The good news is that there are relatively few movies in the world that are tiresome and aggravating from the moment we press "play." The bad news is that this is one of them. I suppose the names of the title characters, and the overcharged, inflated, superficial masculinity associated with those names, should have been a big clue to how astonishingly overcooked and vapid this flick is, but maybe this is an instance where the generosity of spirit and willingness to give films a chance no matter their reputation - qualities borne of watching a vast number and variety of cinema - are unhelpful for the well-meaning viewer. No sooner has 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man' begun and it already becomes almost unwatchable, and to continue watching requires a hard-boiled sense of masochistic commitment. Please take the advice of someone who was willing to give this a chance and deeply regrets it: this is rubbish, and you should not waste one minute of your time with it.
The first taste we get of the soundtrack that was assembled for this is a use of Bon Jovi's "Wanted dead or alive,' over the opening credits, that rivals Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,' as heard in Michael Mann's 'Manhunter,' for the most kitschy use of a popular song in a picture. While that's (probably) the worst example, both the other popular songs to appear, and the score of composer extraordinaire Basil Poledouris (I don't know how you got roped into this but I am so sorry), continue to be employed in an almost farcically pompous, false manner. The dialogue is mostly just atrocious, with the scene writing not far behind - puffed-up, conceited, and trashy, like a boy who's 50 going on 12, who hasn't left a 25-mile radius in his whole adult life, and who thinks Michael Bay is too high-brow, decided he had all the answers of how to make a better feature. I don't know who Don Michael Paul paid off to get his screenplay produced, but I'm stunned by how terrible the results are. Much of Simon Wincer's direction is hardly any better, for given some of the actors appearing here, and what they have achieved elsewhere, I assume the filmmaker can be faulted for how awful some of the acting is, and how desperately ostentatious some scenes are as they present. (That is, "desperately" as in "hoping against hope that someone will think this is cool," and "ostentatious" as in "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.")
Oh sure, there are some (only some) workable story ideas on hand (even if we can get them elsewhere). Generally speaking the stunts and action sequences come off well. I do appreciate the work put into facets like the art direction, costume design, hair, and makeup, and David Eggby's cinematography, even if the ends to which these contributions were guided are sometimes gauche. Yet to borrow from the byline of the New York Times' review of 'Avengers: Age of Ultron,' four little words that turned out to be the best part of that flick: None of this matters. Women are treated as nothing more than playthings for men to toy with, go slack-jawed over from a distance, get jealous over, and dispose of, but not treat with respect or as actual people; with this firmly in mind, the camera's occasional obsession with women's bodies is nothing more than irritating. We get guns, trucks, bikes, machines, big egos and bigger talk, more guns, sexy women, big action, more bikes, and the eventual triumph of two Perfectly Normal Guys against the amoral vices and criminality of Big City Corporate Power And Criminal Activity. And all this is wholly intentional, because wherever it is one wishes to lay the culpability for this sludge, 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man' is a title built for a singular audience. To wit:
This is a title for the person who thinks John Wayne was Capital G God's gift to Capital M Mankind, the supreme embodiment of acting ability and machismo, and that Wayne's machismo was what masculinity is cosmically intended to be. This is a title for the person who thinks Chuck Norris is Jesus Christ's right-hand man, possibly rivaled only by Kevin Sorbo, and that Bruce Lee was too feminine. This is a title for the person who thinks Spike TV was the peak of the television medium, and that in a world where Johnny Cash wasn't country enough, country music was what Mozart should have been composing instead of symphonies. 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man' is rotten, simple-minded, Movie Magic pablum that's geared for so-called adult men instead of the preteen children for whom such unsophisticated construction is usually reserved; the type of fare that's meant to appeal to the most base instinctual, emotional needs of that part of the male brain that hasn't changed since the days when Neanderthals walked the Earth; the sort of romp that should by all reason theoretically be either a wry, clever classic or just an outright parody, yet it plainly lacks the intelligence and developed skill and finesse of, say, 'Escape from New York' or 'Die hard,' or the knowing wink of 'Ghosts of Mars.'
There were good ideas here, yes, and some potential. But these were not going to bear meaningful fruit without someone else significantly reworking Paul's questionable screenplay, and not with Wincer in the director's chair. Since that superior product does not exist in the reality we live in, there is staggeringly little value here. One might reasonably say that the picture does improve in some capacities as it goes on; on the other hand, before all is said and done the script even manages to find a way to be a little bit racist, and the climax leans as heavily into the oafish boorishness as could be said of any prior scene, if not more so. Despite all this it remains true that I've seen far worse films, but it's also true that there are fairly few films that have been so actively exasperating. I recognize the hard work and earnest effort that did go into the production from the cast and crew; would that their participation weren't sullied by Paul's writing, and to an only slightly lesser degree by Wincer's direction. I'm sure there are folks who really do like 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man,' but depending on just how seriously they take it, I'm not sure I want to know them. As far as I'm concerned this is tawdry, preposterously testosterone-fueled, bloviating hot air that makes '3000 miles to Graceland' seem artistic by comparison. Whatever curiosity or ill-advised impetus has driven you to consider watching this, I urgently advise you to just find something else to spend time with instead, like a nice patch of grass that's growing in the sun.
