Who needs Carry On Columbus when you can have the real thing? It's hard to fathom the minds of people who could make this kind of tripe. The film is wretched in most respects (Robert Davi is a ruggedly good Martin Pinzon), but even fine writers like Louis MacNeice and Richard Nelson have been stumped by the intractability of the Columbus story: he came, he saw, he went home. It's boring enough crossing the Atlantic on British Airways, never mind months in a wooden hulk surrounded by exiles from the RSC and the National. Selleck looks suitably embarrassed as King Ferdinand of Aragon, Ward is a head-girl Isabella of Castille, Jones is Columbus' bit on the (quay)side, an unknown Greek with designer stubble (Corraface) is Columbus, and Brando is a completely barmy Torquemada.