The Mosquito Coast
I am a sucker for Harrison Ford. I feel like he can do no wrong. Even after I slap myself, pour cold water over my head and look myself in the mirror. Even gobbledygook like Six Days Seven Nights or Hollywood Homicide has not managed to turn me away. Still, I always knew this one was rotten. And rotten it is. It basically tells the story of a pathological, egotistic, self-righteous, maniacal tyrrant of a know-it-all, who dominantly drags his wife and several young children through hell and back, almost killing them in the process. And when his last act of grandstanding gets him killed, does he then repent in his final hours? Oh, no. He curses the people who have loved him enough to sacrifice their being for him—his family. All in all a pathetic idea for a film about that most pathetic of stereotypes, which I can't wait until becomes extinct: The 'master of the house'. That male who assumes control of his wife and children as if they were his property, tools to serve his mission. That guy sickens me. Mostly because he is the embodiment of an emasculated bloke. A jerk who does not have the fortitude—the masculinity—to tempre his strength, to share control, power, life, with his partner, or to guide his children to fulfill their potential, instead of serving his needs. So this is the film that ended my blind allegiance to Harrison Ford. Which is ironic in a way, since his acting here is among his most passable, ever. Probably means that I liked his stunts more than his stagecraft. Pity. And I was so looking forward to Indiana Jones 4. Ah, who am I kidding. Of course I'll go and see that too. And love it.