“Waterworld Deserved More Than It Got”
Thirty Years Later, Waterworld Still Has Legs—And Gills
Three decades on, Kevin Costner’s oceanic odyssey Waterworld remains one of Hollywood’s most infamous cautionary tales—but maybe it’s time we saw it for what it is: a bizarre, bold, and strangely enduring blockbuster.
When you watch as many movies as I do—something I’ve miraculously spun into a full-time job—you start noticing the small cinematic tells. Case in point: When a studio logo is tampered with at the start of a movie, it usually means something wild is about to go down. Think of the animated bickering over the Warner Bros. logo in Gremlins 2, or the retro 8-bit makeover for Universal in Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. But few logo tweaks are as haunting and effective as the one that opens Waterworld. The globe appears as usual, but instead of the familiar Universal fanfare, we linger in silence as oceans rise and consume the continents. Then comes Hal Douglas’ gravelly narration:
“The future: The polar ice caps have melted, covering the Earth with water. Those who survived have adapted… to a new world.”
Cue one of the strangest and most ambitious action movies of the ’90s.
An Opening Act of Absurd Genius
The first 30 minutes of Waterworld are pure, unfiltered chaos—in the best way. Kevin Costner’s Mariner, a mysterious mutant drifter, is introduced urinating into a contraption that turns his pee into drinking water (a very Bear Grylls move). He trades precious dirt at a floating atoll, encounters a tattooed child who holds the secret to mythical “Dryland,” and is nearly executed when the locals discover his hidden gills. Enter Dennis Hopper’s Deacon and his Jet Ski-riding, oil-chugging cult, who show up to lay waste to everything. It’s the kind of movie that feels like it was storyboarded by a 12-year-old with a sugar high—and honestly, that’s part of its charm.
As a kid catching it on cable, I figured Waterworld was a cult classic in the making. Imagine my surprise when I learned it had become a cautionary punchline by the end of the ’90s.
The Most Expensive Disaster That Wasn’t
Waterworld was plagued by drama from the get-go. Director Kevin Reynolds ignored Steven Spielberg’s advice about filming at sea (post-Jaws trauma), only to be rewarded with hurricanes, squalls, and a destroyed set. Kevin Costner nearly drowned. Joss Whedon was brought in for eleventh-hour rewrites and described the experience as “seven weeks of hell.” Costner and Reynolds clashed so intensely that Reynolds eventually walked, leaving Costner to finish the film himself. Meanwhile, rumors of Costner’s crumbling marriage and possible on-set affairs fueled relentless press mockery. The knives were out, and the headlines were brutal: “Fishtar.” “Kevin’s Gate.”
Even before it hit theaters, Waterworld had been pre-written into Hollywood infamy.
Mad Max Meets Maritime Madness
It’s not hard to trace the film’s lineage—Waterworld is Mad Max with boats. Originally pitched by screenwriter Peter Rader as a low-budget post-apocalyptic riff for Roger Corman, it eventually landed with Costner and Reynolds, who envisioned a bigger, wetter spectacle.
Initially budgeted at $100 million, the production ballooned to a then-record $175 million. And for that kind of cash, audiences were treated to a protagonist who was … difficult to root for. The Mariner isn’t the stoic, morally ambiguous loner like Max Rockatansky—he’s gruff, occasionally cruel, and emotionally stunted. He slaps Helen (Jeanne Tripplehorn), tosses Enola (Tina Majorino) overboard, and briefly considers trading Helen for paper. He does mellow out, eventually bonding with Enola in a scene where he teaches her to swim—a tender moment, if on-brand for a man-fish hybrid.
Still, there’s something admirable about how little the film cares about sanding down its rough edges.
No CG, No Problem
Much has been said about Waterworld’s troubled production, but little of that chaos bleeds into the finished product. What you see on screen is a jaw-dropping achievement in practical filmmaking. Real sets. Real water. Real stunts. The scale is massive and immersive—especially the atoll siege and the stunning underwater sequence where the Mariner shows Helen the sunken ruins of Denver. That moment, beyond its world-building utility, hammers home the film’s ecological anxiety. It’s a drowned world built on the ruins of environmental hubris.
The Deacon, living in the rusting carcass of the Exxon Valdez, is a parody of oil-age greed. “If there’s a river, we’ll dam it. If there’s a tree, we’ll ram it!” he shouts. It’s cartoonish, yes, but disturbingly prescient.
An Unlikely Survivor
Despite its poor critical reception and modest box office, Waterworld somehow clawed its way into the black over time, thanks to home video sales, overseas markets, and syndication. Even more bizarre: the Waterworld stunt show at Universal Studios Hollywood has been running since 1995, outlasting most of the park’s more relevant IP.
It’s tempting to label Waterworld as a misunderstood classic. It’s not. It’s messy, derivative, and often self-serious. But it’s also unlike anything studios would greenlight today. Imagine pitching a $175 million original film set entirely on the ocean, starring a grumpy mutant antihero, with no IP backing and no CGI shortcuts. Good luck.
A Soggy Masterpiece? Not Quite. But Still…
Viewed one way, Waterworld is a classic tale of unchecked ego and runaway budgets—a soggy cousin to Ishtar or Heaven’s Gate. But there’s another reading: that it was a wildly ambitious gamble that nearly worked. For all its flaws, it offers an experience you can’t get anywhere else. It’s a film that dared to do everything the hard way. And somehow, it endures.
Thirty years on, there’s still something thrilling about watching a bloated, battered blockbuster like Waterworld wash ashore with some of its grandeur intact. It may not be a pearl—but it’s certainly more than just a punchline.
