The premise of an inundated planet ("The polar icecaps have melted," an anonymous narrator brings us up to speed, without whys or whens) is centrally entrenched in the science-fictional subgenre of catastrophe and survival: the altered conditions on Earth, the necessary means of coping with them, maybe a trace of nonpragmatic nostalgia and melancholy over happier times. But Waterworld's vision of water, water, everywhere, is not flatteringly shown off if your frame of reference includes a couple of classic novels also concerned with the aftereffects of melted polar icecaps, John Wyndham's The Kraken Wakes and J.G. Ballard's The Drowned World, with their vivid imaginings of familiar cityscapes and landscapes submerged, but only partially, in the risen tides. Oddly -- in light of the estimated budget of $175 million, roughly one and three-quarters larger than any prior budget -- the water level here, and hence the imagination level, seems to seek not just the easy solution but the cheap solution: an all but featureless seascape, a few boats, a cast of dozens, what's the problem? Another notable shortcoming of the venture is the grouchy, gloomy, brooding hero. The shortcoming is not the grouchiness, etc. And Kevin Costner is surely acceptable as a brooder, whether actually contemplating the decline of mankind or the decline of a movie career. But he is not acceptable, soft and squishy as he is, as a Douglas Fairbanks acrobatic swashbuckler. Still less is he acceptable as both at once: Hamlet and Zorro belong to different and unbridgeable worlds. With Dennis Hopper, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Tina Majorino; directed by Kevin Reynolds. (1995) — Duncan Shepherd
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