Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken
Think of the stupidest premise for a movie you can. Here's mine: young Mike Tyson's heart-warming quest to turn his go-kart into a subterranean drill-machine so that he can travel to underground Atlantis to sweep the Inter-Planetary unicycle competiton. This premise still isn't as stupid as the premise of Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken. The movie takes place during the 30s, and chronicles young Sorona's dream to join the circus to become a whack-job who jumps a horse off a 40-foot platform into a pool of water. Okay, look, I've got nothing against having a dream and being creative. Just look at this crazy-ass website of mine. But I'll tell you this -- you will never see me become an emotionally charged apostle for the cause of getting on a horse and going full hi-ho silver down into a tank of water. I mean, I can understand wanting to be a professional jockey, but I CAN'T understand wanting to hone the long-forgotten art of bouncing my horse off a trampoline and into vat of popcorn. And if that's what you're into, then that's what you're into. But still, just . . . DAMN, yo.
The very existance of Wild Hearts asks a poignant question: where does the moviegoer draw the line of stupidity? Let's say Disney makes an emotionally charged underdog movie about Chuck Norris making peace with his estranged father so they can form an unstoppable dance troupe of disco-tapdancers who are hired by MI6 to go back in time and stop the Japanese from bombing Pearl Harbor. Should the moviegoer allow his or herself to get wrapped up in this movie's sweeping orchestral-emotional experience? Where do you draw the line of stupidity where you simply won't allow yourself to get empathetically wrapped up in a movie that's retarded enough to need a helmet, harness and token board before it's rolled in the theaters?
But I think the saddest part about Wild Hearts is that it takes itself very, very seriously. I watched the preview, and it showed this slow-motion 40-foot horse-jump while this emotional music played. It was supposed to touch my heart with underdog-loving go-get-em-ism, but it didn't. I may as well have been watching Robert DiNeiro play a persecuted shoe-shine boy who spends his tearful free time in the garage designing the perfect recumbent bicyle so that he can win Chicago's annual recumbent bike death-race competition, which has always been dominated by mob bosses . . . until now.
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