2012 I really wanted to like this movie. Everything started out great too. A blockbuster, huge budget, wall-to-wall special effects. Plus I like John Cusack a lot, and Amanda Peet is fine. Woody Haralson plays another freakish crazy guy. Makes me think he is probably a freakish crazy guy in real life.
I assume you all know the plot: The world is ending because the Mayan Calendar says it has to.
Sidebar: I believe I wrote an IGM about this previously, but just in case there is someone in the world who didn’t read it, let me repeat. The Mayan calendar does not end on December 21,2012. It resets. The calendar is circular, cyclic, which is why they carved it as a series of concentric wheels, on round stones. So rather than that date being the end of the world, it is only the end of a specific period, an era. There are several million Mayans, mostly in Guatemala, who aren’t worried about it. But there will be some crazies taking it seriously. So stay away from hilltops and kool-aid.
Now back to our review. There are no surprises in this movie, and no one expected there would be. It’s all about the action, suspense and effects—which are breath-taking. And for the first two hours it succeeds brilliantly in giving us what we paid for. The story follows Cusack, a divorced writer who is trying to keep some kind of relationship with his two kids. The writing isn’t going so well, despite his first book having just been published, and he is driving a limo to make ends meet. He has to use the longcar to take his kids to Yellowstone, which as we all know, is the world’s biggest active volcano. (See my IGM titled Yellowstone: The Real End of the World). Yellowstone—apparently only an hour or so from LA by limo—is where Cusack meets Haralson who is broadcasting remotely from an RV, exposing all the secrets the worlds governments have been keeping concerning the end of the world. Something about the molten core heating up and spinning faster resulting in the curst breaking loose and going through some radical rearrangements. (See my IGM entitled The Treadmill Theory of Geological Relocation: A Creative Extrapolation of the Plate Tectonic Theory). The governments have known about the whole thing for a few years and have secretly been building “Arks” in which a few hundred thousand selectees will ride out the apocalypse based on their political juice and/or their ability to offer truly prodigious bribes. Cusack finds out about it and decides to get his family and get them onto one of the ships. Easier said than done, especially when Southern California has decided to become North Dakota.
For the next hour and a half our heroes miraculously miss being killed in interesting ways mostly involving large pieces of the planet falling on them, while they make their ways unerringly to China under less than plausible circumstances. But hey, it’s all in the script, right? It’s fun and exciting, get’s the blood up; in other words, doing exactly what we paid for. But then it doesn’t end. It goes on for another half hour (About 2 hours 40 minutes, total) and falls into a dreary, hackneyed, morass of the worst kind of melodrama. It’s as if there was a huge safe somewhere in Hollywood where every cliché in the history of cinema is kept and the writers and director got into that safe and used every one of them all at once. In a nightmare of professional idiocy, the movie leaves the world of the merely implausible and makes itself at home in the world of “who the hell wrote this slop? Kim Jong il?”
They tried to tug at our heart strings. Which works a time or two, when intelligently done, with some semblance of restraint. But this was like the Olympic Gold Medalist of over-doing it—the super-tsunami of “oh, please!”
I went in fully prepared to maintain a healthy dose of “willing suspension of disbelief,” (Which I’m really good at) but it beat me. It finally became a parody of itself. The worst stereotype since Armageddon.
It’s rated PG-13. The usual end-of-the-world mayhem and destruction. It will quicken your pulse, no doubt about it. But if you decide to see it, be sure to get a lobotomy-to-go first.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Zombieland For all you newbies out there, anything with the word “Zombie” in it, or with even a hint of ravenous, reanimated, cannibalistic humans in the trailer, is a must-see for yours truly. I know, it’s disgusting (of which Nita reminds me each and every time) but I can’t help it. Ever since I saw Night of the Living Dead back in 1970 or so I’ve been hooked. I wish it had been angels with heavenly messages and bright lights shining over their heads, but what can you do?
Zombieland is a quirky, unpretentious movie that tries to be funny in an ironic way, but ends up actually surpassing that admittedly unambitious goal. It is funny, but it manages to go beyond the usual Hollywood superficiality and find a hint of meaning in the midst of what otherwise is a plain old blood and guts flick. And make no mistake, the blood and guts are there in Technicolor, filmed in loving detail and über-graphic slow-mo. That’s part of the fun and expected in this genre.
The story revolves around a young twenty-something college drop-out—a phobia-laden, girl-challenged socially-inept boy. Some kind of plague—very briefly tied to mad-cow disease with a description of swelling brains, high fevers and ultra-violent outbursts fueled by an insatiable desire for human flesh—has rendered mankind all but extinct in a matter of months. A few normal’s are left, people who have been lucky and/or managed to survive by dint of a genetic propensity for zombie-killing. Woody Haralson is another survivor, born, it seems, to shine in the post-apocalyptic world of Zombieland. The two males accidently join forces and soon meet two females who waste no time scamming the boys out of their ride, food, guns, and everything else. It’s the classic story really; boy meets girl, girl turns out to be a grifter, boy rescues girl (and her little sister) from the zombie horde.
This movie is a good example of what decent writing (not great writing) can do for a terrible story—and let’s face it, anything with zombies in it must be, by definition, a terrible story. Tallahassee and Cleveland (no one uses names—you don’t want to form any lasting relationships in Zombieland) are polar opposites but seem to mesh as they go looking for the girls and their gear, killing zombies right and left along the way.
About a fourth of the movie takes place in Beverly Hills, in what is supposed to be Bill Murray’s mansion, and that sequence takes the film from just another pretty-good genre flick to memorable, and a sure-thing for cult classic. Murray is in it, playing himself, and that’s all I can tell you about that.
Amidst the scatological humor, disgusting special effects, and high-irony, they somehow manage to find moments (albeit brief) of sincere suspense and humanity. Which still doesn’t make it a good movie, but does make it a not-completely terrible movie. The director borrows a few gimmicks from Quentin Tarantino, with little asides in the narration, (like the Zombie Kill of the Week) and odd little scenes just for fun. It also borrows from the TV show Fringe with little 3-d labels and signs that appear randomly in the scene and sometimes break and fall down. Very odd, but I liked all that.
So . . . it’s rated R, and it wears that letter proudly, kind of like the big red “B+” my sister wore on her sweatshirt at BYU. (You English majors should get that . . .) Lots of foul language, lots of viscera being eaten, black fluids dripping (okay—spewing) from dead mouths, decapitations, vehicles running over bodies, the usual stuff. It is not for the mainstream movie-going audience, even though it is, ostensibly, a comedy. But it’s an existential comedy, full of angst, pathos and hubris, and the afore-mentioned irony. I do not recommend it for anyone. A few of you will want to see it and you know who you are. For the rest? Rent a classic. Had Nita, in her own brain-swollen fever, gone with me to see it, she would still be in the ICU.
Zombieland is a quirky, unpretentious movie that tries to be funny in an ironic way, but ends up actually surpassing that admittedly unambitious goal. It is funny, but it manages to go beyond the usual Hollywood superficiality and find a hint of meaning in the midst of what otherwise is a plain old blood and guts flick. And make no mistake, the blood and guts are there in Technicolor, filmed in loving detail and über-graphic slow-mo. That’s part of the fun and expected in this genre.
The story revolves around a young twenty-something college drop-out—a phobia-laden, girl-challenged socially-inept boy. Some kind of plague—very briefly tied to mad-cow disease with a description of swelling brains, high fevers and ultra-violent outbursts fueled by an insatiable desire for human flesh—has rendered mankind all but extinct in a matter of months. A few normal’s are left, people who have been lucky and/or managed to survive by dint of a genetic propensity for zombie-killing. Woody Haralson is another survivor, born, it seems, to shine in the post-apocalyptic world of Zombieland. The two males accidently join forces and soon meet two females who waste no time scamming the boys out of their ride, food, guns, and everything else. It’s the classic story really; boy meets girl, girl turns out to be a grifter, boy rescues girl (and her little sister) from the zombie horde.
This movie is a good example of what decent writing (not great writing) can do for a terrible story—and let’s face it, anything with zombies in it must be, by definition, a terrible story. Tallahassee and Cleveland (no one uses names—you don’t want to form any lasting relationships in Zombieland) are polar opposites but seem to mesh as they go looking for the girls and their gear, killing zombies right and left along the way.
About a fourth of the movie takes place in Beverly Hills, in what is supposed to be Bill Murray’s mansion, and that sequence takes the film from just another pretty-good genre flick to memorable, and a sure-thing for cult classic. Murray is in it, playing himself, and that’s all I can tell you about that.
Amidst the scatological humor, disgusting special effects, and high-irony, they somehow manage to find moments (albeit brief) of sincere suspense and humanity. Which still doesn’t make it a good movie, but does make it a not-completely terrible movie. The director borrows a few gimmicks from Quentin Tarantino, with little asides in the narration, (like the Zombie Kill of the Week) and odd little scenes just for fun. It also borrows from the TV show Fringe with little 3-d labels and signs that appear randomly in the scene and sometimes break and fall down. Very odd, but I liked all that.
So . . . it’s rated R, and it wears that letter proudly, kind of like the big red “B+” my sister wore on her sweatshirt at BYU. (You English majors should get that . . .) Lots of foul language, lots of viscera being eaten, black fluids dripping (okay—spewing) from dead mouths, decapitations, vehicles running over bodies, the usual stuff. It is not for the mainstream movie-going audience, even though it is, ostensibly, a comedy. But it’s an existential comedy, full of angst, pathos and hubris, and the afore-mentioned irony. I do not recommend it for anyone. A few of you will want to see it and you know who you are. For the rest? Rent a classic. Had Nita, in her own brain-swollen fever, gone with me to see it, she would still be in the ICU.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thor at the Bus Stop
Thor at the Bus Stop This review will be a little different than usual. I am reviewing a movie that hasn’t been released yet. And, I am also pitching the movie. All will be explained.
Thor at the Bus Stop is a local production. It was written, produced, filmed, edited . . . everything . . . here in Las Vegas. It is an off-beat, quirky little existential comedy about the God of Thunder (Thor) and his date with Ragnarök, in which he is destined to fight a really big snake, die, and usher in the end of the universe. We find him, as the movie opens, sitting at a bus stop somewhere in Summerlin (a suburb of Las Vegas for you out-of-towners), with an annoying little girl, trying to find a ride to his destiny. From then on we loosely follow Thor’s progress—or lack thereof—and the myriad odd but memorable characters which inhabit this contemporary fantasy. We are treated to—as the trailer says—Thunder Claps, Fruit Snacks, and the Power of Cool.
