Flawed as it might be, I find myself thinking more about Mike Judge’s Idiocracy than just about any other movie in last few years. The film transports an average guy 500 years into the future, where society has devolved to such a degree that he’s by far the most intelligent man alive. Here, a movie called Ass wins multiple Oscars (including Best Screenplay), medical benefits are offered via slot machine, a sports drink called Brawndo has replaced water (“like from the toilet?”), and the mouth-breathing populace sits around watching Ow! My Balls! and a network devoted to ‘batin material.
Here’s the thing: The future is now, and it’s on NBC. American Gladiators, once a syndication staple in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, has returned with very little retooling for network television. Basically, what was good for Channel 78 back in the day is now good enough for a primetime slot on a major network. Not only that, the new Gladiators has been promoted on the bottom corner of virtually every NBC show this week, including a minute-by-minute “countdown” to the premiere on tonight’s special ‘80s rendition of Deal Or No Deal (featuring encouragement and hugs from Debbie Gibson and Corey Feldman!). This is apparently the television event of the season. The writer’s strike can’t end too soon.
To be honest, the shameful nostalgist in me was looking forward to American Gladiators redux, and I’m sure I’m not alone on that front. (In fact, if I weren’t convinced that many A.V. Club readers would be watching, I wouldn’t have bothered writing this review.) I have only the vaguest memories of watching the original Gladiators while it was on—and probably only in snippets before changing the channel—but a revival seemed like a fun idea, or at least a so-bad-it’s-good guilty pleasure. After two grueling hours, I want my brain cells back. Me no think good.
Let’s break this down into easy-to-digest categories, because any coherent thoughts I had tonight have all been expended in my Wire recap:
The Hosts: Hulk Hogan and Leila Ali. Enthusiastic and in their competitive element, they’re probably ideal for this sort of thing, since they preside over this spectacle without the slightest hint of condescension. They really seem to believe what they’re saying, which in Hogan’s case is unfortunate, since much of what he says is either inane or nonsensical. (Example: “The sun, the moon, the stars, and Venus were all in alignment tonight.”)
The Gladiators: What a bunch of tools, especially on the men’s side. And Tool #1 would have to be Wolf, whose schtick is to psyche out opponents by howling like, well, a werewolf. He’s followed closely in tooldom by Toa, who begins his events with some tribal chanting gibberish, and Mayhem, who lost Joust twice in a row for stepping onto his adversary’s platform. (This despite being over a foot taller and 100 lbs. heavier than one of them.) The women don’t stand out quite as much—well the personalities behind the hardbodies, anyway—but over two hours, we only got one appearance by Hellga, who was clearly conceived as one of those East German beast-goddesses that existed before the Iron Curtain dropped.