Hollywood is full of stories about writers, actors, and directors struggling with projects that take forever to get produced but are finally released to critical and commercial success -- films like Garden State, Schindler's List, and Hellboy II: The Golden Army. But not every filmmaker's passion project turns out to be Star Wars. More often than not, it's The Chronicles of Riddick, and everyone goes home broke and depressed.
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L. Ron Hubbard decided that Battlefield Earth was going to be made into a movie pretty much the instant he finished writing it, which was news to anyone who actually took the time to read all 1,000 vaingloriously self-indulgent pages. So, he immediately whipped up some screenplay drafts, had copies of the novel sent to John Travolta, and had the Church of Scientology's in-house literary agency sell the movie rights to the first production company that made them an offer. A screenwriter and producer were hired, a giant inflatable alien was stationed on Hollywood Boulevard to try to raise money for the movie, and the project caved in on itself like a Peruvian mine, because precisely no one in Hollywood was interested in turning this ridiculous book into a movie. Except for John Travolta.
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"It's like Star Wars, only on a much less challenging reading level!"
At that point in the 1980s, Travolta had about as much industry clout as Dean Cain's butler, so he spent the next decade clinging to Battlefield Earth like a seat cushion in a transatlantic plane crash. As soon as Pulp Fiction came around and gave him some of his A-list juice back, Travolta thrust the full force of his considerable chin-butt into fierce negotiations for a Battlefield Earth movie. That was in 1995. It still took five more years for the movie to finally come out, because no production company wanted to touch it -- they felt it was too mired in Scientology, a notion they probably got from the countless passages in the novel condemning the field of psychology as a long-dead cult, the fact that the evil aliens are called Psychlos and Catrists, and the fact that John Travolta had been Scientology's most visible and vocal supporter right up until Tom Cruise was lured into pledging himself to the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard by Mimi Rogers' giant boobs. There was also the lingering problem that the story was the stupidest fucking thing ever written, an affliction John Travolta seems to be incapable of diagnosing.
Travolta didn't give up, though, and insisted that the movie was going to be better than Star Wars, which back in the '90s was still a high-enough bar that you couldn't jump straight over it with a rusty tricycle and a ramp of old refrigerator boxes. He finally found a willing partner in Franchise Pictures, a production company headed by a nightclub-owning swindle merchant who unsurprisingly wound up embezzling $30 million of the film's budget, and in July of 2000, Battlefield Earth was unleashed on a world that wanted absolutely no part of it.
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Pictured: the exit row of every theater showing Battlefield Earth.
The entire movie is filmed in skewed-angle shots like a two-hour episode of Batman, the dialogue sounds like someone trying to write a ransom note using nothing but fortune cookie messages, and John Travolta seems to be doing an impression of a terrible John Travolta performance. Also, Forest Whitaker is in it, and Forest Whitaker should know better.
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Both of these men have received Academy Award nominations for Best Actor.
Battlefield Earth bombed like shrapnel from an unholy meteor, incinerating the proposed plans for a sequel alongside John Travolta's credibility as a maker of sound financial decisions.
The Sisyphean task of adapting Frank Herbert's Dune into a movie began in 1971, back when science fiction still looked like this:
Daiei Film/Sandy Frank
Over the next 13 years, Dune changed hands in the wake of collapsed ruin so many times, it was like the goddamned monkey's paw. First, the people responsible for the Planet of the Apes sequels tried to get Dune off the ground with two different directors and two different screenwriters, but the head of the production studio wisely died before the project went anywhere, and the rights were picked up by another company.
"The task of bringing my perfectly sculpted hair to the silver screen must pass to another."
The second company meant to turn it into a 10-hour miniseries starring Salvador Dali, Mick Jagger, and Herve Villechaize and featuring a soundtrack by Pink Floyd. The ticket stub to see this movie would've been a tab of LSD. Had it been made, this version of Dune would've been the most well-baited trap of all time -- people would've totally paid to see Tattoo and Mick Jagger prance around a cosmic desert and wouldn't have discovered that the movie was 10 hours long until it was too late. That's like going to the circus and suddenly realizing that all of the clowns are stolen children and all of the ushers have had their mouths sewn shut.
And in order to escape, you have to battle Sting to the death.
When that production of Dune eventually ran out of money, it changed hands yet again, this time falling to legendary producer Dino De Laurentiis, who hired Ridley Scott to direct. Scott tried three times to turn Dune into something both filmable and watchable, but then quit to go make Blade Runner, and the world is a better place for his decision. However, judging by Blade Runner's seven versions, it does not appear as though Scott had any firmer grasp of what the hell was going on in that movie.
In his defense, I don't think anyone was meant to decipher the sequence wherein Sting tortures a man
with a cat in an electric body sling.
Finally, the producers saw The Elephant Man and inexplicably decided that David Lynch would be the perfect person to direct Dune. Apparently they thought the Elephant Man was from space. Anyway, Lynch personally wrote five drafts of the script before they finally started filming, resulting in one of the most sprawling productions in film history -- there were about 80 sets built for Dune, and it had a working crew of nearly 2,000 people. It also had Sting, whom I think just showed up in clothes he brought from home. And Sean Young, who probably showed up in clothes she stole from Sting's garbage. And a young, moon-faced Kyle MacLachlan, who disappeared into his role as the prince of the cosmos so completely that, to this day, nobody has any idea who he is.
He arguably prefers it that way.
Dune finally premiered in theaters in 1984 and immediately bored audiences into weeping, blubbery depression. As Cyriaque once pointed out, David Lynch refuses to have his name attached to certain cuts of the film, because many of the final decisions were taken completely out of his hands and he was so thoroughly bummed with how they turned out that he didn't want to be associated with them. Judging by his filmography, if Lynch had gotten his way, Dune would've been utterly indecipherable as opposed to merely confusing.
Not even Patrick Stewart knows what's going on, and he's usually hip-deep in this bullshit.