Kevin Costner, “Wyatt Earp” (1994)
Don’t encourage Kevin Costner. If you let him, he will make a seven-hour movie. He’s the Leon Uris or James Michener of acting and producing.
In the last gasp of Santa Fe chic, where Southwestern pastels, Navaho beads, and black bean salad were all the rage, audiences came out in droves to see Costner ride with the Sioux in “Dances with Wolves.” Afterward, he seemed to think he was bulletproof, pumping out three-and-a-half hour fluff as if he were Cecil B. DeMille. Just one year after the success of “Tombstone,” Costner thought he could improve upon the exact same story by adding two more hours to Earp’s cleanup of Dodge City. “Wyatt Earp” is buried in prosaic stretches void of dialogue, Costner sagely peering into the distance, the veritable tumbleweed rolling across parched caliche. And even when he does speak, it’s in a monotone, sleep-inducing timbre unbearable in its tedium. Kevin Costner is the only actor capable of positing the enigma: How do you make the shootout at the O.K. Corral boring?