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Three and a half hours. In each direction. That is how much time I
spent traveling (excluding putting up with certain other peoples'
bullshit) to get to see Zwartboek ten years ago.
So when I tell you I would gladly let Verhoeven turn one of my manuscripts into a film, understand where I am coming from. Since one of the darkest times in my life in 1988, Verhoeven has taught me more about how to tell a story with feeling and message than anyone else in literary, film, or musical circles. There would be a statue of the man in my private home on the world I would design. But this is not just about Verhoeven. It is about his latest offering in the cinema, a curious rape-revenge story called Elle.
First of all, let us clear something up. Elle is a name given unto many girls at birth, but it is also the French word for "she" or "her". The central character in this tale is actually named Michèle, and she takes some getting used to, as unlike Ellis De Vries or Alex Murphy, Verhoeven does not want you to automatically like her just because she is the star of the story. The film begins with a fairly powerful depiction of her being raped on the kitchen floor of her house. I say powerful because it is repeated several different ways, but it never gets gratuitous or old. She is also raped again during the film, twice, but Verhoeven was paying attention in film school when the professor told the class "if your scene does not tell the audience anything new about anyone or anything in the film, get rid of it". We learn a lot about Michèle during this film, and because she is the most developed, most fully three- dimensional character in Verhoeven's entire career, a lot of what we learn churns our stomachs.
You may have also gotten the impression from certain "journalism" that the film attacks "social justice warriors" or the drive to make the world a place where people other than rich white males can enjoy their lives. This is false. If anything, the film tells us two things. One, the world is not a safe place for women in their homes, in public, or even in bits. Two, simply talking about the problem, as opposed to violently making the people who make the problem stop, will solve nothing.
Pretty much the entire film, we are watching Isabelle Huppert's character, Michèle go through the trials and tribulations of her life after a masked man rapes her in her home. Some might think the film is about the "suspense" of figuring out who this masked attacker is, but it is not. The real meat of the story is in seeing Michèle change as a person. Videos are circulated making light of her being attacked. Messages are sent to her, of a nature that only privileged men could think okay to send. And woven into this are several subthreads about her friends and family, including the fact that her son, in spite of being a foot taller than her or almost anyone else in the story, is in serious need of doing some stones-growing. She tells one man a story about the day her father, a mass murderer, was arrested whilst her ten year old self was standing in the yard, having helped father burn things within the house. This story was in the trailer, and in its proper context it is just as chilling coming out of Michèle's mouth as was the case in the trailer.
On a scale of one to RoboCop or Zwartboek, Elle is about eight. Even Verhoeven's worst films have something about them that makes them stand out from the pack, but Elle is by far his most thought- provoking piece. Long have I said that people who want to feel safe and are not rich white men are going to have to fight for it. I will not spoil the climax of Elle, but I do wonder if Paul overheard me. Paul has effectively sent the Overgrown Baby-focused Hollywood a message in Elle. Specifically, I (Paul) am too good for you. Amen, Paul.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
...heaven help you if you make a *boring* film. I used to say that
constantly when I was younger and full of pep and had just taken a walk
into the DVD-Video format that refuses to go away in spite of looking
like a dirty dish with a crack in it compared to actual (that is, not
I started writing this "review" as a kind of response to a very surface-scratching and short attempt to defend this film. Because after they once again told us to forgive the film based on how little they had to work with, that is what comes to mind. The film is utterly boring.
It is also well worth noting that this film exists for one reason, and only one reason: to prevent the rights to this moribund franchise from reverting back into the hands of Clive Barker. It is one thing if one makes a bad film with honest intentions. For example, Ed Wood's intentions ranged from pleading for acceptance of transvestites (in the 1950s, I might add) to stopping the nuclear arms race before we ended up without a planet to live on. That his delivery of such messages through cinema was comically inept is beside the point, because although the message gets lost in the unintentional comedy, simply knowing that that was partly what he intended is enough to see he had more in mind than just money. Not the makers of Hellraiser Revelations. All they cared about was money, and it shows.
Stories generally go through a lot of rewriting before they are presented to an audience. Generally, when an author looks at his first draft, he sees mistake after mistake leaping out at him, crying for correction. Characters he was in love with during the first draft might seem like complete nonces whilst rereading, and are thus modified during the subsequent drafts. Actions undertaken by characters that got the basic plot from A to B in the first draft might make zero sense on rereading, and thus the author will rewrite the sequence of events to make more sense. Why am I describing these parts of the writing process? Because it is plainly evident that precisely none of that happened with this script.
