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I should never have listened to my agent. He told me my role in The Road to El Dorado would be a star turn: I’d be an armadillo in demand, commanding salaries in the millions, dining with Tom and Nicole, summering in Jackson Hole. Instead, I can barely face the cameras during morning show interviews. My armor is chinked. I’ve compromised my artistic integrity by starring as a thankless animal sidekick in the new insulting animated feature from Dreamworks SKG.
The “story” is about two greedy Spanish scalawags, Miguel (Kenneth Branagh) and Tulio (Kevin Kline), who inadvertently stow away on the ship of thick-necked explorer Hernando Cortez. With aid from a sympathetic Russian horse — my sole competitor for the role of Cute Animal Sidekick and all the merchandising deals that go with it — the two heroes set adrift on the ocean. What kid would want to watch a cartoon of people half-dying from heatstroke and dehydration? Who would want to spend two hours with a couple of whiny opportunists?
After near-death at sea, Miguel and Tulio arrive in Mesoamerica and clear-cut the forest on the way to a secret waterfall, leading to the Aztec culture where gold is as common as garbage. That’s where they meet me. You’ll see me in all my pointy-nosed glory, although my agent fought and lost the battle for a speaking part. Instead, I have a squeaking part, and one key sadistic scene.
After the ignorant natives mistake Miguel and Tulio for gods (how’s that for a white imperialist fantasy), they have to play the game of tlachtli, ancient ancestor to Bobby Knight-style basketball. So that our two pencil-necked impostors/heroes can win against a throng of hulking Aztec athletes, I curl up and portray the ball. This way I can hop through the hoop and ensure the white man’s victory. I take a beating, compromise my ethics, and for what? To see my likeness as a plush toy or two.
That sums up the feeling about The Road to El Dorado: so not worth it. I haven’t even mentioned the scantily clad native babe who wants to betray her culture and hightail it to Spain. Chel, as she’s called, has the voice of Rosie Perez and the cartoon body of Jennifer Lopez. Her function is to distract the boys from their get-rich-quick mission. Scenes drag on, kids in the audience fidget, desperately waiting for something to like, something to laugh at. Besides another over-produced Elton John/Tim Rice ballad.
So while Miguel runs around imposing his Eurocentric morals on the poor Aztecs by stopping all the ritual sacrifices he can, Tulio is figuring out how to get away with a buttload of gold. Much like S, K and G of Dreamworks SKG. By the end, the characters have learned precious little about multiculturalism or philanthropy, the audience has been treated to a profoundly boring story with unremarkable animation and my career as Hollywood’s most famous armadillo is hovering over the toilet. Quaaludes, anyone?
alaker@nuvo.net
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