We meet Big Zed and L’il Ned, two petty thieves who specialize in lunch boxes, White Trash Chuck who wants to be good but is having a bad life, Passenger-seat Pete, who intends to slide through life with as little effort as possible, and several others. My two favorites are the wounded guy, who has a yield sign stuck in his chest throughout the movie, and someone known only as “Milk Strider”, who we see countless times, always hurrying, wearing boxers, a tee shirt and a robe, and carrying several gallons of milk. All will be revealed.
Several people are killed, including the annoying little girl who opens the film, and two cops are on the job, trying to find clues in the small mounds of ash which is all that’s left of them. Bernard Bernard, an apparently agency-less news man with a camera-slash-sound man, a van, and a satellite dish made out of cardboard, follows the cops, trying to beat them to the scoop. The eternal questions about life, relationships, the meaning of Cool, God, and why it’s so hard to find good medical help in an emergency, are all asked and answered—sort of. In the end, everyone learns something, and Thor accepts the inevitability of his fate, enters the cavern, and faces the serpent. I quite liked it, despite the obvious lack of a budget or any name-actors. I don’t think it has been rated, but I would give it a PG. There is no cussing (White Trash Chuck used to cuss until his little sister was born—he is obviously frustrated but trying hard), no sex or skin, and only one attempted, then aborted, murder. Cool Prevails. Any violence is off camera except for our petty thieves roughing up a few elementary school kids, and Thor killing a basketball standard and the Serpent of Midgard.
The music was done by local talent as well, by two groups, “A Crowd of Small Adventures” and “Hungry Cloud”. Both are fronted by Jackson Wilcox, who is credited with the soundtrack. (Jack is a cousin, my uncle’s grandson, but those of you who know me, know I have thousands of cousins.)
Now, here is why I am pitching it. My daughter’s boy friend and his brothers made the movie. Mike and Jerry Thompson wrote and directed it, G. Scott Thompson (the boyfriend) co-produced and plays Big Zed, and they all took part in the filming and editing. One of the brothers plays White Trash Chuck, and another is Thor. Even Chani, my daughter, has a two-second scene near the end. ( Hint—She is the reason for all the milk.) The movie has played at several film festivals, including Sundance, and won some acclaim. They managed to put together a week at the Brenden theaters here in town. (At the Palms Resort). The premier is September 25 (the day after Thorsday—get it?).
I highly recommend the film on its own merit. Beyond that, I think we should do what we can to support and encourage the arts in this valley. So I am inviting everyone to go see it that week. If enough people go, the stay will be extended, and we might start a phenomenon, like we did with Napoleon Dynamite. Take a friend or twelve, make an evening of it. If nothing else think of the awesome trivia questions you’ll be able to generate, and annoying quotes you can share with friends in the know!
Those of you who live out of town are welcome to come and stay with us for a day or two while you take in the movie.
Addendum: The film is out now. We went to the world premier here in Vegas. It was kind of a family reunion for the Thompson boys. It gets better every time I see it.
Thor at the Bus Stop is a local production. It was written, produced, filmed, edited . . . everything . . . here in Las Vegas. It is an off-beat, quirky little existential comedy about the God of Thunder (Thor) and his date with Ragnarök, in which he is destined to fight a really big snake, die, and usher in the end of the universe. We find him, as the movie opens, sitting at a bus stop somewhere in Summerlin (a suburb of Las Vegas for you out-of-towners), with an annoying little girl, trying to find a ride to his destiny. From then on we loosely follow Thor’s progress—or lack thereof—and the myriad odd but memorable characters which inhabit this contemporary fantasy. We are treated to—as the trailer says—Thunder Claps, Fruit Snacks, and the Power of Cool.
We meet Big Zed and L’il Ned, two petty thieves who specialize in lunch boxes, White Trash Chuck who wants to be good but is having a bad life, Passenger-seat Pete, who intends to slide through life with as little effort as possible, and several others. My two favorites are the wounded guy, who has a yield sign stuck in his chest throughout the movie, and someone known only as “Milk Strider”, who we see countless times, always hurrying, wearing boxers, a tee shirt and a robe, and carrying several gallons of milk. All will be revealed.
Several people are killed, including the annoying little girl who opens the film, and two cops are on the job, trying to find clues in the small mounds of ash which is all that’s left of them. Bernard Bernard, an apparently agency-less news man with a camera-slash-sound man, a van, and a satellite dish made out of cardboard, follows the cops, trying to beat them to the scoop. The eternal questions about life, relationships, the meaning of Cool, God, and why it’s so hard to find good medical help in an emergency, are all asked and answered—sort of. In the end, everyone learns something, and Thor accepts the inevitability of his fate, enters the cavern, and faces the serpent. I quite liked it, despite the obvious lack of a budget or any name-actors. I don’t think it has been rated, but I would give it a PG. There is no cussing (White Trash Chuck used to cuss until his little sister was born—he is obviously frustrated but trying hard), no sex or skin, and only one attempted, then aborted, murder. Cool Prevails. Any violence is off camera except for our petty thieves roughing up a few elementary school kids, and Thor killing a basketball standard and the Serpent of Midgard.
The music was done by local talent as well, by two groups, “A Crowd of Small Adventures” and “Hungry Cloud”. Both are fronted by Jackson Wilcox, who is credited with the soundtrack. (Jack is a cousin, my uncle’s grandson, but those of you who know me, know I have thousands of cousins.)
Now, here is why I am pitching it. My daughter’s boy friend and his brothers made the movie. Mike and Jerry Thompson wrote and directed it, G. Scott Thompson (the boyfriend) co-produced and plays Big Zed, and they all took part in the filming and editing. One of the brothers plays White Trash Chuck, and another is Thor. Even Chani, my daughter, has a two-second scene near the end. ( Hint—She is the reason for all the milk.) The movie has played at several film festivals, including Sundance, and won some acclaim. They managed to put together a week at the Brenden theaters here in town. (At the Palms Resort). The premier is September 25 (the day after Thorsday—get it?).
I highly recommend the film on its own merit. Beyond that, I think we should do what we can to support and encourage the arts in this valley. So I am inviting everyone to go see it that week. If enough people go, the stay will be extended, and we might start a phenomenon, like we did with Napoleon Dynamite. Take a friend or twelve, make an evening of it. If nothing else think of the awesome trivia questions you’ll be able to generate, and annoying quotes you can share with friends in the know!
Those of you who live out of town are welcome to come and stay with us for a day or two while you take in the movie.
Addendum: The film is out now. We went to the world premier here in Vegas. It was kind of a family reunion for the Thompson boys. It gets better every time I see it.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
IGM: Mary Travers
Inter-Galactic Memo
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Mary Travers
9-17-09
It is with a profound sense of loss and a quiet sense of personal satisfaction that I announce the death of Mary Travers. After a long and painful struggle with leukemia, she has finally won the battle at age 72. Loss because I will miss having her in the world, and satisfaction because of a life well-lived and one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. The gift of music.
Many of you will not be familiar with Mary. She was the full-throated blonde in the folk trio, Peter Paul and Mary. They hit it big in the early sixties singing traditional folk songs, and then expanded their repertoire to include protest music, and uplifting songs about peace and love and stuff like that. They won five Grammys and maintained an active career well into the eighties, and accidently got rich. I have no idea how many albums they sold, but I have one or two of all of them. (And by album, I mean vinyl.)
I was probably fourteen or so when I first heard them, and they changed my life forever. Peter Paul and Mary remain the single biggest musical influence in my life. By the time I was in high school in the late sixties I was playing guitar and singing their songs, then jointly formed a trio (two guys and a girl) of my (our) own and we became PP&M clones. We eventually branched out a little and did Dylan (so did PP&M . . . so did everybody) and Donovan and other, less well know stuff—like the Sons of the Pioneers—including some of our own. We played the coffee house circuit between Baltimore and D.C. In some ways, that was the “best time of my life”, to quote Bryan Adams. It is difficult to describe the extent to which their music touched me, moved me, and still does today. Those beat-up, scratchy records are still the ones that get played the most, despite the size and breadth of my collection. My kids were all raised on folk music and classic rock and roll, but if you asked them, I think they would tell you the folk was their favorite when they were growing up. (Their kids have all been raised listening to Donovan’s “For Little Ones”, among others.) Their arrangements and harmonies, their passion and technical superiority affected me immensely, and informed my own brief career in the music business.
PP&M were socially conscious. They stood for principles. Not always shared by me, but they were sincere and consistent. They donated huge sums of money to causes and did nearly as many benefits as paying concerts. They were one of several acts who performed on the Mall in DC when MLK gave his famous “I have a dream” speech. It is one of the main disappointments of my life I never got to see them live, but in his later years Nita and I went to see Peter Yarrow at a small venue in Albuquerque. He was just out of prison for cavorting with under-aged groupies (he says they lied to him) but it was a great show. Now I never will.
Mary will be missed. Her oddly put-together face, the way she snapped her head and made her hair flop around when she wanted to emphasize something. Those bangs. That throaty, hard-driving voice of hers and her sense of humor. Late in their careers they made an album called Peter Paul and Mommy, a collection of tunes for children, which is an absolute gem. At one time I knew most of the songs on that album and wore out my guitar singing them to our kids and their friends.(“Daddy’s taking us to zoo tomorrow . . .”) In fact, doing some of those songs for my wife’s little nieces (Nita and I had just met) at dinner one night, was instrumental in her deciding to marry me.
Mary will never stop singing. One of the best things about technology is our being able to save—and savor—music and art into the eternities. Peter and Paul (Noel) will eventually die as well, sooner, later, who knows? And So will I. But until I do, I will be listening to their music, and, in that sense, keeping them alive forever.
To: All Personnel
Fr: W. Leavitt
Re: Mary Travers
9-17-09
It is with a profound sense of loss and a quiet sense of personal satisfaction that I announce the death of Mary Travers. After a long and painful struggle with leukemia, she has finally won the battle at age 72. Loss because I will miss having her in the world, and satisfaction because of a life well-lived and one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. The gift of music.
Many of you will not be familiar with Mary. She was the full-throated blonde in the folk trio, Peter Paul and Mary. They hit it big in the early sixties singing traditional folk songs, and then expanded their repertoire to include protest music, and uplifting songs about peace and love and stuff like that. They won five Grammys and maintained an active career well into the eighties, and accidently got rich. I have no idea how many albums they sold, but I have one or two of all of them. (And by album, I mean vinyl.)
