Boy oh boy, what do we have here? To call it a steaming pile would be accurate, but as this is a SPECIAL type of bad film, we must dig deeper. The only possible reason for it's existence is that everyone involved lost some kind of major bet, or perhaps they were inflicted with some kind of temporary insanity. Either way, I bet they're disowned by their parents, grandchildren, pets etc. and quite right too. I would rather confess that one of my nearest and dearest was a chicken molesting hermaphrodite than admit they had any function in this...
But I'm getting ahead of myself... Where can I start? The opening scene is that of a very ugly man who OVEREMPHASISES EVERY WORD HE SAYS. He reminded me of a failed Shakespearean actor, who thinks talking in a loud, pompous voice shows emotion range. Guess what, it doesn't. We have to tolerate this idiot throughout, and it is my sincerest wish he is now reduced to playing the back end of a donkey on Brighton Pier.
And that's just for starters. Next up we find out that in this fictional world, everything is like in the Dark Ages. Except... there are tattoos, infra-red glasses... and BOOB JOBS. Yep, it's true... Check out the brunette 'warrior' when she walks in her scanty chain mail... them puppies don't bounce an inch. It's funny, but not hilarious as the accents, which vary between English, American and Gord-Knows-What. Strange place, these people inhabit. And just like the previously mentioned guy, none of them can act for toffee. If he's the rear of a donkey, perhaps they can play his manure. After all, they already stink at their job, so they're halfway there.
See the word GLADIATOR in the title and you think, there's gotta be some good fights, right? WRONG my friend. COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY WRONG. We're a long way from Russell Crowe here. We're talking more like fake WF wrestling matches here, with lots of cheesy little moves from fools in bad costumes. But even Hulk Hogan and co would be embarrassed by the terrible computerised blood and non-stop camera shaking going on, and the sum total is like one long self-made parody. If only it was...
And with the final revelation that the bad guy is one big Jim Henson puppet, the movie finally comes to a rest. Not me though... I'll be having nightmares about the experience for days. I would send the director the bill for my therapy, but on this evidence I doubt he could afford it. Maybe I'll be nice, and throw a penny into his tin cup on my way to the psychiatrist's. I know... I'm all heart... 1/10
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