As the heroic Ghost, Karl Urban (né Eomer) fixes his face in a permanent scowl, framed by scummy locks, and dashes about in the freezing fog with only a loincloth to shelter his dignity. The dialogue - Californian English for the good Natives, guttural Orc-speak in subtitles for the hulking Vikings - manages no more than stage directions or mystical mumbo that can’t even muster the energy for jumbo. Not that he’s got much of a script to work with. Scenes are bereft of all logic and drama, with the colour trendily desaturated to the sickly grey of motion sickness. A film made up of ninety per cent mano-a-mano combat is rendered insensible by the mayhem of his editing, that Armageddon-style frame-fucking delusion that a disorientating blur of sensation is way better than actually showing you something happen. Marcus Nispel, an outrageous German who made a half-decent stab at remaking The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, has afflicted his latest with the impatience of a bad sport. Never has an idea of such splendid nuttiness been so squandered to the god of neurotic style. Could this be the long-sought second coming for silly helmets, heavy-metal hair and dialogue gravelly enough to pave a road? Not on your nelly.
#Pathfinder movie no english movie#
Over the last year, between silent songs to the halls of Valhalla, this rabble have gotten more than a little steamed about the imminent arrival of Pathfinder, a remake of Icelandic adventure movie Ofelas, wherein big, mean Vikings are set against decently minded Natives in the proto-Americas and a lot of snow. This, in turn, causes most others to view them as victims of mental retardation and to greet them with pity or contempt. These individuals are defiantly of the opinion that The 13th Warrior, setting Vikings against cannibals against critics and possibly starring members of Megadeth, is a very fine film indeed. Amongst the ranks of decent society there exists a select few that meet, away from prying eyes, to share a forbidden secret.
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