Living in New York City is hard enough, but the worst thing about it right now after the ubiquity of dog urine and European tourists is the raging ad campaign for The Taking of Pelham 123. Forget that I love the original. Forget that the movie looks just kinda meh, despite the use of A Perfect Circle’s “Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums” in the trailer. I now have to see John Travolta’s puffed-out, faux-dangerous, high-pitched whinnying head every second block.
I don’t know anything about John Travolta the man, but I know enough about John Travolta the actor. I know that looking at him onscreen is the moviegoing equivalent of scraping my fingernails across a blackboard festooned with splinters, rusty staples and fire ants. John Travolta has reached such a monumental apogee of embarrassment that he is retroactively making his prior good work suck. I’m afraid to go back and watch Pulp Fiction. Do I really want to see this clown drink a milkshake and dance? The good work Travolta did as a youth is now irreparably damaged due to his current status as Grand Mufti of Douchebags.
John Travolta, whose last name shares its first four letters of the word “travesty,” has such a long reach of lameness that his fat suit appearance in the whitewashed musical Hairspray has even somewhat neutered the once mighty purveyor of filth, John Waters. The highlights of this great independent master of shock cinema (e.g. the basement insemination sequence in Pink Flamingos) now have the accursed taint of Travolta. And no amount of “you go, girls” to Waters for milking a cash cow can change that.
I remember when Battlefield Earth came out. First, I admit, I was simply jazzed about a science fiction movie. Then, when word came down how it was destined to be (and I’m quoting Roger Ebert here) “the punch line of jokes about bad movies” I was thrilled for some kitschy fun. The ultimate punch line about Battlefield Earth, of course, isn’t that it is so bad it is good – it is so bad that it moves ahead even further to just being bad. Even with all the opportunities for mockery, it commits the worse sin of all: it is boring.
Since I'm raving here, let's point the finger at a man who is really to blame for our pain: Quentin Tarantino. John Revolta was burnt toast before Q.T. "brought him back" in what was then a clever and po-mo move. But was it really worth it? Was sitting through Phenomenon and Wild Hogs and Ladder 49 a reasonable price for that bit of stunt casting. Was I the only poor fool who subjugated himself to the "there's blood in my pee!" capital A acting in A Love Song For Bobby Long?
Take a look above. We now know who is to blame for the disgrace of Catwoman and Wolverine. His awfulness speads easier than swine flu.
Was John Travolta ever good? We take it on faith that he was cool because Saturday Night Fever is such an iconic film. But maybe that was just luck? This is the shame of John Travolta. With no other actor must we go back and reevaluate his previous work. O.J. Simpson is the only other guy I can think of. And he killed two people. That's some fine company Travolta is keeping.
In conclusion, John Travolta, you make us sick. You were Vinny Barbarino, you were Tony Manero, you were Danny Zuko. You were the guy in Carrie. All of that is gone. Your horrible choices for the past decade, hamfisted acting, girly voice and smug face make it impossible for us to want to see any of your films. Please take your private plane and fly away.
