Big Trouble in Little China is big on problematic subtexts and cultural misappropriation and lite on nuance and good taste. While it would require a kindergarten education to unpack the glaring social justice faux pas’ the film batters us over the head with, we’re not up to the task today. For now, let’s make merry in the sun and turn our harried attentions and troubled consciences to a more placid and amiable task: that look.
There’s much that could be said about the stylistic posturing that confronts us scene in, scene out with an almost tireless vigor. It’s trashy, pedestrian, and vapid. It’s low brow and low down. It’s unapologetic- but we’re not asking for one. Kurt Russell’s mullet and muscle tee act as a moodboard for the decade. Russell is at the spiritual vanguard of the tasteless meets trucker movement that appeared one day mysteriously and never quite disappeared from the cultural consciousness.
The muscle tee and denim are a clarion call of the late century American male, all swagger and sub zero substance. The latent testosterone is intoxicating, beckoning us with a very clear message: no guts, no glory, no worries. Big Trouble is so camp that you couldn’t drag it back from its final resting place far beyond the margins of respectability, but at least it has a place to rest its head. The film is basically sartorial steroids, and I for one, am imbibing.
