In 1990, Julia Roberts stars as a street walker in PRETTY WOMAN, launching her career as a leading actress, as well as an unfortunate fad involving thigh-high leather boots. That same year, I was a freshman in high school, and had recently purchased my first pair of designer jeans. Bugle Boys, in fact. In spite of my clear irresistibility, Ms. Roberts fails to ask me out or profess her undying love, at least publicly. In fact, Julia continued to not ask me out, even though, by 1992, I have seen every MacGyver episode that has ever aired, even the TV movie that revealed his previously unrevealed first name, Angus. The public, naturally, tires of her stuck-up ways, and, refuses to make hits of subsequent films like I LOVE TROUBLE, EVERYONE SAYS I LOVE YOU, and MARY REILLY. Coincidence?

Sure, you could chalk it up to lousy scripts, poor direction, or even that Ms. Roberts and I have never met, not even in private, at an exclusive, secluded ski resort in Aspen where we shared hot cocoa and took long, luxurious dips in the Olympic-sized hot tub, gazing into each others' eyes, which say more than lips and tongues ever could, and made passionate love well into the night, but it all seems a little too coincidental, doesn't it?

And so, seven years after her star-making performance, seven long years of ignoring her true feelings, Julia's career was in the dumpster. Which may explain why that year she wound up starring in CONSPIRACY THEORY, with Mel Gibson. Her stubborn refusal to give in to her clear attraction for me and my panther-like raw sexuality, which, in 1997, was clearly evidenced by my ownership of a studly red 1987 Ford Tempo. (Yes, ladies, it was fully automatic.) I practically had to fend the women off with a stick, yet Julia remained obstinate.

CONSPIRACY THEORY tells the story of New York City cab driver Jerry Fletcher, as played by Mel. When we meet Jerry at the start of the film, he’s giving an extended soliloquy on Nobel prize winners' frozen semen as he drives passengers around in his cab. As openers go, this is a risky gambit, as I am unaware of a single film on the AFI list that begins or even ends with a semen anecdote, although it's hard to speak with absolute authority since there are several I haven't seen yet. For all I know, BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S may kick off with a real gutbuster concerning George Pappard's spunk. TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE could very well start with a discussion of Bogey's man-chowder. I doubt it, but, hey, you never know.

Jerry, it seems, has been trained to be a killer by a secret CIA task force, run by Jean-Patrick Stewart, who clearly needs a hobby. It's unclear whether the program includes all NYC cab drivers or just Jerry. Is it part of the licensing process? What does secret CIA assassin training cost? Is it covered by the union? Is an unhealthy obsession with bodily fluids a prerequisite, or more of an end result? These are the kinds of questions that CONSPIRACY THEORY never clears up, and I, as a viewer, felt should have been addressed with exactly the same sort of attention to detail that was paid to Jerry's semen story. By which I mean, a lot.

Instead, the filmmakers opted to move on to other, less pressing matters, like Jerry's stalkerish preoccupation with Julia's character, Alice, a Justice Department lawyer. This job, from what I can tell, allows her to pretty much go wherever she wants, whenever she wants, simply by flashing her wallet, including not to work. Which is good, because this gives Jerry more time to follow her around and watch her through binoculars, an activity which, if this were real life and not a big-budget action picture, most likely would involve a hand shuffle and some of the aforementioned fluids. But it isn't, and, thankfully, it doesn't.

When he's not, er, "watching" Alice, Jerry publishes a newsletter devoted to his rantings, presumably semen-related and otherwise, and apparently one of his stories concerned that whole "the government is training spooge-obsessed cab drivers to be killers" thing, and Stewart is forced to personally spring into action. You might worry about the effectiveness of a government agency that, you know, not only fails to foresee this issue coming up in one of their deranged killers' newsletters, but doesn't send one of the other of killer cabbies to do the job. Yes, I suppose that might raise the possibility of that killer writing about it in his newsletter, but that's just the sort of thing you have to deal with when it comes up.

The rest of the film basically alternates between sequences of Jerry being captured and then escaping. Perhaps this is because the villain keeps leaving him tied up and unattended in various understaffed or otherwise abandoned facilities the size of that warehouse at the end of RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. In between captures, Alice manages to discover that Jerry did not kill her father, which is a big relief, as it could have put a real damper on their relationship. That whole mess out of the way, they are free to make out for a bit.

Which, if you ask me, was the reason this movie failed so miserably. Audiences so clearly wanted to see Julia with a certain owner of a fine used Ford Tempo, not with some ranting, man-gravy-obsessed lunatic. The general public just wouldn't buy the act, and, frankly, I don't blame them.

Myself, I've moved on. Too bad, Julia. We'll always have Aspen.

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