The James Fenimore Cooper tale of the French and Indian War has survived its demolition by Mark Twain and has gone on to have several screen versions made of it, with varying degrees of recognizability. The story in this one -- your basic boys' adventure of protecting the white women from the savages, trimmed with gewgaws of Political Correctness re feminism, imperialism, Indians -- is passed over at a sort of light skim, with an eye always on the lookout for pictorial values. These are undeniably spectacular: the overwhelming verdancy of the forest, the nocturnal cannon battle at the fort, the landslide-like Indian attacks, the canoe chase, the curtainy translucent waterfall, the heroic profiles, the heaving bosoms. (Also undeniably, the action is dragged down at key moments by slow-motion.) Daniel Day-Lewis, the colonial-born, Mohican-bred Nathanael Poe, alias Hawkeye, throws himself into his part -- as into all his parts -- with an almost athletic dedication, and the fact that he comes through it without looking the fool (and despite the hair of Michael Bolton and the pumping-iron chest) must be accounted a remarkable triumph. His chemistry with Madeleine Stowe, the stereotypical Headstrong Spirited Filly, is quite sufficient for the needs of the tale, however speedy the skim. He's supremely capable, comfortable, confident, the master of his domain, and he can be counted upon to come charging to the rescue like the Lone Ranger and two Tontos. And she? Well -- she looks like Madeleine Stowe. No more questions. Directed by Michael Mann. (1992) — Duncan Shepherd
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