I was probably fourteen or so when I first heard them, and they changed my life forever. Peter Paul and Mary remain the single biggest musical influence in my life. By the time I was in high school in the late sixties I was playing guitar and singing their songs, then jointly formed a trio (two guys and a girl) of my (our) own and we became PP&M clones. We eventually branched out a little and did Dylan (so did PP&M . . . so did everybody) and Donovan and other, less well know stuff—like the Sons of the Pioneers—including some of our own. We played the coffee house circuit between Baltimore and D.C. In some ways, that was the “best time of my life”, to quote Bryan Adams. It is difficult to describe the extent to which their music touched me, moved me, and still does today. Those beat-up, scratchy records are still the ones that get played the most, despite the size and breadth of my collection. My kids were all raised on folk music and classic rock and roll, but if you asked them, I think they would tell you the folk was their favorite when they were growing up. (Their kids have all been raised listening to Donovan’s “For Little Ones”, among others.) Their arrangements and harmonies, their passion and technical superiority affected me immensely, and informed my own brief career in the music business.
PP&M were socially conscious. They stood for principles. Not always shared by me, but they were sincere and consistent. They donated huge sums of money to causes and did nearly as many benefits as paying concerts. They were one of several acts who performed on the Mall in DC when MLK gave his famous “I have a dream” speech. It is one of the main disappointments of my life I never got to see them live, but in his later years Nita and I went to see Peter Yarrow at a small venue in Albuquerque. He was just out of prison for cavorting with under-aged groupies (he says they lied to him) but it was a great show. Now I never will.
Mary will be missed. Her oddly put-together face, the way she snapped her head and made her hair flop around when she wanted to emphasize something. Those bangs. That throaty, hard-driving voice of hers and her sense of humor. Late in their careers they made an album called Peter Paul and Mommy, a collection of tunes for children, which is an absolute gem. At one time I knew most of the songs on that album and wore out my guitar singing them to our kids and their friends.(“Daddy’s taking us to zoo tomorrow . . .”) In fact, doing some of those songs for my wife’s little nieces (Nita and I had just met) at dinner one night, was instrumental in her deciding to marry me.
Mary will never stop singing. One of the best things about technology is our being able to save—and savor—music and art into the eternities. Peter and Paul (Noel) will eventually die as well, sooner, later, who knows? And So will I. But until I do, I will be listening to their music, and, in that sense, keeping them alive forever.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Movie Review: 9
9 Here is a strange movie. The advertizing made a big deal of it being a Tim Burton production, But a guy named Shane Acker directed it, and Shane and Pamela Pettler wrote it. I guess Tim fronted the money for it. This full-length feature is animated, but it is not a cartoon. It is directed at a specific audience, like all Burton movies.
The story is post-apocalyptic. A terrible war has been fought and there are no survivors, at least in the area where the story takes place. Several small, doll-like “creatures”, automatons, are all that is left and they have no clue what is going on. They find each other, have scary, dangerous adventures, and slowly follow clues that lead them to the discovery of who (what) they are, and how they came to be. Sort of. They were made by a scientist who was pessimistic about the survival of humanity. He built a device that was able to transfer parts of his soul to each of his nine, diminutive creations.
The movie is worth seeing because of the masterful animation and the over-all style of the production. It is engaging. One of the fascinating features is the technology extant in this imaginary world. It is very similar to the retro Sci-Fi sub-genre called Steampunk, which deals with fantastic inventions of a mechanical nature, as if revisiting Jules Vern. The little entities are very inventive, building weapons and armor and all kinds of devices out of the scraps and detritus of the just-ended war. The look and feel of the movie is wonderful. The characters are fairly-well developed within the limitations of the plot. There’s the usual tension, antagonism, rivalry and even redemption.
Ultimately, however, the story seems weak. We are thrown into the situation along with the Numbers, (the only identification of the characters.) And we never really find out much about what happened or what the fate of the little creatures might be. They are mechanical, imbued with some of the essence of a human, and that’s about all they, and we, know. Can they reproduce? Will they survive an obviously mega-hostile world? There are no real answers in this story. It starts and it ends.
The one great thing it has going for it is the cast. The voices are Christopher Plummer, Martin Landau, John C. Reilly, Crispin Glover, Jennifer Connelly, Elijah Wood, and several others.
It’s rated PG-13. I recommend it for Burton fans and precocious kids. Not for very young, or overly-sensitive children. People who go to movies for entertainment value only need not bother.
The story is post-apocalyptic. A terrible war has been fought and there are no survivors, at least in the area where the story takes place. Several small, doll-like “creatures”, automatons, are all that is left and they have no clue what is going on. They find each other, have scary, dangerous adventures, and slowly follow clues that lead them to the discovery of who (what) they are, and how they came to be. Sort of. They were made by a scientist who was pessimistic about the survival of humanity. He built a device that was able to transfer parts of his soul to each of his nine, diminutive creations.
The movie is worth seeing because of the masterful animation and the over-all style of the production. It is engaging. One of the fascinating features is the technology extant in this imaginary world. It is very similar to the retro Sci-Fi sub-genre called Steampunk, which deals with fantastic inventions of a mechanical nature, as if revisiting Jules Vern. The little entities are very inventive, building weapons and armor and all kinds of devices out of the scraps and detritus of the just-ended war. The look and feel of the movie is wonderful. The characters are fairly-well developed within the limitations of the plot. There’s the usual tension, antagonism, rivalry and even redemption.
Ultimately, however, the story seems weak. We are thrown into the situation along with the Numbers, (the only identification of the characters.) And we never really find out much about what happened or what the fate of the little creatures might be. They are mechanical, imbued with some of the essence of a human, and that’s about all they, and we, know. Can they reproduce? Will they survive an obviously mega-hostile world? There are no real answers in this story. It starts and it ends.
The one great thing it has going for it is the cast. The voices are Christopher Plummer, Martin Landau, John C. Reilly, Crispin Glover, Jennifer Connelly, Elijah Wood, and several others.
It’s rated PG-13. I recommend it for Burton fans and precocious kids. Not for very young, or overly-sensitive children. People who go to movies for entertainment value only need not bother.
Movie Review: INglorious Basterds
Inglorious Basterds I have a love-hate relationship with Quentin Tarantino. I’ve had it ever since I saw Reservoir Dogs, thought it was brilliant, and wished I hadn’t. I haven’t seen all his movies, the previews of a few of them were enough for me. And I wasn’t going to see this one either, but my daughter and her boyfriend (he’s a movie-maker) said it was awesome. And it is. Awesome, I mean. Terrible and awesome.
(In order to assuage my guilt at having to say anything positive about Tarantino’s work, I will add a negative qualifier to each positive adjective. Thus, this movie was perversely brilliant. See how that works?)
Hopefully, by now, no one goes to a Tarantino movie innocently. Either we know to stay away or we have seen Pulp Fiction and know, more or less, what to expect. This kind of movie finds its own audience and everyone else leaves them alone. You know who you are.
Inglorious Basterds is a WWII fantasy. It has nothing, as far as I know, to do with reality other than to borrow the time period and locations of the war. It stars Brad Pitt as an easy-going hick from Tennessee who is tasked to put together a commando group of American Jews, jump behind enemy lines and kill, torture, disfigure, disembowel, dismember, and whatever other dis they can think of, Nazis. Their job is to strike fear into the hearts of the rank-and-file German soldier, a task they succeed at with obsessive glee. There are a few other threads, stories, being woven flawlessly into the weave of the Basterds story, having to do with a punctilious and flamboyant—but ruthlessly efficient SS Colonel, a young Jewess he allows to escape her families massacre for sport, and an American double-agent who is a famous German actress plotting to destroy half the high-command at the Parisian premier of the Third Reich’s propaganda minister’s latest epic movie. (Nice sentence, right?)
Tarantino works the camera like the demented genius he is. He gets brilliant work from each of his actors. Pitt as the laconic “Apache” , Aldo Raine, and a wonderful Diane Kruger (National Treasure) as the German actress, Brigit Von Hammersmark, but the best performance is Christoph Waltz as the insidiously pleasant and urbane Colonel Landa, the amoral, vainglorious, and brilliantly efficient SS “Jew Hunter.” Watching Waltz create and imbue this character is worth the price of admission. Pitt does this bizarre and creepy-charming Brando-as-Don-Corleone-thing with his face in a few scenes that is fun to watch as well. Even the guy who plays Hitler is perfect. Everything is done to perfect detail, down to the use of German, French, and Italian, with subtitles where needed. Tarantino throws in those Chapter Headings (Kill Bill) he’s so fond of, and a few asides to introduce certain characters and let us know why they are important or just that Quentin apparently really likes this one or that one. He chooses music from his favorite era, the “Spaghetti Western”, a sub-genre the rest of us like to call “terrible movies.” (Don’t get me wrong . . . I love those movies too. It’s just that Quentin seems to worship them and wants to bring them to the level of masterpiece.) This one has lots of hi-reverb harmonica and guitar—music to kill by.
I doubt I would like Tarantino if I ever met him. I can only go by what I’ve seen in interviews on television and a few of his acting parts, but he seems to be on meth all the time. He is frenetic, nervous, hyper, talks to fast, and knows way to much about the movie industry and its history. And he knows how smart he is and seems to revel in it. I don’t think he uses the violence and gore for which he is infamous in a gratuitous fashion though. I think he really, truly, loves it. It’s what he grew up with and he wants to let everyone know how he feels about it. I think he’s one of those “if you’re going to shy away from the ugly stuff you don’t deserve the pretty stuff” kind of guys, but of course, that’s a lot of BS.
Okay, down to brass tacks. This movie is, as I said, absolutely, disturbingly, brilliant. If you do not want to see violence and gore (lots of Germans are scalped for example), and are not interested in a good deal of profane language, stay away from this, or any, Tarantino movie. If you know what you’re getting into, this is a good as Pulp Fiction, maybe better. As I said, it is sheer make-believe. I won’t give then ending away; suffice it to say it does not agree with history as we know it. As usual, it is Tarantino living out another adolescent fantasy. It is rated R and deserves every bit of that rating. Oddly, there is no sex and no skin. Nita would still have to be hospitalized after seeing it.
(In order to assuage my guilt at having to say anything positive about Tarantino’s work, I will add a negative qualifier to each positive adjective. Thus, this movie was perversely brilliant. See how that works?)
Hopefully, by now, no one goes to a Tarantino movie innocently. Either we know to stay away or we have seen Pulp Fiction and know, more or less, what to expect. This kind of movie finds its own audience and everyone else leaves them alone. You know who you are.
