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10,000 B.C.

Some years back, I went out with friends for Fat Tuesday. They kept pushing the free crawfish on me (that should’ve said it all right there, “free crawfish”) and despite my protestations of disdain for seafood, I ate some. I think the fact that Elvis Presley had a song called “Crawfish” was what eventually made me cave. Today that would just be a deal breaker for me. But my point is that I don’t associate Mardi Gras with public drunkenness, easy pickings and sloppy titties for shiny plastic beads; I associate this most festive of occasions with puking through my nose at work, and that taste—that fucking taste in my mouth.

Kind of like indigenous native peoples. Since seeing Mel Gibson’s coma-inducing Apocalypto, I associate epic extravaganzas about scantily clad ancient natives with nausea and loss of the will to live. These mongrels, heathens, or whatever politically correct euphemism you prefer, always look like they belong in a metal video, because that’s the only place you’re going to see white guys with dreads and face paint who look like they belong more in a beer commercial than ancient… wherever. And of course the random stray scrotum or pair of National Geographic boobs flopping about are ever present, for the sake of historical accuracy.

What makes all of this even more of a drag is the fact that Roland Emmerich is directing this fecal extravaganza. So, in addition to some fake-tanned, blue-eyed whiteys running around like they’re remaking Clan of the Cave Bear or Quest for Fire all while speaking the Queen’s English, Emmerich’s throwing in some oversized CG sabretooth tigers and woolly mammoths. You know, because anyone who saw that kick-ass version of Godzilla he did ten years ago will tell you that computer-generated animals are his forte. Just ask those Narnia-esque wolves from The Day After Tomorrow! They’ll tell you!

Next: The Bank Job

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