High on the list of things I don’t often say: I was watching Wild Wild West the other night. (It was on Netflix Instant, don’t judge me.) There is nothing remotely defensible about the film, of course: it’s clear that some sort of homage is being attempted, though no one in the film seems to be clear on what kind of homage it should be. Will Smith is being Will Smith, Kevin Kline is a treasure as always, and somehow Kenneth Brannagh is in the movie, through no fault of his own except for the fact that he ostensibly signed a contract to be in it. It’s steampunk in the vaguest definition of the term, full of lewd dialogue that isn’t earned, and does not pretend toward any kind of class whatsoever.
Yet in that hazy fog, images and wayward dialogue began to coalesce, and I had a pointless sort of epiphany: this was part of a special breed of film that the 1990’s loved churning out. A breed that bears examination for its patent ridiculosity. (Is that a word? It should be.)
[When I’m rolling through the…]