Some movies feel like they were always destined to be made. That their creation was perfectly timed and formed in the very stars themselves, that makes humanity only stronger after witnessing it thanks to a near-perfect, miracle combination of absolutely everything that was put into it. But there’s some other movies that are so strangely cobbled together that you openly wonder what fucked-up, cocaine-fueled game of mad-libs actually managed to spawn it.
It’s the only explanation that I can think of for the existence of 3000 Miles To Graceland, a bizarre, strangely star-studded ode to pure, cinematic random. If I had to venture a guess, it was probably 2001’s attempt to fuse two standout, stalwart features of 90s (e.g. the ridiculous/awesome bombast of a Jerry Bruckheimer actioner and the eccentricities a post-Tarantino heist flick) into one, crazed, epic, the the result is a thriller so muddled, it feels more like some form of actual, real-life, money laundering scheme rather than the rock-em, sock-em, Elvis-worshiping extravaganza the producers were intending.
Welcome to Las Vegas, where everyone comes in the hope that they’ll leave rich. However, while some folks chance their arm on the slot machines and others try to find their destiny on the roulette wheel, a particular group of visitors are hoping to make their fortunes in a far less honest way. Led by the noticably unstable Thomas Murphy, the group contains ex-con Michael Zane and a trio of exuberant criminals who have decided to rob the Riviera Hotel and Casino undercover of a garish, Elvis Presley convention. Loaded for bear and each dressed like the king himself to blend in, what should have been a simple heist becomes a bloodbath as sequined jumpsuits and bullet casings fly everywhere – and amidst the chaos, four of the five manage to make it to the getaway chopper without a fatal sucking chest wound.
However, from here things start to go really sideways. While one of the gang wants to divvy up their fallen member’s share into the pot, Murphy starts getting greedy and insists on claiming that chunk of unclaimed change all for himself. While Zane – who is an old acquaintance of the Elvis-obsessed nut job – is smart enough to know when to back down, the others aren’t so wise; but after Zane is the only one to survive the inevitable double cross, matters soon start to get increasingly complicated. While Murphy hunts for his money, Zane realises that it’s probably been taken by Cybil, a conniving waitress he seduced before he embarked on his failed heist, and her equally tricky son, Jessie.
As each of these groups try to get the cash to the money launderer who has agreed to switch out the marked money, double and triple crosses occur aplenty, I guess it’s time for a little less conversation before everyone does the jailhouse rock – or worse.
It’s incredibly weird that a film that contains so much randomness can also be so devoid of ideas, and yet while Demian Lichtenstein’s 3000 Miles To Graceland manages to coast mostly on how many times it can cause you to raise your eyebrows in surprise as some of the casting choices, it’s loud, posturing chaos is nowhere near as funny or cool as the filmmakers are obviously convinced it is. The main problem is that if you were to remove all the eccentric Elvis Presley worship and randomly exploding things, the basic crime plot, that sees Kurt Russell trying to trust a tricksy waitress and her streetwise son, while trying to stay one step ahead of Kevin Costner’s derivative psycho, is a little flat. It’s here that we run smack-bang into the first instance of stunt casting as hiring Russell to play an Elvis impersonating outlaw harknens back to the fact that the actor flawlessly played the King in a John Carpenter TV biopic.
However, while Russell’s involvement makes a certain amount of sense (his impersonation is still, spot on), the presence of Kevin Costner is nothing short of baffling, especially after forming the Untouchables, dancing with wolves all the way to an Oscar and portraying numerous, stoic, American heroes. While Kev seemingly just wanted to make a film that’s fun and goofy, it just comes across that his main reason for signing on was the opening stages of a mid-life crisis that allows him to womanise, shoot guns and swagger his way through every scene in sideburns that look suspiciously like a cry for help. Yes, it’s exceedingly cool that, with both Costner and Russell on board, we have a hero and villain who have each played Wyatt Earp, but it soon wears off once the frenetic heist goes south after the first half an hour. To be fair, the movie is essentially warning us that it’s not going to be able to keep those energy levels up for the two hour plus running time thanks to an astonishingly awful opening credits sequence that, for some reason, sees crappy, CGI, robot scorpions fight to the death while noughties era metal blows out the speakers.
The introduction of the crew – which includes Christian Slater (Elvis connection provided by True Romance), a typically twitchy David Arquette and Bokeem Woodbine – stands on the right-side of silly as the group have to shoot their way out of the casino. However, once we switch over into road movie territory, the director just can’t maintain the same level of gonzo energy purely with Costner’s swaggering and Russell looking irked that he’s got to babysit Courtney Cox’s kleptomaniac son. Subplots courtesy of Thomas Haden Church and Kevin Pollack’s cops just can’t hack it and a final shootout that suddenly offers up Ice T fighting a SWAT team to the death by twirling upside-down from a chain and firing duel machine guns in all directions, merely jumps an already exaggerated shark.
Maybe it the movie tried to concentrate on funnelling it’s excesses into a more entertaining tone (like Con Air for example) maybe the silliness wouldn’t be quite so off-putting, but after well and truly shooting it’s bolt in its first half an hour and then making the odd choice of killing off a third of it’s cast. 3000 Miles To Graceland struggles to get back on course and soon bloats as fast as the King himself. Imagine how much fun the film could have been if Slater, Arquette and Woodbine had lived beyond their shock deaths and they all had gone after the money like a stupidly violent version of It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World but with bigger sideburns. However, in lieu of that, instead we just get Russell’s character learning to be a dad, Cox trying to be a sex symbol and Costner desperately trying to prove that he’s a badass with varying degrees of success. However, most of it simply can’t compare to footage of gyrating Elvis impersonators being edited into frenetic machine gun battles with Vegas security guards and that part of the film ends far too soon.
What could have been a fun, silly, action blowout is sunk by that bloated middle and some distracting casting that doesn’t always work. 3000 Miles To Graceland? Try 3000 miles away from a better movie. Elvis – and a story concept that actually works – has well and truly left the building.
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