(no subject)

Picture it. Amsterdam, 1993. A young student in Amsterdam, fascinated by Star Trek and the place it held in U.S. popular culture, but knowing nothing, is introduced to a connoisseur of all things Sci-Fi. In a tiny smoky cafe on Rembrandtsplein, the student is told the tale of the ultimate in denied works, the movie never again acknowledged by its makers, the child locked in the attic by its parents, the ultimate horror never spoken of as punishment for being so bad. Star Trek V.

The connoisseur, a veteran of working in second-hand fantasy & sci-fi bookstores and watching everything he could, spins a tale before the young student of cliches in every scene, unneding hubris of its writer and director, William Shatner, pulp both so bad and so expensive it had no fun, no soul, and seemingly to its hapless watchers, no end. When the connoisseur watched it a week after opening, there were four people in the theatre. Two walked out.

The connoisseur was Mikael Bard. The young student -- was me.

Tonight was the night that that circle closed. Tonight the TiVo had the fateful movie. Tonight I would climb the pinnacle of misfirings.



I stopped watching at 41 minutes. It was so badly full of itself it was just plain dull.