Dear sweet baby Jesus—I just watched last year’s The Lone Ranger on cable TV.
Thirty years ago a friend of mine described 1981’s The Legend of the Lone Ranger thusly:
“In which Klinton Spilsbury proves that Clayton Moore was not the world’s worst
actor.”
Well, I can say with absolute confidence that Armie
Hammer proves that Klinton Spilsbury was not the world’s worst actor.
And Justin Haythe, Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio prove
that Ivan Goff, Ben Roberts, Michael Kane and William Roberts weren’t the world’s
worst screenwriters.
And it was hard to tell whether Johnny Depp did a worse
job of acting than the dead crow on his head.
I absolutely stand in shock and awe at the unremitting
dreadfulness of this endeavor. And I hope to God that no one attempts another reboot
of this franchise in my lifetime.
We had plenty of warning with Johnny Depp's celebratory self-advertising of his domination of the movie with his self-defined headpiece. Seriously, why would anyone ever want to see him in a movie again?
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