South Pacific (2001) Movie Review

I mean this in the best possible way. Glenn Close has become an extremely handsome gentleman in recent years. That skanky wench from Fatal Attraction is long gone. Today we've got the freshly shorn, makeup-free star of Paradise Road and now South Pacific, a remake I don't recall anyone asking for.

Based on the classic musical play (and -- I didn't know this -- a James Michener novel), South Pacific is a Pearl Harborish tale of love found during World War II on a small island located somewhere you can probably figure out. There's intrigue and bombs a-droppin', but that doesn't mean there's no time for nookie!

South Pacific starts out mediocre but, by the time we're rounding the second hour (it's 135 long minutes in total) the made-for-TV movie has lost any energy it once had. I could go on and on about how the love affair between fogies Close and Rade Sherbedzija (Milich from Eyes Wide Shut) is unbelievable and unbearable, but the real problem with South Pacific is the way it is told. Musicals demand spectacle, especially modern ones (see Moulin Rouge). South Pacific has a couple of big numbers (a frightening Close prancing about in her underwear to "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair" is not one of the highlights), but by and large the songs are sung on people's balconies, face to face. The camera zooms in close for Sherbedzija's "Some Enchanted Evening," making it painfully obvious the singing has been dubbed in and causing every pore on his face stand out. (In fact, the only song worth hearing is Harry Connick Jr.'s "My Girl Back Home." Alas, it was cut from the film and you'll have to dig it up on the DVD's extras.)

That's romance?