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You’re halfway through your “Victor/Victoria” cocktail at Planet Hollywood when a screen descends from the ceiling and TV monitors sparkle to life. A title proclaims: “Planet Hollywood Presents: Punches.” A battered Robert De Niro in Raging Bull pitches and sways. As the waiter delivers your cajun chicken-breast sandwich, De Niro’s opponent delivers the crushing blow—sweat, snot, and blood explode from Bob’s head in a Scorsese slo-mo. It quickly oozes into the bruised and bleeding mug of Planet Hollywood co-owner Sylvester Stallone. Another PH owner, Bruce Willis, shirtlessly brutalizes; Eastwood, Newman, and Indiana Jones bare-knuckle it. Suddenly, a silhouette of a man with a club appears and repeatedly pounds a fallen soul as your food cools. On and on the pummeling goes, an interminable montage of fists and feet meeting teeth and torso, served up with Survivor’s unenlightened anthem, “Eye of the Tiger.” Finally, the screens fade and the waiter reappears. “Will there be anything else?” Yes—inform Sen. Simon and Janet Reno. It’s not just prime-time television that needs an advisory sticker.