Swept Away into the garbage

Think 6 Days 7 Nights, only with worse acting, less dialogue, a more unbelievable script, and uglier people. Now you have some vague notion of the unprecedented debacle that is Swept Away, Hollywood's latest installment in the saturated deserted island romance genre.

In the histrionic world of Swept Away, people come in two types: conceited, self-righteous, conservative jerks or violent, crude liberal jerks. A romance between two archetypes of these categories isn't exactly the captivating story producers were going for. The movie makes some brief, ridiculous pretensions towards a dramatic metaphor for the evils of capitalism, but the incessant idiocy and constant clichés drown out any deeper meaning in this film.

Madonna stars as, well, Madonna, the wealthy, spoiled wife of an American professor. For the first twenty minutes of the film, Madonna, her husband and some equally elitist friends are on an exclusive private cruise from Greece to Italy. Director/husband Guy Ritchie wiles away the endless minutes by beating the audience over the head with the extent of Madonna's snobbery, as she snoots everything politically incorrect from the poor to the blind, all the while championing the marvels of capitalism and the free market economy. Her politics make Newt Gingrinch look like Captain Planet.

Guiseppe (Adriano Giannini), a poor Italian fisherman/sailor, drops in from time to time to provide contrast, with prosaic remarks like, "You can't see clearly when money is involved." He may be bighearted, but he's grimy, poor and smells like fish, so Madonna & Co. ignore peasant boy and continue tanning.

Through a series of unlikely circumstances, Madonna and the Love Interest are shipwrecked on Fantasy Island, where regardless how many weeks you spend away from civilization, your hair never grows longer, your make-up never fades, your clothing stays unfrayed, and you never get pregnant no matter how much unprotected sex you have (Oops, did I just give away a plot twist? My bad).

After a petulant fight reminiscent of the preschool playground, the castaways part company—for about thirty seconds. Apparently, Guiseppe has been watching Survivor reruns: it takes him about one hour to fashion a workable crossbow, start a fire from sticks and build himself a nice beach chair. He also stumbles upon an abandoned hut, conveniently stocked with fresh linen and camping supplies. Meanwhile, Madame Mascara is starving and exhausted, so she heads back to Guiseppe's camp to beg some provisions.

Guiseppe isn't so happy with Madonna's arrival, but he soon learns to appreciate her presence by making her his slave. Literally. "You must call me Master," he demands imperiously, alternately beating and starving her into submission. So, she's a racist with a superiority complex and he's an abusive chauvinist. A match made in Heaven. Attempted rape is the spark that sets their smoldering (and hitherto completely hidden) passion aflame, and soon Madonna and Guiseppe become lovers, destined to be together forever on the Abandoned Island of You Wish.

Unfortunately, there's still a good 45 minutes of movie to go, and dialogue and character development would be too sophisticated for this flick. Ritchie uses up this eternity with endless clips of Madonna and Guiseppe walking into the sunset, making out on the beach and staring soulfully into the camera, all set against "Italian" music that grates on the nerves worse than Macy Gray singing opera. It's like an endless advertisement for sand. In a final attempt to introduce conflict into the story, Madonna and Guiseppe are rescued and taken to their old lives. Will their love survive the pressures of society? Will they be permanently rent from each other's side at the height of their torrid romance? Does anybody care? No.

The acting only further detracts from the soggy story. Madonna's prima donna persona is overblown and shallow. She sticks to her haughty superiority the entire film, even when she's supposedly revealing her true, loving nature in the arms of Guiseppe. Sticking with the one-trick-pony trend, Giannini never really loses his brutal callousness. You would have to dislocate, not merely stretch your imagination to see these two in love.

While the scenery is pretty enough, no amount of shots of the sparkling ocean would have made Swept Away worth a half-priced matinee ticket. Just turning the camera on and training it on the horizon for a couple of hours would have produced a better movie.

Swept Away is rated R for language and brief nudity.