Inglorious Basterds is a WWII fantasy. It has nothing, as far as I know, to do with reality other than to borrow the time period and locations of the war. It stars Brad Pitt as an easy-going hick from Tennessee who is tasked to put together a commando group of American Jews, jump behind enemy lines and kill, torture, disfigure, disembowel, dismember, and whatever other dis they can think of, Nazis. Their job is to strike fear into the hearts of the rank-and-file German soldier, a task they succeed at with obsessive glee. There are a few other threads, stories, being woven flawlessly into the weave of the Basterds story, having to do with a punctilious and flamboyant—but ruthlessly efficient SS Colonel, a young Jewess he allows to escape her families massacre for sport, and an American double-agent who is a famous German actress plotting to destroy half the high-command at the Parisian premier of the Third Reich’s propaganda minister’s latest epic movie. (Nice sentence, right?)
Tarantino works the camera like the demented genius he is. He gets brilliant work from each of his actors. Pitt as the laconic “Apache” , Aldo Raine, and a wonderful Diane Kruger (National Treasure) as the German actress, Brigit Von Hammersmark, but the best performance is Christoph Waltz as the insidiously pleasant and urbane Colonel Landa, the amoral, vainglorious, and brilliantly efficient SS “Jew Hunter.” Watching Waltz create and imbue this character is worth the price of admission. Pitt does this bizarre and creepy-charming Brando-as-Don-Corleone-thing with his face in a few scenes that is fun to watch as well. Even the guy who plays Hitler is perfect. Everything is done to perfect detail, down to the use of German, French, and Italian, with subtitles where needed. Tarantino throws in those Chapter Headings (Kill Bill) he’s so fond of, and a few asides to introduce certain characters and let us know why they are important or just that Quentin apparently really likes this one or that one. He chooses music from his favorite era, the “Spaghetti Western”, a sub-genre the rest of us like to call “terrible movies.” (Don’t get me wrong . . . I love those movies too. It’s just that Quentin seems to worship them and wants to bring them to the level of masterpiece.) This one has lots of hi-reverb harmonica and guitar—music to kill by.
I doubt I would like Tarantino if I ever met him. I can only go by what I’ve seen in interviews on television and a few of his acting parts, but he seems to be on meth all the time. He is frenetic, nervous, hyper, talks to fast, and knows way to much about the movie industry and its history. And he knows how smart he is and seems to revel in it. I don’t think he uses the violence and gore for which he is infamous in a gratuitous fashion though. I think he really, truly, loves it. It’s what he grew up with and he wants to let everyone know how he feels about it. I think he’s one of those “if you’re going to shy away from the ugly stuff you don’t deserve the pretty stuff” kind of guys, but of course, that’s a lot of BS.
Okay, down to brass tacks. This movie is, as I said, absolutely, disturbingly, brilliant. If you do not want to see violence and gore (lots of Germans are scalped for example), and are not interested in a good deal of profane language, stay away from this, or any, Tarantino movie. If you know what you’re getting into, this is a good as Pulp Fiction, maybe better. As I said, it is sheer make-believe. I won’t give then ending away; suffice it to say it does not agree with history as we know it. As usual, it is Tarantino living out another adolescent fantasy. It is rated R and deserves every bit of that rating. Oddly, there is no sex and no skin. Nita would still have to be hospitalized after seeing it.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
District 9
District 9 Didn’t know much about this one, other than having seen the trailer a few dozen times. It looked good, had a feel about, and I wasn’t disappointed. There are no big-name actors in this—in fact the principle has never acted before in his life. I’ve never heard of the director. Apparently he made his name doing special effects.
Here’s the back story, which is told as scenes from several documentaries. 20 years ago, a huge starship arrives in our atmosphere and settled over Johannesburg, South Africa. It doesn’t move or make a sound for months as humanity watches. Finally, someone decides to cut their way into the ship (Which is as big as a city) and they find a million starving aliens who look vaguely insectoid. They shuttle the dying creatures to the surface, set up a settlement, feed them and care for them. The settlement slowly devolves into a slum as reality hits—the aliens are stranded, can never leave again. Something broke.
So essentially, what we have is a new round of Apartheid with big bugs instead of indigenous Africans. A mid-level bureaucrat gets caught up in a resettlement scam and accidentally discovers the secret of why the aliens are stuck here while he is “infected” with alien DNA. As you can imagine, he begins to become an alien. This causes problems at home. Plus, when the government finds out, he becomes the most valuable commodity on the planet. The aliens have very advanced weaponry—which has mostly been confiscated—but it is linked to their DNA which means humans can’t use it. We can’t even figure out what each weapon does. But our hero—anti-hero really—can fire the weapons.
The movie is shot with that frenetic, rough, edgy documentary look that has become popular recently, even though it often doesn’t work well. In this case it does. If you’ve seen Quarantine, it’s sort of like that, although the middle part of this movie loses the POV camera and settles into more mainstream styles while managing to keep the suspense and tension highish.
It’s a good movie. Better than I’d hoped. It is inventive and clever and shot so well one forgets one is in a movie theater. It didn’t occur to me until I was walking out that ¾ of the movie is CGI. It was seamless. We would expect no less from Peter Jackson (Lord of the Rings) who produced this one.
This one is rated R, and rightfully so. They love to use the F word in South Africa. It is gory, but not in a gratuitous way. One of the alien weapons blows people up—literally. But the camera never lingers on the gore. Each sequence only lasts about half-a-second. Lots of blood spatter.
The script is good. It takes our main characters, the bureaucrat and an alien named Christopher Johnson, through interesting changes. The audience follows each as they slowly and painfully find common ground through dire necessity. The ending is bittersweet. No one gets what they want, or even need. And the movie slips back into documentary mode at the end, which is very effective. We get to see the worst and best of both species.
As I said, it is a good movie. Better than most these days, but not a mainstream affair. It is genre at its best . . . not mainstream at all, and will not appeal to many people. I liked it.
Sneak preview! I saw a trailer for a new Zombie movie! It’s called Zombieland, and stars Woody Harrelson. Woo-hoo!
Here’s the back story, which is told as scenes from several documentaries. 20 years ago, a huge starship arrives in our atmosphere and settled over Johannesburg, South Africa. It doesn’t move or make a sound for months as humanity watches. Finally, someone decides to cut their way into the ship (Which is as big as a city) and they find a million starving aliens who look vaguely insectoid. They shuttle the dying creatures to the surface, set up a settlement, feed them and care for them. The settlement slowly devolves into a slum as reality hits—the aliens are stranded, can never leave again. Something broke.
So essentially, what we have is a new round of Apartheid with big bugs instead of indigenous Africans. A mid-level bureaucrat gets caught up in a resettlement scam and accidentally discovers the secret of why the aliens are stuck here while he is “infected” with alien DNA. As you can imagine, he begins to become an alien. This causes problems at home. Plus, when the government finds out, he becomes the most valuable commodity on the planet. The aliens have very advanced weaponry—which has mostly been confiscated—but it is linked to their DNA which means humans can’t use it. We can’t even figure out what each weapon does. But our hero—anti-hero really—can fire the weapons.
The movie is shot with that frenetic, rough, edgy documentary look that has become popular recently, even though it often doesn’t work well. In this case it does. If you’ve seen Quarantine, it’s sort of like that, although the middle part of this movie loses the POV camera and settles into more mainstream styles while managing to keep the suspense and tension highish.
It’s a good movie. Better than I’d hoped. It is inventive and clever and shot so well one forgets one is in a movie theater. It didn’t occur to me until I was walking out that ¾ of the movie is CGI. It was seamless. We would expect no less from Peter Jackson (Lord of the Rings) who produced this one.
This one is rated R, and rightfully so. They love to use the F word in South Africa. It is gory, but not in a gratuitous way. One of the alien weapons blows people up—literally. But the camera never lingers on the gore. Each sequence only lasts about half-a-second. Lots of blood spatter.
The script is good. It takes our main characters, the bureaucrat and an alien named Christopher Johnson, through interesting changes. The audience follows each as they slowly and painfully find common ground through dire necessity. The ending is bittersweet. No one gets what they want, or even need. And the movie slips back into documentary mode at the end, which is very effective. We get to see the worst and best of both species.
As I said, it is a good movie. Better than most these days, but not a mainstream affair. It is genre at its best . . . not mainstream at all, and will not appeal to many people. I liked it.
Sneak preview! I saw a trailer for a new Zombie movie! It’s called Zombieland, and stars Woody Harrelson. Woo-hoo!
Friday, August 7, 2009
Movie Review: GI Joe
GI Joe It’s terrible. The writing is worse than the original cartoon. There is no acting; None required, and none given. The CGI is fine, but the technology and science are beyond fantasy—incomprehensible and irrational. There are air battles underwater—with machine gun sounds. The female Joe—a very cute redhead—has a nice suit of skin tight body armor—just like the guys, except hers has nipples molded into it . . . not to put too fine a point on my criticism.
This movie seems to me to be the perfect example of everything wrong about Hollywood; it is bright and glittery and action-packed and shallow—completely devoid of content. To give this thing the critique it deserves I would have to have the DVD so I could watch and pause, watch and pause, and the length of my review would be fifty pages—easy. Either that or the Mystery Science Theater 3000 guys should devote a two-hour special to it.
One wonders if actors—and producers and directors for that matter—are not able to imagine anything about a movie when they read the script. Can they not tell how bad something is going to be? Or does it happen during the process? But then surely the editors can tell?
It should never have seen the light of day. Instead, they should have cut it into four half-hour segments and put it on Saturday morning television as a kind of kids mini-series. At least then we could change the channel.
This flick will appeal to the 8, 9, and 10 year old set, and the nostalgia set, and will make money, which is all this one is about. There is not one minute of genuine entertainment in it. Even the lines delivered for laughs are stilted, poorly shot and fall flat. At least Transformers was fun.
This movie seems to me to be the perfect example of everything wrong about Hollywood; it is bright and glittery and action-packed and shallow—completely devoid of content. To give this thing the critique it deserves I would have to have the DVD so I could watch and pause, watch and pause, and the length of my review would be fifty pages—easy. Either that or the Mystery Science Theater 3000 guys should devote a two-hour special to it.
One wonders if actors—and producers and directors for that matter—are not able to imagine anything about a movie when they read the script. Can they not tell how bad something is going to be? Or does it happen during the process? But then surely the editors can tell?
It should never have seen the light of day. Instead, they should have cut it into four half-hour segments and put it on Saturday morning television as a kind of kids mini-series. At least then we could change the channel.
