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BATTLEFIELD EARTH

Pay no attention--for the time being, anyhow--to the man behind the curtain, the hipper-than-thou, smirking fellow in the ascot and the buttoned-down blazer. And don’t worry about those mysterious e-mails you’ve been getting with warnings about "subliminals" planted by an aggressively recruiting "church." And for goodness’ sake, don’t be dissuaded by the near-universal critical overreaction ("the worst movie of the century," "two thumbs down . . . way down," etc.) from actually seeing this stinker. I mean, how else will you get to watch John Travolta stomping around in 12-inch platforms, big, floppy monster hands and a mussed-up conehead version of the Elvis Mitchell weave, chewing up yard after yard of scenery ("Bwa-ha-ha-ha!") and never even gagging? Where else encounter hard-bitten, "reclaimed" heroes of the 31st century with names like "Johnny" and "Sammy" and "Chrissie" and "Carlo," or delight in as dazzlingly incoherent a mélange of high- and low-tech ("Ya-ta-ta-ta!") action sequences? And where else--getting back to the guy behind the curtain--will Hollywood’s guru of gnostic humanism stand so clearly revealed as an overgrown adolescent with a twitchy sense of humor and an irrepressible mean streak? So enjoy! And don’t think too hard about where your money may be headed. (Ron Stringer)

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