruce Willis, who plays Korben Dallas, a war hero turned down-on-his-luck New York air-cab driver; or Ian Holm as Father Cornelius, an Obi-wan Kenobi type who possesses the ancient secret that can repel the invaders. Even Jovovich, with her blank allure, doesn't really hold the camera. She holds it the way a cover girl does--one look and you've got it.
The one big exception for the white team is Gary Oldman's Zorg, playing an agent for the outer-space baddies. Oldman has half his pate shaved and covered in plastic; the other half has a thick shock of hair draped across his forehead Hitler-style. Oldman is the film's one true camp element, and it's almost refreshing having his nuttiness around. Oldman can be so far over the top that he comes out the other side.
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