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| Source: Wikipedia |
Being professedly rational damnfools, the nineties' smartypants consign him to a mental hospital with paranoid schizophrenic Brad Pitt. There we witness some incredible acting and the vigorous scrubbing of Bruce Willis’s soapy buttocks.
Our hero’s questionable sanity becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Understandably, since he gets so kicked around. In the future, dickheads with doctorates send him to the wrong time, yank him back, send him to an even wronger time, then plop him dangerously close to the apocalypse.
Meanwhile, the present pack of dickheads institutionalizes him. They issue a manhunt when he goes on the lam cause the nuthouse is lame. As if they’re surprised he doesn’t want to stick around for more awful TV and degrading experiments.
Our misunderstood messiah traipses around Filthadelphia in all its seedy glory, the Pennsylvania woods, the U.S. highway system. Somewhere along the line, he picks up his increasingly credulous psychiatrist, whose experiences with him erode her faith in modern science. Conveniently relevant newspaper articles and TV spots dog the characters wherever the script leads them.
Time travel, schizophrenia, animal testing, ecoterrorism, and virology somehow mesh into an intricately woven noose on which to hang the denouement.
Finally, all this bizarre meandering culminates in the mother of all red herrings. But the ending raises questions. Did he change the future? Was there a future? Couldn’t the studio afford a less underwhelming child actor?
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