I have a pretty straightforward approach to movies: if it has pretty flashing lights, I will clap and drool accordingly.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not hard to entertain. I like it that way. While few movies will affect me deeply enough to leave a lasting impression, it’s pretty damn easy to keep me occupied. If you want me out of your hair for an hour and a half, throw on Mortal Kombat and walk away.
I was thirteen when MK hit theaters. It’s important to bear in mind that Mortal Kombat was the first game that I owned. Not shared among my siblings, mind you (and with six siblings, that’s a pretty fucking important distinction). No, that gore-spewing, spine-ripping, flaming-skull-raping-you-with-fire Sega Genesis title was all mine, and by the time I finished with it, I had it down back to front. (Or rather, I had it down-up-left-left-A-right-down; oh, the wit!)
So, of course, when New Line Cinema announced that a bunch of angry, sweaty dudes in ridiculous costumes would be running around with awful CG, pounding the ever-loving shit out of each other to hardcore techno for ninety minutes, I creamed my fucking jeans.
It didn’t even matter that it was only PG-13. There were still a couple of the classic fatalities in there, and as I said, a whole lot of ass-whupping. There’s even some of the best acting of Christopher Lambert’s career–that’s not even close to a fucking compliment. The script would make any self-respecting filmmaker weep, the computer animation looks like it belongs on a Sega CD, and you’ll probably find better acting at a community theater in Nebraska (you know the one, where they’re doing Oklahoma! for the fifth year in a row–the streak was briefly broken by the obligatory Death of a Salesman that community theaters are apparently required by law to perform at least once a decade).
To anyone with two brain cells to rub together, this is an equation that can be restated as thus: Mortal Kombat = shit + fan. To a hormone-driven teenager still buzzing off the video game, it was nothing short of martial arts bliss.
Sixteen years later, I demand a little more from my kung fu titles. I prefer classics like Enter the Dragon and Drunken Master, with martial arts that make you feel like you’re watching martial arts instead of a poorly-choreographed formal dance; or more artistic pieces like House of Flying Daggers. Still, sometimes really awful things dig in their burrs and you can’t get them out again, like the shitty pop music you listened to growing up. I mean, come on. I know Snow sucks, goddammit, that doesn’t mean I want you to change the station when “Informer” comes on.
Mortal Kombat is one such shiny brown nugget. Of course it’s bad, but I’ll still watch it with a manic glee that is normally reserved for seven-gram rocks and Thai hookers. At least I’ve calmed to the point where I can’t recite every line in the movie verbatim.