The Great Chameleon Review

Great Chameleon

I am setting a timer right now. I am giving myself ten minutes to write about The Great Chameleon once this introductory paragraph is done. It’s a film that somehow manages to top the worst of the worst in local cinema this year in an already rough year for it. I’m incredibly angered that it wasted 97 minutes of my time that I could have been doing literally anything else short of an emergency surgery that would have been more pleasant. It’s further proof that local theatres need to stop giving theatrical runs for any asshole with a chequebook who thinks they have a movie. I’m openly ashamed to even be in the same room as this thing. Giving this shit even ten minutes of my time is fucking generous.

And go…

Joel Murky (Victore Altomare, who also wrote), a master of disguise and life long con artist has been sprung from prison to help with the investigation looking into the kidnapping of his niece. It might have been as a result of his past, it might not. Who cares? He’s aided by the officer who sprung him (a truly awful Monique Zordan) and his flamboyantly gay, right hand man (poor Stacy FUCKING Keach, who is thankfully doing the bare minimum and still managing to be the best thing in the film). They uncover a deeper sort of corruption all tied into the same Asian mobster.

I…I’m just staring into space right now. I just wasted five minutes trying to put into words how much I hate this movie. And hate is the right word, since this might be one of the most ugly and hateful films to be released in quite some time, and that’s almost the only way to properly respond to such a piece of trash. Thankfully no one will see it, but it’s so noxious and obnoxious that it borders on something that should be picketed. The comedic stylings of Altomare are non-existant (not to mention that he doesn’t have a single disguise that’s remotely credible or would fool everyone since he still drops countless tough-guy F-bombs regardless of what his character is supposed to be) can be summed up very simply. Adopt a stereotypical Italian accent and say (and I am sort for even writing this, but this is seriously what you’re in for if you see this with it being nearly every line of dialogue): “You know what’s fuckin’ kooky? Those fuckin’ Indians, fuckin’ gays, Jamaicans, and the Chinese or whateva the fuck they are. But you know what’s fuckin’ hilarious? Pants shittin’ fucking retards. (pause) You know what I do like though? Vaginas.”


These are the objects of derision are never skewered gently or in any remotely funny manner. It’s not boundary pushing. It’s ignorant. Flat. Out. Ignorant. It never rises above asinine in its finest moments. This kind of thing could have been funny in the hands of anyone with actual talent, but under the guidance of the staggeringly talentless Altomare and the hack direction of Goran Kalezic, it’s a null set of offensiveness that goes absolutely nowhere interesting or even all that dark. It’s a string of profanities and useless set pieces punctuated with inept sleaze. It made me whistful for Andrew Dice Clay stand-up routines, which deal with this kind of misanthropy with almost infinitely more nuance.

My time is up. I made a promise to myself. This review is fucking done. I actually broke my rule to finish that last paragraph and this one, meaning I am simply wasting more of my time. Way to go, Great Chameleon. You’ve actually won this round. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to try to enjoy the rest of my day and the rest of my life. We’re done here.

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