MOVIE REVIEW

The bad boys of Camelot enter the summer fray with consummate New World vulgarity.

By Manohla Dargis, Times Staff Writer

Sexed up, tricked out and totally ready to party, "King Arthur" enters the summer fray with consummate New World vulgarity. Set during the 5th century against a backdrop of warring British interests, Roman conquerors and Saxon invaders, this frantic period entertainment retells this beloved Britannic foundation myth with big-bang razzmatazz and high Hollywood camp. It's the Arthurian legends, a PlayStation Passion play and a Jerry Bruckheimer lollapalooza rolled into one.

Rooted in Celtic mythology, King Arthur has been grist for pap, poetry and politics from the 6th century onward, immortalized through the years by Thomas Malory and Alfred Tennyson, Lerner and Loewe, Disney and JFK. Initially, Bruckheimer seems a strange fit with such Camelot-bound company. The producer of such propulsive blowouts as "Bad Boys" has only occasionally turned toward the past for inspiration, preferring to keep his stories within the same life (and attention) span of his target audience. Bruckheimer traffics in modern studio myths in which men invariably triumph because they're both natural leaders of other men and heroic individuals, and can lay their hands on the biggest, baddest guns. Chivalry has nothing to do with it and neither does love.

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Despite the presence of Keira Knightley as Guinevere, love and chivalry have precious little to do with "King Arthur" either. Set in the rolling British wilds (i.e., Ireland), the story credited to David Franzoni unfolds in the waning days of Roman rule. For years, Arthur (Clive Owen), an imperial soldier, has led a brotherhood of knights in support of Rome and against rebelling British tribes. Led by Merlin (Stephen Dillane), these proto-hippies live al fresco in the woods and seem to be graduates of the Mel Gibson Academy of Extreme Performance, where they apparently majored in howls and body paint. Now with Rome in retreat, the knights and tree-huggers will find common cause in the big, bad, blond-to-the-bone Saxon invaders, newly arrived from the continent and led by Cerdic the Entertainer (Stellan Skarsgård).

A nutty, often enjoyable farrago of craft and cinematic sampling, "King Arthur" moves fast and loose, and is almost aggressive in its absence of an original idea, in and of itself a Bruckheimer trademark. The choral-infused soundtrack recalls the day-spa mewling of Enya à la "Gladiator"; an aerial view of the knights trudging across a mountain pass directly echoes a similar image in "The Lord of the Rings." A field littered with dead combatants is, inevitably, shot from on high as if from the point of view of a disapproving god, a panorama of death recycled since at least "Gone With the Wind." When the tree-huggers race through the woods, director Antoine Fuqua appears to be conjuring up "The Last of the Mohicans" albeit without the brilliance.

A genius of his system, Bruckheimer makes eminently watchable movies often written by committee and directed by filmmakers whose talents never detract from the producer's commercial imperative. Such is the case with Fuqua, who scored a few years back with "Training Day," a feat he's in no danger of repeating here. The logistics of epic-scale productions often militate against the quiet, intimate scenes that movies like this need in order to give them a touch of humanity, to show the man behind the legend. But because Fuqua can't handle down time (the actors look ill at ease when they're not in motion) and because he doesn't have a powerhouse like Denzel Washington (or a showboat like Johnny Depp) to fill in the script's emotional blanks, there's nothing personal here, no reason to care.

The weaknesses of the Bruckheimer formula are most transparent when it comes to the performances in "King Arthur," which are all over the place if never in the right place. Both the quiet, interior Owen and a boisterous scene-stealer such as Ray Winstone (the "Sexy Beast" himself) seem out of sorts in a film like this, presumably because they've been left to their own devices. The usually terrific Owen delivers a remote, diffident performance that doesn't telegraph kingly indecision so much as actorly embarrassment. A performer with a gift for stillness, Owen can hold the screen without saying a word. But because he's blessed with one of the great voices in movies — a darkly sonorous instrument — he's always better when he's given something worth saying, as proved by his other film in current release, "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead."

The only performers who emerge unscathed from the noise and freewheeling nonsense are Knightley and Skarsgård, and only because they seem in on the joke. Skarsgård, whose mumbles and beard braids seem inspired by Monty Python by way of the homeless tribes of Santa Monica's Third Street Promenade, takes to his villainous role with gusto. Knightley, one eyebrow as arched as her bow, advances from one movie-chick cliché to the next with all the energy of a teenager forced into shopping with Mom. First she tries on the victim (eeww), then the lady (ditto) and finally (jackpot!) she's a girl gone wild, dressed in a bandage-bra, some crazy blue paint and a scowl. Funny though — when she aims her arrows, half the time she seems to be looking straight at the camera.

'King Arthur'

MPAA rating: PG-13 for intense battle sequences, a scene of sensuality and some language

Times guidelines: Lots of death, little blood; some discreet adult themes

Clive Owen...Arthur

Keira Knightley...Guinevere

Ioan Gruffudd...Lancelot

Stellan Skarsgård...Cerdic

Stephen Dillane...Merlin

A Touchstone Pictures and Jerry Bruckheimer Films presentation, released by Touchstone Pictures. Director Antoine Fuqua. Writer David Franzoni. Producer Jerry Bruckheimer. Director of photography Slawomir Idziak. Production designer Dan Weil. Editors Conrad Buff, Jamie Pearson. Music Hans Zimmer. Casting Ronna Kress, Michelle Guish. In English and TK Celtic with English subtitles. Running time: 2 hours, 5 minutes.

In general release