This flick will appeal to the 8, 9, and 10 year old set, and the nostalgia set, and will make money, which is all this one is about. There is not one minute of genuine entertainment in it. Even the lines delivered for laughs are stilted, poorly shot and fall flat. At least Transformers was fun.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Star Trek
Star Trek I remember it like it was yesterday. The first time I saw a commercial for the upcoming new series called Star Trek. I must have been around 17 or 18. At the very last second, the Starship Enterprise streaked across the television screen and I knew everything had changed. Sure, I’d been reading sci-fi for years by that time, and I was familiar with the concept of starships. But in the movies up to that time, there were only two kinds of spaceships; rockets (liquid or solid fuel) and flying saucers, which represented the alien tech (think This Island Earth, Day the World Stood Still, Forbidden Planet). But when the Enterprise came onto the screen and it wasn’t a rocket and it wasn’t a saucer, we experienced a paradigm shift—at least I did. This was a Starship. Built in space, never meant for atmospheric flight, and obviously FTL. (Faster than light.) My mom and I waited all summer for the new season to begin while dad scratched his head and wondered what all the fuss was about.
I loved Star Trek. Both of them. I was never a trekkie, never went to conventions or dressed up in those ridiculous costumes. It meant far more to me than that. Those people were posers, pretenders, stuck in shallow affectations with no real idea of what they were seeing. Not the show itself, which in retrospect was often pretty bad, but the potential, the promise, the completely positive portrayal of the human condition.
And yes, I knew it was just a TV show. Often poorly written, bad sets, bad makeup, bad acting. But infinite vision.
This new movie finally allows the series to live up to its potential. It is the ultimate back-story, the ultimate action movie. All the characters are back and intact. The casting is brilliant. The story holds together with just enough content to keep us in our seats, driven by relentless action, but is very well written nonetheless. The actors bring all the old favorites alive; Spock, Uhuru, Chekov, Sulu, McCoy and Scottie. Except they are all young, new, cadets thrown into a life and death situation. Captain Pike is the skipper of the Enterprise when the story begins. (If you are a true-believer you know who that is). And the security guys all wear red jerseys. But the kid playing Kirk steals the movie. He has a presence. The writer and director should be nominated for academy awards, but probably won’t be. I think every major theme from the original series is in this movie. The faithful will be well-fed, I guarantee. The myriad items from everyone’s past finally come to light and we discover origins. It begins with Kirk’s father, George, sacrificing his life and his ship for the good of the Federation. I was crying in the first five minutes. (but I often cry at phone commercials, so, you know . . .)
ILM did the special effects and they are hand-wringers. The critics are right; This is the movie for everyone, fan or not. If you like action and smart, funny characters with just enough pathos to make them real, this is for you. The audience applauded at the end. Leonard Nimoy is in this one, now in his 70’s. He’s awesome.
Like a few others before it, this movie is a game-changer. It met or exceeded every expectation. I plan to go back and take Nita. It is rated PG-13. No cussing, no sex. (one itty-bitty clothes-changing scene, no big deal) and lots of great big things blowing up, planets being sucked into black holes, the usual tourist stuff. And Spock has a girl friend!
Sure, there were some problems. I still hate it when vessels in space fly like planes and make cool sounds, but that’s the movies. The sets were incredible. The Enterprise gets bigger with every movie. And this is the best of the Star Trek movies.
I loved Star Trek. Both of them. I was never a trekkie, never went to conventions or dressed up in those ridiculous costumes. It meant far more to me than that. Those people were posers, pretenders, stuck in shallow affectations with no real idea of what they were seeing. Not the show itself, which in retrospect was often pretty bad, but the potential, the promise, the completely positive portrayal of the human condition.
And yes, I knew it was just a TV show. Often poorly written, bad sets, bad makeup, bad acting. But infinite vision.
This new movie finally allows the series to live up to its potential. It is the ultimate back-story, the ultimate action movie. All the characters are back and intact. The casting is brilliant. The story holds together with just enough content to keep us in our seats, driven by relentless action, but is very well written nonetheless. The actors bring all the old favorites alive; Spock, Uhuru, Chekov, Sulu, McCoy and Scottie. Except they are all young, new, cadets thrown into a life and death situation. Captain Pike is the skipper of the Enterprise when the story begins. (If you are a true-believer you know who that is). And the security guys all wear red jerseys. But the kid playing Kirk steals the movie. He has a presence. The writer and director should be nominated for academy awards, but probably won’t be. I think every major theme from the original series is in this movie. The faithful will be well-fed, I guarantee. The myriad items from everyone’s past finally come to light and we discover origins. It begins with Kirk’s father, George, sacrificing his life and his ship for the good of the Federation. I was crying in the first five minutes. (but I often cry at phone commercials, so, you know . . .)
ILM did the special effects and they are hand-wringers. The critics are right; This is the movie for everyone, fan or not. If you like action and smart, funny characters with just enough pathos to make them real, this is for you. The audience applauded at the end. Leonard Nimoy is in this one, now in his 70’s. He’s awesome.
Like a few others before it, this movie is a game-changer. It met or exceeded every expectation. I plan to go back and take Nita. It is rated PG-13. No cussing, no sex. (one itty-bitty clothes-changing scene, no big deal) and lots of great big things blowing up, planets being sucked into black holes, the usual tourist stuff. And Spock has a girl friend!
Sure, there were some problems. I still hate it when vessels in space fly like planes and make cool sounds, but that’s the movies. The sets were incredible. The Enterprise gets bigger with every movie. And this is the best of the Star Trek movies.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Terminator Salvation
Terminator: Salvation Does it seem as if a review for this movie is redundant? There have already been three. First we tried to kill Sarah, then John, then John’s girlfriend. Who’s left to kill? The story-line in these movies involves time paradoxes and frankly, was never solid enough to support more than a couple flicks. Like Conan, they were just a vehicle for the world’s most muscular man to flex, and kill people. Which is totally valid, don’t get me wrong. But enough is enough already.
First, let’s get this out of the way; it’s a great action movie, meaning there’s lots of action. Fun to watch—unless (here comes the caveat) you have a brain larger than a walnut.
The story revolves (barely) around a guy on death row who donates his body to science and becomes an unwitting vassal of Skynet, the machine culture bent on eradicating humans. In the meantime John Connors father (who hasn’t gone back in time yet so he can impregnate Sarah, Jon’s mother), then a teen-ager in the war-ravaged ruins of LA, is captured by the bad robots and befriends the unwitting cyborg who thinks its human, while John is leading heroic raids against the machines and battling the leadership because only he knows the future, and a female pilot is shot down, and the resistance leadership is planning a big counter-attack, and blah,blah, blah. The whole thing collapses into a black-hole of too many so-what’s and I-don’t-cares?
Actually, I was hoping for a true paradigm shift on the order of the new Star Trek, but I was sorely disappointed. There are too many hackneyed scenes, left over from a hundred other movies, too many scenes and stunts and effects that were there just to be there—having nothing to do with the plot or the action—of course intelligent machines would have fire pots placed in strategic locations so there would be, you know . . . fire. And as usual, too many holes, and mistakes. Easy to avoid mistakes. Like, what was the point of the atomic bomb, which had nothing to do with what was going on? And why did everyone’s radio work only a few miles from the blast (and EMP) and growing mushroom cloud? And on and on. This one had the same problem as Armageddon. Not enough thought went into it to actually create a viable story worth two hours of our time. It was just big explosions and random emergencies. And bad science.
Arnold declined to be involved, but they threw in a completely unnecessary look-alike-slash-manikin to play the “Terminator” for about five seconds. Don’t’cha wonder what people are thinking sometimes?
In the end, nothing is resolved, which means these idiots are actually contemplating another one.
It was worth seeing—barely. I give it a solid but tedious ho-hum. Rated PG-13. Nita didn’t bother going, she has more sense.
First, let’s get this out of the way; it’s a great action movie, meaning there’s lots of action. Fun to watch—unless (here comes the caveat) you have a brain larger than a walnut.
The story revolves (barely) around a guy on death row who donates his body to science and becomes an unwitting vassal of Skynet, the machine culture bent on eradicating humans. In the meantime John Connors father (who hasn’t gone back in time yet so he can impregnate Sarah, Jon’s mother), then a teen-ager in the war-ravaged ruins of LA, is captured by the bad robots and befriends the unwitting cyborg who thinks its human, while John is leading heroic raids against the machines and battling the leadership because only he knows the future, and a female pilot is shot down, and the resistance leadership is planning a big counter-attack, and blah,blah, blah. The whole thing collapses into a black-hole of too many so-what’s and I-don’t-cares?
Actually, I was hoping for a true paradigm shift on the order of the new Star Trek, but I was sorely disappointed. There are too many hackneyed scenes, left over from a hundred other movies, too many scenes and stunts and effects that were there just to be there—having nothing to do with the plot or the action—of course intelligent machines would have fire pots placed in strategic locations so there would be, you know . . . fire. And as usual, too many holes, and mistakes. Easy to avoid mistakes. Like, what was the point of the atomic bomb, which had nothing to do with what was going on? And why did everyone’s radio work only a few miles from the blast (and EMP) and growing mushroom cloud? And on and on. This one had the same problem as Armageddon. Not enough thought went into it to actually create a viable story worth two hours of our time. It was just big explosions and random emergencies. And bad science.
Arnold declined to be involved, but they threw in a completely unnecessary look-alike-slash-manikin to play the “Terminator” for about five seconds. Don’t’cha wonder what people are thinking sometimes?
In the end, nothing is resolved, which means these idiots are actually contemplating another one.
It was worth seeing—barely. I give it a solid but tedious ho-hum. Rated PG-13. Nita didn’t bother going, she has more sense.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Watchmen
Watchmen Wow—lot’s a fanfare and advanced hype on this one. Watchmen is based on a “graphic novel” from the eighties, which won all kinds of awards and most people say is the best GN ever. Woo-hoo. It’s still a comic.
It is a strange story which takes place in a kind of alternative universe where Richard Nixon serves five terms as President, we win the Viet Nam war, and society falls into a malaise of crime, decadence and nihilism. Oh, I get it . . . . .
But here’s the twist; a bunch of people decide to fight crime by becoming super heroes. Think “Mystery Men” meets the “Avengers.” They are regular people with lots of training, skills, and more courage than sense, wearing outlandish costumes (just like the comics) and doing what they can to clean up the city. They have the same challenges as the rest of us. One is insane, one is a fascist wanna-be rapist, one is the smartest man in the world with an ego to match, etc. “Masked Crusaders” have been outlawed and the are all in retirement when one of their own is murdered, leaving the others to try and solve the mystery. Is someone coming after all the “Masks?”