The first taste we get of the soundtrack that was assembled for this is a use of Bon Jovi's "Wanted dead or alive,' over the opening credits, that rivals Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,' as heard in Michael Mann's 'Manhunter,' for the most kitschy use of a popular song in a picture. While that's (probably) the worst example, both the other popular songs to appear, and the score of composer extraordinaire Basil Poledouris (I don't know how you got roped into this but I am so sorry), continue to be employed in an almost farcically pompous, false manner. The dialogue is mostly just atrocious, with the scene writing not far behind - puffed-up, conceited, and trashy, like a boy who's 50 going on 12, who hasn't left a 25-mile radius in his whole adult life, and who thinks Michael Bay is too high-brow, decided he had all the answers of how to make a better feature. I don't know who Don Michael Paul paid off to get his screenplay produced, but I'm stunned by how terrible the results are. Much of Simon Wincer's direction is hardly any better, for given some of the actors appearing here, and what they have achieved elsewhere, I assume the filmmaker can be faulted for how awful some of the acting is, and how desperately ostentatious some scenes are as they present. (That is, "desperately" as in "hoping against hope that someone will think this is cool," and "ostentatious" as in "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.")
Oh sure, there are some (only some) workable story ideas on hand (even if we can get them elsewhere). Generally speaking the stunts and action sequences come off well. I do appreciate the work put into facets like the art direction, costume design, hair, and makeup, and David Eggby's cinematography, even if the ends to which these contributions were guided are sometimes gauche. Yet to borrow from the byline of the New York Times' review of 'Avengers: Age of Ultron,' four little words that turned out to be the best part of that flick: None of this matters. Women are treated as nothing more than playthings for men to toy with, go slack-jawed over from a distance, get jealous over, and dispose of, but not treat with respect or as actual people; with this firmly in mind, the camera's occasional obsession with women's bodies is nothing more than irritating. We get guns, trucks, bikes, machines, big egos and bigger talk, more guns, sexy women, big action, more bikes, and the eventual triumph of two Perfectly Normal Guys against the amoral vices and criminality of Big City Corporate Power And Criminal Activity. And all this is wholly intentional, because wherever it is one wishes to lay the culpability for this sludge, 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man' is a title built for a singular audience. To wit:
This is a title for the person who thinks John Wayne was Capital G God's gift to Capital M Mankind, the supreme embodiment of acting ability and machismo, and that Wayne's machismo was what masculinity is cosmically intended to be. This is a title for the person who thinks Chuck Norris is Jesus Christ's right-hand man, possibly rivaled only by Kevin Sorbo, and that Bruce Lee was too feminine. This is a title for the person who thinks Spike TV was the peak of the television medium, and that in a world where Johnny Cash wasn't country enough, country music was what Mozart should have been composing instead of symphonies. 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man' is rotten, simple-minded, Movie Magic pablum that's geared for so-called adult men instead of the preteen children for whom such unsophisticated construction is usually reserved; the type of fare that's meant to appeal to the most base instinctual, emotional needs of that part of the male brain that hasn't changed since the days when Neanderthals walked the Earth; the sort of romp that should by all reason theoretically be either a wry, clever classic or just an outright parody, yet it plainly lacks the intelligence and developed skill and finesse of, say, 'Escape from New York' or 'Die hard,' or the knowing wink of 'Ghosts of Mars.'
There were good ideas here, yes, and some potential. But these were not going to bear meaningful fruit without someone else significantly reworking Paul's questionable screenplay, and not with Wincer in the director's chair. Since that superior product does not exist in the reality we live in, there is staggeringly little value here. One might reasonably say that the picture does improve in some capacities as it goes on; on the other hand, before all is said and done the script even manages to find a way to be a little bit racist, and the climax leans as heavily into the oafish boorishness as could be said of any prior scene, if not more so. Despite all this it remains true that I've seen far worse films, but it's also true that there are fairly few films that have been so actively exasperating. I recognize the hard work and earnest effort that did go into the production from the cast and crew; would that their participation weren't sullied by Paul's writing, and to an only slightly lesser degree by Wincer's direction. I'm sure there are folks who really do like 'Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man,' but depending on just how seriously they take it, I'm not sure I want to know them. As far as I'm concerned this is tawdry, preposterously testosterone-fueled, bloviating hot air that makes '3000 miles to Graceland' seem artistic by comparison. Whatever curiosity or ill-advised impetus has driven you to consider watching this, I urgently advise you to just find something else to spend time with instead, like a nice patch of grass that's growing in the sun.