“Atlas” Sequel Plans Revived, But Will the Franchise be Retooled for a Wider Audience?

[Above: Could a grainy, hand-held gore-fest of slack, unmotivated human body parts reanimate this rigored Randian tent-pole?]
Just when you thought it was safe to be an unoproductive mooch, Atlas Shrugged sparkplug John Aglialoro has shelved his plans to go “on strike” and announced that he will boldly defy his critics by producing the planned second and third installments of the trilogy after all, albeit with a heavier emphasis on marketing to a broader, non-cultmember audience.
Remember, this is the guy who originally conceived Part 3 as a musical, so God only knows what he’s got in mind. But, naturally, we have a few suggestions of our own, below the fold.

Atlas Contre le Fantome du Socialisme Insidieux: Swords ‘n’ sandals meet Creeping Socialism in this ObjectoScope epic, as an oily, buff Titan of Industry slashes overtime hours and sick-day pay, with only his magical Belt of Tightening and the Golden Axe of Outplacement standing between a future of mirthless innovation and the savage hordes of Collectivist Un-Men.

Operation G.O.G.A.L.T.: Goldfinger gets the “Lysistrata” treatment in this sexless Ocean’s 11 caper clone, which pits a band of charming, ne’er-do-well schemers against an army of abstinent fembot warriors who just want to get paid, not laid.

Wealth, Interrupted: The looming specter of middle age drives staid, lonely railroad heiress Dagny Taggart to chase her lost youth through the dark labyrinth of New York’s underage club scene, where she encounters a 12-year-old Italian war orphan named Dondi who schools her in the timeless, feral self-abandon of the tarantella, then robs her.

Glitter Gulch: Wealthy lounge-mannequin Henry Rearden knew his life was about to change when, on a whim, he followed that mysterious, raincoated old man into the desert. But he didn’t know just how much until he woke up alone in a tenement flat, with no memory, no pants, a rainbow mohawk and an angry spider monkey lofting airline bottles of Johnny Walker into the mirrored ceiling. His only clues—a bar of strange, gleaming metal and the name “John Galt,” carefully tattooed in Bodoni Italic on the cheeks of his ass.
——
What do you guys got? We’re wide open for genre take-offs here.
Posted by StrangeAppar8us on 05/10/11 at 11:20 AM • Permalink
Categories: Knee Slappers • Movies •

