Cue a soft score by John Williams. And now, idyllic shots of the American South. And next comes, almost there, here it comes, Mel Gibson butchering men!
All men are created equal, according to the Declaration of Independence (Day). But some men have a Cherokee tomahawk. Our man with the 'hawk is Benjamin Martin, widowed father of seven, rocking chair enthusiast. All he wants is to live the simple life of a non-slave owning plantation cropper. Sweet as Carolina tea! But whispers are afoot. The cantankerous whispers of revolution.
Because of fucking dickheads like Colonel Tavington, Benjamin Martin is forced into war, where he becomes almost as full of rage as Mel Gibson. Out to avenge his son and usher in a new era of democracy, Martin goes on the warpath.
Aided by his French buddy Jean, his son Heath Ledger, and Harvard graduate Donal Logue, Gibson turns a rag tag group of brothel patrons and church goers into such a ghostly platoon that Tom Wilkinson nearly shits his fancy British man dress.
The rustics in this movie might be inept, but guess what isn't? The filmmaking. Our personal friend, Roland Emmerich, once again proves he understands the American psyche as only one steeped in German philosophy could! With a brilliant score by John Will and a fun screenplay from a man who is not Randal Wallace, we get The Patriot.
Listener, open Sein ears, lend them to me. You will actually laugh at parts of this movie, and you might cry too (just as Gibson does so well (not a joke, the man can act-cry)). So plug those earphones in and ready your bayonets, for many laughs are on the way!