The story as it unfolds in this film goes something like two spoiled brats go on a road trip to Mexico looking for booze, sex, and good times. The things that go wrong eventually lead them to sit in a bar where a bum who looks strangely like the bum in the original film offers them the box. Astute readers will note that this is quite a difference from the original, where one brother actively seeks out the box in a South-East Asian market because he is bored and jaded with all the thrills and spills the world can offer him. Dialogue is given in which one brat explains for the audience that he does not want to spend the rest of his life in what I inferred from this speech was a hicksville village (the film itself is not too clear about where they actually live). Although it was not great at doing this, the original gave the audience plenty to imply that one brother was a boring, tepid personality and the other a wild, outgoing man. In Revelations, almost everything is told to the audience rather than demonstrated. That can work with good actors, but the actors here mostly look like they would find it difficult to read out a battle scene from The Phantom Blooper in a way that stimulates interest.
Hellraiser Revelations is only useful for two things. One, to demonstrate there is no low to which the Weinsteins will not sink in order to keep a property, no matter how far they have run that property's value into the ground. Two, as a teaching tool at film schools. One film school teacher quoted in the Plan 9 Companion says one useful teaching tool is to show a student an example when film is not being done well and make them take notes of what is not being done well. Hellraiser Revelations offers a goldmine of material for a class like that.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
When I walked out of my first viewing of Casino Royale, I declared to a
person I had gone with the very simple truth of the matter. That is how
Bond should have been from the get-go. No fantasy "shag-me-baby" Austin
****facing, no romancing of the trade of being Her Majesty's Secret
Killer. Just the brutal reality as conveyed through making Bond watch
his girlfriend die and endure one of the most terrifying tortures a
Human male can undergo. For the first time, Bond was as grounded in
reality as his premise needed him to be. Other Bonds, namely Lazenby
and Dalton, went towards it, but Casino Royale was the first Bond film
to dive in with both hands out. The problem is that after one rushed,
truly insipid sequel that introduced shaky-cam to the Bond universe,
and was derided as it deserved, the producers panicked. Skyfall had
most of the things that made Casino Royale great. A truly memorable
villain who challenged Bond in truly important ways, a sense of
consequence, and the knowledge that the hole in Bond's soul grows that
little bit bigger every time we see him.
Unfortunately, it also gave us what I will call "resurrections" of everything that I came to despise about Bond. The new Q looked like he really ought to be terrified of Bond, the new M, at least in Skyfall, looked like the sort of person Bond would break over his knee on the way to the main villain, and people in the audience could see me wincing every time the new Moneypenny spoke. Which brings us to Spectre. I call it a tale of two films because once you watch past a certain point, it becomes evident that two scripts were meshed together in order to make this story, and the fit is not a good one. The first half of the film, accounting for a hundred minutes or so, is exactly what I had been hoping for since Casino Royale and mostly got in Skyfall. A slow boiler in which Bond is pushed to his psychological limits and shows us through his eyes that even when you do it for King and Country, killing people can have consequences that last the rest of your life. But there is a certain point in the film, after Bond gets off a train in a desert, where I encourage everyone to stop watching. Go out the door and imagine your own ending.
Because when that point in the film arrives, complete with a clunky, ineffective attempt to recreate the awesome torture sequence that had every male in the audience weeping sympathetic tears, it all comes apart in a big hurry. It is still entertaining, do not get me wrong, but it is to Casino Royale as RoboCop 3 (or RoboCop in name only as it should have been titled) is to RoboCop. The Casino Royale sequence, as I said, made every individual with those bits in the audience grind their teeth in sympathy with Bond. The attempt to recall this sequence in Spectre, which brings to my mind the Get Smart joke "I murdered my dentist", is limp-wristed and ineffective. It may as well have had Roger Moore in it. And it gets worse from there. From the equally tension-free escape onwards, you might as well paint an S on Bond's chest and be done with it. Or call him James Rambond. Take your pick. Rambond. James Rambond. Yes, Casino Royale had him surviving things that have you desperately holding onto your disbelief, trying to stop it from breaking its leash. But Spectre subjects you to around 30-50 minutes of them.
