At this point, you’ve probably heard about Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis, the passion project the Oscar-winning director of The Godfather trilogy, The Conversation, and Apocalypse Now (just to name a few of his brilliant films) conceived of in the ’70s and has now brought to life, after investing $120 million of his own money. During this difficult time for movies, it’s admirable that filmmakers like Coppola and Kevin Costner (Horizon 1 and 2) believe in their projects with such vigor that they’d bet their children’s inheritance on them. At 85, Coppola is still a consummate artist who skirts the rules and makes his mark. Unfortunately, the end result is dreadful. Aggressively so. In fact, it’s one of the worst films to hit theaters in a long time, which is saying a lot during this benighted era of multiverses and superheroes. And, to be fair, it’s a much more unique experience than the franchise fare, a movie you won’t soon forget — but it’s still a rough ride. Reminiscent of old-school flops, like Heaven’s Gate, Ishtar, and Battlefield Earth, it’s a project that’s both personal and completely bonkers at the same time, and for that reason alone it’s worth buying a ticket. Written, directed, and produced by Coppola, Megalopolis defies all logic and definition, even cinematically — and in that regard, it’s probably the perfect movie for the bizarre times we live in. Yet for all its sweep, spectacle, and exuberance, it is high-grade camp that feels like it was made by an eccentric uncle who lives in the basement, smokes weed all day, trips on shrooms, and switches between MSNBC and Fox News. At lunch, he might come out and rant about how he knows how he’s going to save the world from itself. So, how does one describe the plot of this gargantuan mess? Imagine if Philip K. Dick penned a version of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and you’ll get only a smidgen of what happens in this movie. Deep breath. Here we go: Set in a future that resembles ancient Rome, New York City is now called New Rome. You see, it’s the future and the past all at once — Whoaw! Bill and Ted would be impressed. Anyway, technology has run amuck (although there isn’t a cell phone in sight), and the people have been divided like never before. But fear not, Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver, silently drowning in every scene as he tries to realize a character who utterly lacks substance) is a brilliant architect who can stop time. He intends to fix the city’s problems with a material he’s created, called “Megalon,” which is like an invisible version of the sentient goo from Flubber.  Meanwhile, Mayor Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), a former district attorney who once prosecuted Catilina for murder, attempts to thwart the young upstart’s plans. But things get sticky when Cicero’s daughter Julia  (Nathalie Emmanuel) falls in love with Catilina, even though he’s already involved with corrupt news reporter Wow Platinum (played with exuberant pluck by Aubrey Plaza). The love story is about as profound as an episode of Melrose Place, and is pushed to dizzying heights. Oh, but we’re not finished. As this groggy melodrama plays out, powerful banker Hamilton Crassus III (a confused Jon Voight) tries to wrestle power from Mayor Cicero while his ambitious, coke-snorting son, Clodio Pulcher (Shia LaBeouf, in complete-douche mode), forms a political party that resembles the Proud Boys with ponytails and kneepads. Legendary actors such as Laurence Fishburne and Dustin Hoffman are shunted aside in parts that are equally lamebrained and ridiculous.  Coppola shoestrings these disjointed storylines together with such nonchalance and laziness, you’ll struggle to keep up. The dangling strands of this narrative are glued together with surrealist sequences and befuddling, psychedelic mirages. While these cinematic flourishes are meant to pull us into a dreamlike realm, the effect is merely frustrating, and brutally dull. And let us not forget the embarrassing, lofty dialogue, where everyone sounds like they’re lecturing each other from pulpits. A line such as “We spend time we don’t have looking at things we don’t need” might read well on paper, but onscreen it just floats in tiny bubbles before evaporating. A lot has been said about the production design from Bradley Rubin and Beth Mickle, which is impressive. But when was the last time a movie’s production design saved it from a terrible screenplay and nonsensical directing? Coppola’s money is certainly on the screen (as are its many rewrites), but besides the CGI cityscapes and a few interesting images of discarded statues on the streets, the set pieces are rudimentary. Mihai Mălaimare Jr.’s lush cinemaphotography is textured and beautiful, but inconsistent. At times, the movie looks like a bad high school play in which the “Roman” costumes were purchased from a Halloween pop-up store and the flimsy sets were erected that morning.  Sadly, this could be the swan song for one of the greatest directors of all time. There is little trace of the man who directed The Godfather, The Conversation, or Rumble Fish in this movie. It’s an incoherent, muddled, confused reaction to our current media and politics and everything in between. Conceptually, it’s interesting to compare our current affairs to the fall of the Roman Empire, but Coppola’s ideas are so deeply embedded in his psyche, they’re impossible to decipher. But I’ll give the movie one thing: It’s painful on a truly impressive level. As you get toward the end, just when you can’t take it anymore, you’ll be flung into a deeper level of Dante’s Inferno, a layer of hell where sanctimony and pretentiousness burn bright. You see, it’s a message movie for people who’ve never heard a message before in their lives. For that reason alone, I recommend that you see it on the big screen, tomorrow. It’s a Heaven’s Gate type of experience that only comes once a generation. Although Coppola’s ambition is something to behold, this movie hardly exists outside of his own imagination. After watching a bloated catastrophe like Megalopolis, you realize that sometimes it’s good to have an outside producer build that bridge between an artist and the audience.   The post Review: ‘Megalopolis’ Is a Terrible Place to Visit, But We Sort Of Live There appeared first on LA Weekly.