One of them actually has super-human powers. He is called Dr. Manhattan. Disintegrated in a nuclear accident, he reassembles himself and learns to control matter an energy on the atomic level. But he is gradually becoming disaffected with the plight of humanity. As others plot to take control of the world for the “benefit of mankind” Dr. Manhattan wanders off to Mars where he can think in peace.
In the meantime, nuclear war has never been more immanent and likely. The Doomsday clock has been set to four minutes to midnight and everyone is scared, especially since Dr. Manhattan, who can save them, has vanished.
This is as private a vision as a vision can get. In some ways it is brilliant. In others, it is hopelessly deficient. The visual aspects of the movie are wonderful, the acting is superb, and even the screenplay holds up. I had decided not to see it based on an interview with the director, which I read, but my brother-in-law, James insisted, so I went.
Remember how great Marvel comics were? How their heroes had real problems and challenges like the rest of us? Acne, babysitters, self-esteem issues? This is like that, but on steroids.
We are glad we saw it, but neither of us would recommend it to the general public. It is a hard R rating, with some very disturbing scenes and themes, but I think the rating is about right. It didn’t rise to NC-17, quite. So if you like strange, intellectually and visually stimulating and someone’s very personal vision, this is the movie for you.
It is a strange story which takes place in a kind of alternative universe where Richard Nixon serves five terms as President, we win the Viet Nam war, and society falls into a malaise of crime, decadence and nihilism. Oh, I get it . . . . .
But here’s the twist; a bunch of people decide to fight crime by becoming super heroes. Think “Mystery Men” meets the “Avengers.” They are regular people with lots of training, skills, and more courage than sense, wearing outlandish costumes (just like the comics) and doing what they can to clean up the city. They have the same challenges as the rest of us. One is insane, one is a fascist wanna-be rapist, one is the smartest man in the world with an ego to match, etc. “Masked Crusaders” have been outlawed and the are all in retirement when one of their own is murdered, leaving the others to try and solve the mystery. Is someone coming after all the “Masks?”
One of them actually has super-human powers. He is called Dr. Manhattan. Disintegrated in a nuclear accident, he reassembles himself and learns to control matter an energy on the atomic level. But he is gradually becoming disaffected with the plight of humanity. As others plot to take control of the world for the “benefit of mankind” Dr. Manhattan wanders off to Mars where he can think in peace.
In the meantime, nuclear war has never been more immanent and likely. The Doomsday clock has been set to four minutes to midnight and everyone is scared, especially since Dr. Manhattan, who can save them, has vanished.
This is as private a vision as a vision can get. In some ways it is brilliant. In others, it is hopelessly deficient. The visual aspects of the movie are wonderful, the acting is superb, and even the screenplay holds up. I had decided not to see it based on an interview with the director, which I read, but my brother-in-law, James insisted, so I went.
Remember how great Marvel comics were? How their heroes had real problems and challenges like the rest of us? Acne, babysitters, self-esteem issues? This is like that, but on steroids.
We are glad we saw it, but neither of us would recommend it to the general public. It is a hard R rating, with some very disturbing scenes and themes, but I think the rating is about right. It didn’t rise to NC-17, quite. So if you like strange, intellectually and visually stimulating and someone’s very personal vision, this is the movie for you.
Escape to Witch Mountain
Escape to Witch Mountain This is a Disney remake of a Disney movie from the 70’s (I think). I is about two alien teenagers who are trying to save the earth from being taken by their people, whose home planet is dying. It stars Dwayne Johnson as the Vegas taxi-driving ex-con with a heart of gold who helps the kids evade their own hunter-assassin as well as our governments MIB, who are desperate to get their hands on real, live extra-terrestrials. This was not made with awards in mind, just good entertainment for kids and adolescents, and it delivers on its promise. Cleaned up and de-hokiefied from the original, brought up to date, and with good special effects, it is a fun, action-packed suspense thriller for about 10 and up. Younger kids can see it but they might not get it and it might be a little scary in a few parts, so I’d be cautious.
Johnson is making a name for himself as a solid actor and action hero a la Arnold and Bruce Willis. The kids (I don’t know who they are and IMDB is blocked these days) play their roles well, if not brilliantly. It’s a fun movie for adults as well, a genuine popcorn flick. Nothing objectionable. PG-13. We all liked it . For a professional synopsis and review, see Carol Cling in today’s RJ.
Johnson is making a name for himself as a solid actor and action hero a la Arnold and Bruce Willis. The kids (I don’t know who they are and IMDB is blocked these days) play their roles well, if not brilliantly. It’s a fun movie for adults as well, a genuine popcorn flick. Nothing objectionable. PG-13. We all liked it . For a professional synopsis and review, see Carol Cling in today’s RJ.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Push
Push Billed as the years first true action-thriller, this movie falls short on both promises. But it had some good trailers and two solid actors in the lead roles so I took a chance. No I didn’t; I would have gone if it stared Jon Heeder and was directed by Ed Wood.
The stars are Chris Evans (The guy who plays John-ny Storm! The Human Torch, in the Fantastic Four franchise) as Nick, a “mover” and Dakota Fanning as Cassie, a “see-er”? Can’t remember. Clairvoyant anyway. We love Dakota Fanning. She’s growing up so fast, don’t you think?
The plot revolves around a hidden group of “special” people with certain gifts, or powers of a paranormal nature. Telekinesis, clairvoyance, far-seeing . . . things like that. A government agency called Division finds these people, hunts them down, puts them in uncomfortable hospital beds and injects them with a lethal toxin, hoping one of them will survive with their power greatly multiplied. I don’t want to say that this plot is derivative or anything, but have we heard this before? Let’s see now . . . X-Men, X-Files, Sanctuary, Fringe, and maybe a dozen or so others.
Nick is hiding out in Tokyo when he is discovered, first by Division and then by Cassie (Fanning), who draws pictures of what is going to happen. Naturally, a Japanese family of Specials is looking for them too. A girl has escaped from Division, having survived the injection, and she is carrying a case with a vial of something or other. Soylent Green, probably. Everybody wants it.
Nick can move things. Cassie can see the future. But Division and the Family have all those things, as well as what I like to call “shouters”, which are people who shout really loud and break things, kill people and generally make a mess of eardrums.
The director hoped (I’m guessing here) to make his movie visually interesting by hiring a five-year-old with ADD to run his cameras. There are lots of speed-up sequences, tried and true slow-motion, and bright street scenes meant to overwhelm the senses. For some reason it reminded me of Lost in Translation, but who knows why? Tokyo maybe.
These are not the primary flaws in the movie however. The big boo-boos are how the paranormal powers are dealt with. Once again, we find writers and directors who fail to grasp the simple concept of “internal logic” and consistency. The rules in this one are never explained, and then happily ignored. It just makes no sense at all. Plot-wise, it reminded me of Plan Nine from Outer Space, that cult classic by Ed Wood, who won a special Oscar for being the worst director of all time.
The secret to making a movie like this good, is pretty straightforward: You develop the plot without any of the special powers in mind. In other words, make the action and suspense follow naturally from the story about real people, with inevitability and logic, then once the story is right, drop the fancy-smanchy special effects in at opportune moments. Not the other way around.
It’s a glitzy movie. But it goes nowhere, has no discernible ending, and then announces a sequel with unabashed enthusiasm. Our only hope is that it does not make sufficient money to warrant another go.
I had to try because of Fanning and the paranormal angle, but I should have known that only a Zombie attack could have saved this one. Its rated PG-13. Lots of comic violence and fake suspense. Nita would have laughed me out of the theater.
The stars are Chris Evans (The guy who plays John-ny Storm! The Human Torch, in the Fantastic Four franchise) as Nick, a “mover” and Dakota Fanning as Cassie, a “see-er”? Can’t remember. Clairvoyant anyway. We love Dakota Fanning. She’s growing up so fast, don’t you think?
The plot revolves around a hidden group of “special” people with certain gifts, or powers of a paranormal nature. Telekinesis, clairvoyance, far-seeing . . . things like that. A government agency called Division finds these people, hunts them down, puts them in uncomfortable hospital beds and injects them with a lethal toxin, hoping one of them will survive with their power greatly multiplied. I don’t want to say that this plot is derivative or anything, but have we heard this before? Let’s see now . . . X-Men, X-Files, Sanctuary, Fringe, and maybe a dozen or so others.
Nick is hiding out in Tokyo when he is discovered, first by Division and then by Cassie (Fanning), who draws pictures of what is going to happen. Naturally, a Japanese family of Specials is looking for them too. A girl has escaped from Division, having survived the injection, and she is carrying a case with a vial of something or other. Soylent Green, probably. Everybody wants it.
Nick can move things. Cassie can see the future. But Division and the Family have all those things, as well as what I like to call “shouters”, which are people who shout really loud and break things, kill people and generally make a mess of eardrums.
The director hoped (I’m guessing here) to make his movie visually interesting by hiring a five-year-old with ADD to run his cameras. There are lots of speed-up sequences, tried and true slow-motion, and bright street scenes meant to overwhelm the senses. For some reason it reminded me of Lost in Translation, but who knows why? Tokyo maybe.
These are not the primary flaws in the movie however. The big boo-boos are how the paranormal powers are dealt with. Once again, we find writers and directors who fail to grasp the simple concept of “internal logic” and consistency. The rules in this one are never explained, and then happily ignored. It just makes no sense at all. Plot-wise, it reminded me of Plan Nine from Outer Space, that cult classic by Ed Wood, who won a special Oscar for being the worst director of all time.
The secret to making a movie like this good, is pretty straightforward: You develop the plot without any of the special powers in mind. In other words, make the action and suspense follow naturally from the story about real people, with inevitability and logic, then once the story is right, drop the fancy-smanchy special effects in at opportune moments. Not the other way around.
It’s a glitzy movie. But it goes nowhere, has no discernible ending, and then announces a sequel with unabashed enthusiasm. Our only hope is that it does not make sufficient money to warrant another go.
I had to try because of Fanning and the paranormal angle, but I should have known that only a Zombie attack could have saved this one. Its rated PG-13. Lots of comic violence and fake suspense. Nita would have laughed me out of the theater.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Taken
Taken This is a new release from so many production companies I couldn’t keep track. It stars Liam Neeson, as a divorced father, and retired CIA agent. He quit his job and moved to California to try and repair his relationship with his 17-year old daughter, who lives with her mother and wealthy step-father.