To be fair, Moneypenny gets better things to do this time than make the audience ask her to shut the hell up. But she also gets some lines about Bond just getting started that make an intelligent viewer want to rip their seat out of the floor and throw it at her enormous mouth. And Rafe-M shows us he is able to be more than just Bond-nagger. But in the end, the second component of this uneasy blend demonstrates to us that true to the form they have been in for all but one of the prior 23 films, the Bond producers are cowards and will only try new things when their proverbials are to the wall. The Rambond half of the film is only comparable to Pierce Brosnan Bond at its best, and that is so far below the best of what Daniel Craig has offered thus far, there is just no comparison. The less we say about our main villain, the better.
Daniel Craig apparently is a co-producer in this affair. And he has but one film left in his contract. So if I could tell him what I wish he would do in the next film, it is this. Make the rest of the Bond production team go back to what made Casino Royale, most of Skyfall, and the first chunk of Spectre so great. Make Bond an ordinary man who has to endure the absolute limits of what men can be pushed to. Make him suffer the consequences of his professional choices, and make the audience feel it with him. Because the more consequence-free Bond is (as demonstrated in Other Half Of Spectre), the less he works as entertainment. Spectre could have ascended to be the Fury Road of this franchise. Instead, it is just another above-average.
I have seen this film being called a love story, wonderful, and so on.
I do not turn off films after eighty minutes because of these elements,
but when I can no longer stand to watch because my cup has runneth over
with hate for the antagonist, then the eject button gets hit like a
drunk at a boxing club. Put simply, although the Jet Li character is
set up as the protagonist during the early stages of the film, the
scenes with the two snakes also set them up as heroic, caring,
wonderful creatures. The fact that they are sensuous in an overt
fashion and the film is unafraid to use this in order to keep interest
makes a welcome relief from the chastity in art of the English speaking
world. But then when the monk continually goes out of his way to make
life difficult for the White Snake simply because she is a different
kind of living thing to him, it is just too much.
Jet Li will be happy to know that until he publicly states that he is sorry for this film or that he regrets having played this character, I will never watch another film with him in it again. Why it did not occur to him to hand the script back to the studio and say "I will look like what mentalcritic spits the words 'child abuser' at, I am not doing this" or similar is something I cannot begin to fathom.
Shengyi Huang and Charlene Choi look and seem like wonderful women. They deserved better than this. There are basically two stories at war here. One is of two women falling in love with men that are separated from them by major barriers and fight to overcome that. The other is of a bigot telling everyone how right he is and not realising his entire audience wants to castrate him in front of everyone who thinks like him. Sadly, the second story ends up winning out, and for anyone who has problems with things like love for whatever reason (such as in my case having been abused), the film ends up torturous as a result. Avoid this one like I avoid family.
To be honest, reviewing things on the IMDb has become a very
unattractive pursuit in the last few years, for reasons I shall not go
into here. But to see an entry finally added for Rosario + Vampire and
not see any attempt, leave alone a good one, to make readers aware of
what to expect... well, what can I do? Rosario + Vampire can basically
be discussed in a couple of parallel threads. There is the manga, and
there is this anime. Comparing one to the other is important, because
it is important to understand why fans of the manga still cry out for a
visual media adaptation. Another good point of comparison would be the
enormously successful HBO series True Blood.
Manga and anime alike start through the eyes of a boy in his mid-teens who goes by the name of Tsukune. Tsukune is a profoundly average boy, and has failed the entrance exams to pretty much every school in Japan. But this is not meant to be a commentary about the intellectual caste system of Japan. Rather, it is a setup to explain how Tsukune is enrolled by his parents in the Youkai Academy after his father happens across a flier dropped by a suspect-looking person. Of course, anyone who knows the meaning of Youkai in Japanese knows where this is going. Tsukune, upon learning that he is enrolled in a school for mythical creatures, begins to write his withdrawal notice and make his way toward the exit. But what stops him is the young woman he met earlier in the day, a Vampire who goes by the name of Moka. Where Tsukune is the most average, unremarkable Human, Moka is one of the most elite and powerful Youkai of the lot, extraordinary even by Vampire standards. And she finds the taste of Tsukune's blood very much to her liking.
