The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot ★½

The more I think about this film, the more it annoys me. The title looks like it's gunning for classic B movie territory, with a lot of trashy fun to be had along the way, but what you actually get is a cloyingly sentimental story of love, loss and regret with a barely a passing nod to those exploitation staples. Basically, neither Hitler nor Bigfoot needed to be in this movie (spoiler: they barely are) and it feels distinctly like a cynical ploy to slip this schmaltzy nonsense under the radar of genre fans everywhere.

It's well shot, though almost unbearably slick, and the score is pure Zimmer-lite; all uplifting strings, swelling bombastically with emotional resonance. Frankly, this film is one of my least favourite sub-genres: the high concept (read: cod-philosophical) genre-hopping hagiography, that tries to be all things to all men but actually ends up being a sentimental mess. Youth Without Youth, Cloud Atlas, I Origins, Mr Nobody, The Man Who Killed Hitler... be damned, the lot of ye!

The eminently watchable Sam Elliott is the only thing holding this unwieldy, misguided behemoth together at all, and even he can't do anything about the cliched sentimentality of the script which hides behind that zany title. So many little irritations with this film - too many to list - that bug me like the perpetual stone in Calvin's shoe which, when he finally shakes it loose at the end of the movie, is the size of a fucking boulder. How did he not find it the last half dozen times he shook his shoe out? Ahh, that's called symbolism, dear boy. Sheesh, gimme a break.