It starts out in a very normal, down to earth and believable way, dad screwing up a present at the B-day party, his friends from the Agency coming over for old times’ sake, trying to talk him into coming back to the fold. Very normal stuff.
Then the daughter wants to go to Paris for the summer with a friend. Dad balks, mom (Famke Jansen) insists—she will be with a nice family, etc., Dad relents against his better judgment. She is too young. At the airport he discovers the true itinerary—the girls plan to follow U-2 on their European tour. He wants to call it off, citing the dangers of traveling in Europe alone, especially for two young females, but mom gets angry and tell him that all the kids do it. (Right, all the kids with rich parents maybe.)
Cut to the chase: The girls haven’t even unpacked when three men enter the apartment where they are staying—alone it turns out—and kidnap them. Neeson’s daughter is on the phone when it happens and manages to let her father know. When they grab her she drops the phone. Someone picks it up—and he can hear them breathing. He then delivers the lines that sucked me right into the movie in the trailer:
“I don’t know who you are, or what you want. If you want money, I can tell you I have no money. But what I do have, are a very particular set of skills developed over a long career, that make me a nightmare for someone like you. If you let her go now, I will walk away. But if you don’t I will hunt you, and find you and kill you.” Or something like that.
So begins the best action thriller since The Bourne Identity. This one may even be better. Neeson is everyman, a dad, a friend, an ex-husband. But he is trained for just such a situation as has happened to his daughter.
From the moment he hits ground in Paris, he is an unstoppable force, relentless, ruthless, without regard to the law, to pain, to loyalty, old friendships, or whatever code might exist in the trade. He is a consummate professional, never losing his cool, treating the job like an exercise, albeit on a heightened level due to its time-sensitive nature. If he doesn’t find her in 96 hours, he likely never will. He is up against a ruthless mafia-style gang of Albanians who have infiltrated France and deal in prostitution—stealing, addicting and selling women, or pimping them out on the streets.
Neeson is the anti-James Bond. There is no style, no flash, no cool. He plies his craft with robotic efficiency and emotionless intensity. He dispatches the men in his way as quickly as possible—there are no protracted, Hollywood fist-fights in this one. He hasn’t the time. And Hollywood’s version is not how it’s really done. The violence is as calculated as his mind is trained—and there is a lot of it. He must disable or kill at least 30 people—“but they were all bad”, to quote Arnold in True Lies—and dispatch is the word. No one is ever hit in the face. Groin, knee, throat, so fast you have to be watching to see it. He gives no one a second chance. He asks once, then the pain begins. He is an irresistible force, unlike anything these thugs have ever seen. All he wants is his daughter back, and he is willing, and capable of, plowing through the entire Paris underworld to get her. Everything he does, he does with a reason in mind. Even the stuff that seems to be too much, or over the top. I found myself agreeing with each move, whispering to Nita, “that’s right, that’s what he would do in reality”.
The level of tension is consistently high. The intensity is palpable. The depiction of the depraved world of flesh-peddling is realistic and sadistic, but the director never, to my mind, crosses the line into the preposterous, or gratuitous. There is a bit of skin, but only skimpy outfits as the girls are on display for auction bidding. The only profanity is one “Merde!”
But it is not simply a high-action movie. The director wanted more, and gives it to us. It is visceral, real, hard-nosed and imbued with the emotion we all share of a parent trying to protect a child. Neeson is spectacular in his understated portrayal of an authentic person who happens to have been a spook-chaser.
In the beginning of the movie, there is a believable, brief, set-up that gives us the glimpse we need as to how skilled Neeson’s character is. The movie ends back at that place with the resultant favor someone like Neeson’s character curries over years of network-building. It ends on just the right note.
Nita had about three little heart attacks during the movie, and nearly broke my wrist once or twice, which is a sure sign she liked it. By the time we got home she still hadn’t caught her breath sufficiently to give me a verbal thumbs-up, but I feel safe in saying she was glad to have seen it, despite the disturbing moments and almost dying of heart failure. I loved it. The two hours felt like twenty minutes.
It starts out in a very normal, down to earth and believable way, dad screwing up a present at the B-day party, his friends from the Agency coming over for old times’ sake, trying to talk him into coming back to the fold. Very normal stuff.
Then the daughter wants to go to Paris for the summer with a friend. Dad balks, mom (Famke Jansen) insists—she will be with a nice family, etc., Dad relents against his better judgment. She is too young. At the airport he discovers the true itinerary—the girls plan to follow U-2 on their European tour. He wants to call it off, citing the dangers of traveling in Europe alone, especially for two young females, but mom gets angry and tell him that all the kids do it. (Right, all the kids with rich parents maybe.)
Cut to the chase: The girls haven’t even unpacked when three men enter the apartment where they are staying—alone it turns out—and kidnap them. Neeson’s daughter is on the phone when it happens and manages to let her father know. When they grab her she drops the phone. Someone picks it up—and he can hear them breathing. He then delivers the lines that sucked me right into the movie in the trailer:
“I don’t know who you are, or what you want. If you want money, I can tell you I have no money. But what I do have, are a very particular set of skills developed over a long career, that make me a nightmare for someone like you. If you let her go now, I will walk away. But if you don’t I will hunt you, and find you and kill you.” Or something like that.
So begins the best action thriller since The Bourne Identity. This one may even be better. Neeson is everyman, a dad, a friend, an ex-husband. But he is trained for just such a situation as has happened to his daughter.
From the moment he hits ground in Paris, he is an unstoppable force, relentless, ruthless, without regard to the law, to pain, to loyalty, old friendships, or whatever code might exist in the trade. He is a consummate professional, never losing his cool, treating the job like an exercise, albeit on a heightened level due to its time-sensitive nature. If he doesn’t find her in 96 hours, he likely never will. He is up against a ruthless mafia-style gang of Albanians who have infiltrated France and deal in prostitution—stealing, addicting and selling women, or pimping them out on the streets.
Neeson is the anti-James Bond. There is no style, no flash, no cool. He plies his craft with robotic efficiency and emotionless intensity. He dispatches the men in his way as quickly as possible—there are no protracted, Hollywood fist-fights in this one. He hasn’t the time. And Hollywood’s version is not how it’s really done. The violence is as calculated as his mind is trained—and there is a lot of it. He must disable or kill at least 30 people—“but they were all bad”, to quote Arnold in True Lies—and dispatch is the word. No one is ever hit in the face. Groin, knee, throat, so fast you have to be watching to see it. He gives no one a second chance. He asks once, then the pain begins. He is an irresistible force, unlike anything these thugs have ever seen. All he wants is his daughter back, and he is willing, and capable of, plowing through the entire Paris underworld to get her. Everything he does, he does with a reason in mind. Even the stuff that seems to be too much, or over the top. I found myself agreeing with each move, whispering to Nita, “that’s right, that’s what he would do in reality”.
The level of tension is consistently high. The intensity is palpable. The depiction of the depraved world of flesh-peddling is realistic and sadistic, but the director never, to my mind, crosses the line into the preposterous, or gratuitous. There is a bit of skin, but only skimpy outfits as the girls are on display for auction bidding. The only profanity is one “Merde!”
But it is not simply a high-action movie. The director wanted more, and gives it to us. It is visceral, real, hard-nosed and imbued with the emotion we all share of a parent trying to protect a child. Neeson is spectacular in his understated portrayal of an authentic person who happens to have been a spook-chaser.
In the beginning of the movie, there is a believable, brief, set-up that gives us the glimpse we need as to how skilled Neeson’s character is. The movie ends back at that place with the resultant favor someone like Neeson’s character curries over years of network-building. It ends on just the right note.
Nita had about three little heart attacks during the movie, and nearly broke my wrist once or twice, which is a sure sign she liked it. By the time we got home she still hadn’t caught her breath sufficiently to give me a verbal thumbs-up, but I feel safe in saying she was glad to have seen it, despite the disturbing moments and almost dying of heart failure. I loved it. The two hours felt like twenty minutes.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Underworld: Rise of the Lycan
Underworld: Rise of the Lycans Unless they start with the words “Lord of the Rings” we should avoid, as a general rule, seeing third-movies-in-a-series like the plague. This is no exception. (There is an interesting story behind how I ended up seeing this one, but it isn’t pertinent to our review. Suffice it to say that Garth Reber was the inspiration behind it.)
I freely admit, however, that my son and I sat through it. After about ten minutes, we began doing our own version of Mystery Science Theater 2000, making snide comments (very quietly—the guy with the candy wrapper three chairs over was making a lot more noise) to one another, offering appropriate quotes from Monty Python, and generally doing a “roast-as-you-go” critique.
Obviously, any movie with both vampires and werewolves has a compelling draw, almost like Mélange, the worm-spice from Dune, and it is likely that I will see it. But that doesn’t mean it will be good. Only Zombies can top the allure of Vampires and werewolves. Oh, and cheerleaders. And dragons, obviously. And anything supernatural. And westerns. Plus anything with a starship in it. (Is it any wonder I loved Serenity so much? It’s a western with space ships, and it has Reavers in it, which are a kind of cross between Zombies and Michael Myers. No, the other Michael Myers.)
The reality created for Underworld is one happily devoid of either internal logic or consistency. The original draw, for most of us, was Kate Beckinsale in skin-tight patent leather, but even that is absent in this prequel. It’s interesting how many movies like this come out, do okay at the box office, and then someone starts to feel guilty and decides to put out a prequel or a sequel to explain the whole thing. Like The Matrix. (The next Terminator movie will be doing that as well.) In this one, Rhona Mitra plays Sonja, daughter of the head-cheese vampire, Viktor. She is stubborn, has a mind of her own, and never listens to daddy. And why should she? He’s only been around a few thousand years . . . what can he know? Plus, she has huge, sultry lips. (I suspect a guest appearance on Nip-Tuck). They have a pet, which is a human child that is part Lycan(werewolf for the terminally un-hip) who can alter its form at will—until the tension reaches a critical level and then its only under a full moon. (Up till this point all Lycans are mindless beasts, having been bitten by another of their kind, and they cannot change back. I’ve never heard of that before, but then I’m not a crypto-zoologist. Oh, wait, yes I am.)
So anyway, the writers try to convince us in five-hundred words or less that the vampires have built a complex society based on all-night parties, collecting tribute from surrounding fiefdoms, and walking around all the time in full armor or black lingerie. Hey—it could happen. We aren’t convinced, not for a minute, but we give them the benefit of the doubt. But then they try to convince us that vampires and werewolves are people too, are still human inside and have feelings and stuff like that. C’mon, really? Vampires are the undead, remember. No way are they people anymore. (Zombies on the other hand are the walking-dead. Aren’t you glad you have me around to explain all this?) And if werewolves have any emotions left they are those of a wolf, not a human. It just won’t fly.
The main problem with this movie (and there are enough to require a complete outline—you know, I, A-B-C, II, A-B-C-D, a-b-c-d-e-f-g-h, etc.) is the inconsistency of the use of powers traditionally attributed to these creatures of the night. Sometimes the Lycan are able to change at will, but other times we are clearly led to believe they can only do so with a full moon. Vampires can do all sorts of cool tricks but hardly ever do in this one, preferring instead to let themselves be slaughtered by the wolves while using swords and axes and stuff. In the minds of the writers and director this is necessary however, because if the vampires were using things like preternatural strength, speed, inner-senses, and their well-known hypnotic powers, there would be no contest. And the movie would be fifteen minutes long.
Oh and the, uh . . . plot. A word about the plot. There is none. Not a hint. What there is, is a pathetic and transparent attempt at a plot by people who should really know better.
On the other hand, there is a great deal of gratuitous blood, violence, lobbing off of body-parts, screaming and roaring and general mayhem. And, as if that’s not enough, there is a love scene! Did I mention that Sonja, Viktor’s daughter, and Lucian, the hybrid werewolf, fall in love and have what amounts to an incestuous relationship? Viktor raised them both as his children, more or less. So we have to sit through like, twenty seconds of all this fancy camera work while two naked people pretend to have sex, with all kinds of fade-out shots offering heavy-handed innuendo as to what they might be doing off-camera. Nice. Real nice. A vampire and a werewolf? Not in this universe.
In the end . . . well, who cares? She dies in a fit of sunlight, killed by her father’s edict. Lucien frees the Lycan slaves and destroys the vampire culture, (but don’t worry, they’ll be back) and Viktor tricks everybody into thinking he’s dead. But we know he’s not because he’s in the first movie which takes place in our own time. Then they all get baptized by an itinerant priest and go live together in a monastery.
This was rated R for ridiculous. The best part of the entire experience was that my son paid for it. Thanks, Grah.
I freely admit, however, that my son and I sat through it. After about ten minutes, we began doing our own version of Mystery Science Theater 2000, making snide comments (very quietly—the guy with the candy wrapper three chairs over was making a lot more noise) to one another, offering appropriate quotes from Monty Python, and generally doing a “roast-as-you-go” critique.
Obviously, any movie with both vampires and werewolves has a compelling draw, almost like Mélange, the worm-spice from Dune, and it is likely that I will see it. But that doesn’t mean it will be good. Only Zombies can top the allure of Vampires and werewolves. Oh, and cheerleaders. And dragons, obviously. And anything supernatural. And westerns. Plus anything with a starship in it. (Is it any wonder I loved Serenity so much? It’s a western with space ships, and it has Reavers in it, which are a kind of cross between Zombies and Michael Myers. No, the other Michael Myers.)
The reality created for Underworld is one happily devoid of either internal logic or consistency. The original draw, for most of us, was Kate Beckinsale in skin-tight patent leather, but even that is absent in this prequel. It’s interesting how many movies like this come out, do okay at the box office, and then someone starts to feel guilty and decides to put out a prequel or a sequel to explain the whole thing. Like The Matrix. (The next Terminator movie will be doing that as well.) In this one, Rhona Mitra plays Sonja, daughter of the head-cheese vampire, Viktor. She is stubborn, has a mind of her own, and never listens to daddy. And why should she? He’s only been around a few thousand years . . . what can he know? Plus, she has huge, sultry lips. (I suspect a guest appearance on Nip-Tuck). They have a pet, which is a human child that is part Lycan(werewolf for the terminally un-hip) who can alter its form at will—until the tension reaches a critical level and then its only under a full moon. (Up till this point all Lycans are mindless beasts, having been bitten by another of their kind, and they cannot change back. I’ve never heard of that before, but then I’m not a crypto-zoologist. Oh, wait, yes I am.)
So anyway, the writers try to convince us in five-hundred words or less that the vampires have built a complex society based on all-night parties, collecting tribute from surrounding fiefdoms, and walking around all the time in full armor or black lingerie. Hey—it could happen. We aren’t convinced, not for a minute, but we give them the benefit of the doubt. But then they try to convince us that vampires and werewolves are people too, are still human inside and have feelings and stuff like that. C’mon, really? Vampires are the undead, remember. No way are they people anymore. (Zombies on the other hand are the walking-dead. Aren’t you glad you have me around to explain all this?) And if werewolves have any emotions left they are those of a wolf, not a human. It just won’t fly.
The main problem with this movie (and there are enough to require a complete outline—you know, I, A-B-C, II, A-B-C-D, a-b-c-d-e-f-g-h, etc.) is the inconsistency of the use of powers traditionally attributed to these creatures of the night. Sometimes the Lycan are able to change at will, but other times we are clearly led to believe they can only do so with a full moon. Vampires can do all sorts of cool tricks but hardly ever do in this one, preferring instead to let themselves be slaughtered by the wolves while using swords and axes and stuff. In the minds of the writers and director this is necessary however, because if the vampires were using things like preternatural strength, speed, inner-senses, and their well-known hypnotic powers, there would be no contest. And the movie would be fifteen minutes long.
Oh and the, uh . . . plot. A word about the plot. There is none. Not a hint. What there is, is a pathetic and transparent attempt at a plot by people who should really know better.
On the other hand, there is a great deal of gratuitous blood, violence, lobbing off of body-parts, screaming and roaring and general mayhem. And, as if that’s not enough, there is a love scene! Did I mention that Sonja, Viktor’s daughter, and Lucian, the hybrid werewolf, fall in love and have what amounts to an incestuous relationship? Viktor raised them both as his children, more or less. So we have to sit through like, twenty seconds of all this fancy camera work while two naked people pretend to have sex, with all kinds of fade-out shots offering heavy-handed innuendo as to what they might be doing off-camera. Nice. Real nice. A vampire and a werewolf? Not in this universe.
In the end . . . well, who cares? She dies in a fit of sunlight, killed by her father’s edict. Lucien frees the Lycan slaves and destroys the vampire culture, (but don’t worry, they’ll be back) and Viktor tricks everybody into thinking he’s dead. But we know he’s not because he’s in the first movie which takes place in our own time. Then they all get baptized by an itinerant priest and go live together in a monastery.
This was rated R for ridiculous. The best part of the entire experience was that my son paid for it. Thanks, Grah.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Seven Pounds
Seven Pounds Once in a while a movie comes along that surprises, enlightens, and bridges the gap between life and artifice. This is one of those movies. It seems innocuous at the beginning, almost generic, as if it could go anywhere, be about anything . . . or nothing. It crosses timelines and uses flashbacks to better effect than anything I have seen since Memento. On the surface, it is about a man who carries a terrible burden and wants desperately to be rid of it, knows he can’t, and is willing to settle for some kind of redemption. It is about atonement.
The screenplay is exceptional in its authentic simplicity, the direction is superb, and the acting in every case is chillingly effective. But the surpassing phenomenon in this film is Will Smith. I cannot remember seeing anyone do more with facial expressions alone—ever. And that includes Diane Lane, who I consider a genius of expressive emotion. His ability to communicate what he is feeling is the only organizing layer in a film that bounces around like a three-year old on sugar, and he makes it enough.
I can’t tell you much about it and not give it away. But it is about a man who is trying, in a flawed and desperate attempt, to help seven people he does not know. He wants to change their lives, using limited resources. He does what he can to ensure that they are good people, regular people, who, with a little help have a good chance of making a difference in the world. It is emotionally charged, because Smith fills his character with passion, desperation, anxiety, guilt and love, all at once, and all on the surface as it is occurring, where we can see it. Not once does he allow himself to be relaxed, to forget whatever it is that haunts him. This is undoubtedly Smiths strongest role and deserves at the very least a nomination for best actor. He is good. Very good. Everyone else in the film is superlative as well.
The story is powerful and unfolds with uncanny and clever clarity. We are given glimpses only, but each one is enough to compel us to keep watching, almost forgetting to even guess where it might be going. In the end, Smith’s character allows us to ask hard questions about life and death, and the meaning and worth of each. It topples long-held beliefs and assumptions about issues close to us all. It tells us there are many ways to make a life meaningful, to say you’re sorry, and that not all of them are as obvious or straight forward as we might hope.
Nita and I both give this our highest recommendation. It is rated PG-13. We cannot remember any profanity at all, and there is one brief love scene with some skin but even Nita didn’t object, and she is famously irrational when it comes to skin on the big screen. It is a complex movie. You may not find it uplifting, but I guarantee you will leave the theater thinking. Oh, and bring a box of tissues. You’ll need them.
The screenplay is exceptional in its authentic simplicity, the direction is superb, and the acting in every case is chillingly effective. But the surpassing phenomenon in this film is Will Smith. I cannot remember seeing anyone do more with facial expressions alone—ever. And that includes Diane Lane, who I consider a genius of expressive emotion. His ability to communicate what he is feeling is the only organizing layer in a film that bounces around like a three-year old on sugar, and he makes it enough.
I can’t tell you much about it and not give it away. But it is about a man who is trying, in a flawed and desperate attempt, to help seven people he does not know. He wants to change their lives, using limited resources. He does what he can to ensure that they are good people, regular people, who, with a little help have a good chance of making a difference in the world. It is emotionally charged, because Smith fills his character with passion, desperation, anxiety, guilt and love, all at once, and all on the surface as it is occurring, where we can see it. Not once does he allow himself to be relaxed, to forget whatever it is that haunts him. This is undoubtedly Smiths strongest role and deserves at the very least a nomination for best actor. He is good. Very good. Everyone else in the film is superlative as well.
The story is powerful and unfolds with uncanny and clever clarity. We are given glimpses only, but each one is enough to compel us to keep watching, almost forgetting to even guess where it might be going. In the end, Smith’s character allows us to ask hard questions about life and death, and the meaning and worth of each. It topples long-held beliefs and assumptions about issues close to us all. It tells us there are many ways to make a life meaningful, to say you’re sorry, and that not all of them are as obvious or straight forward as we might hope.
Nita and I both give this our highest recommendation. It is rated PG-13. We cannot remember any profanity at all, and there is one brief love scene with some skin but even Nita didn’t object, and she is famously irrational when it comes to skin on the big screen. It is a complex movie. You may not find it uplifting, but I guarantee you will leave the theater thinking. Oh, and bring a box of tissues. You’ll need them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)