It is more or less after this introduction that the manga and anime go on very different paths. Whereas the characters of the manga face some extreme challenges that go straight to the root of their psyches, the anime is mostly farcical and only superficially explores any of the feelings the characters have about anything. We get told that Moka is very frightened of Humans because of her experiences of trying to attend school in the Human world, but aside from flashbacks, we get very little to concrete it. Mizore, easily my favourite character from the manga, is basically reduced to running jokes about popping up in the weirdest places and taking her desire of Tsukune a little too far. In the manga, the arc that introduces her shows her dealing with trust and abandonment issues as one of the sensei tries to take advantage of her. The kindness that Tsukune shows her as she fights off that sensei once and for all makes it patently obvious why she loves him. In the anime, we are just expected to accept it as a given.
Where the anime partially saves itself is in the relationship between Tsukune and Moka. Seeing them grow together as people as they learn to deal with each others' differences is a major component of the early manga that has been sadly lacking in recent volumes. One almost wishes the series had been around for George Lucas to watch when he was writing scenes for a pair of characters earlier in this decade. Since the anime is also very brief and to the point, there is a lot less gnashing of teeth about why Tsukune has to be so indecisive about which of the women chasing him he wants. But the biggest selling point of the anime by far is Nana Mizuki's voicework as both Inner and Outer Moka. As the more demure, gentle Outer Moka, she sounds sweet and childlike in a way that manages to not sicken this jaded old viewer (quite a feat in itself that Harry Potty et al could never achieve). Then when the Inner Moka comes out, she gently, calmly sounds like she could tear the viewer's head off just to see the rest of them twitch. It is no coincidence that all of the theme songs also feature Mizuki's voice prominently.
So if you are curious as to whether to introduce yourself to Rosario + Vampire through this series, I feel a comparison says it best. The manga is like Tim Burton's Batman. The anime is a somewhat more grown-up version of the Adam West abomination. But who knows? Maybe one day we might get that Takashi Miike R+V adaptation I hold my breath for.
...Because the Iron Man that I saw had me checking my watch constantly
throughout its running length. It was basically a lot of talking with a
few paltry action sequences that ended too soon and had no real oomph.
Had it not been for Jeff Bridges and Robert Downey junior, Iron Man
would have been another Hulk. And by Hulk, I do not mean The Incredile.
The improvement shown in Iron Man 2, by comparison, is like the
improvement between X-Men and X2, only five times over. The difference
being that X-Men had been 98 percent awesome to begin with. Maybe if
this trajectory of improvement continues with the inevitable third Iron
Man film (which in itself would be an awesome feat), it will be in the
same ballpark as X2, or maybe even as awe-inspiringly brilliant as
RoboCop, the exercise in suffering for the most wonderful art that the
comic book Iron Man helped inspire. But I digress. The point I am
trying to make here is that anyone who uses words like "less fun" as a
put-down in context of reviewing a story like Iron Man 2 should be shot
in order to lessen the pollution of our gene pool. I happen to find
stories that deal with serious concepts like revenge and hatred far
more fun than catchphrase fluff, Brian and Kirk.
You cannot have a superhero film without a good actor to play the titular superhero. Whereas Christian Bale is hampered by his director's ego and an inability to be intelligible, and Hugh Jackman is currently chained down by some of the worst superhero film scripts since Batman & Robin, Robert Downey junior and his script are at the top of their game here. Originally when I heard that the story in this film would show Stark descending into alcoholism, I thought they at least picked the right man for the job. But the script provides something more in giving Stark a very credible motive for it. Downey is very convincing when pretending that he is dying and deciding to destroy himself as a result, but the arc of how an archival message from Howard Stark causes Tony Stark to lift himself out of the hole and fix the problem that is killing him is touching in multiple senses. And I speak as someone who has dealt with multiple addictions and compensatory life destructions here.
But the real star of the show is Mickey Rourke as Ivan Vanko, the real villain of the piece. Ivan is to Tony what Khan was to Kirk, only more so. Whereas Khan had the eventually-fatal flaw of not having as much experience in where he engaged his enemy, Ivan if anything knows quite a bit more about the world he is taking on than Tony. The desperate poverty we see him in at the beginning lends itself to that. When he goes out onto that racetrack and starts to chop up cars, he knows to expect no quarter, and thus tries to not give any. Lengthy speeches are also a tricky thing to pull off in any kind of film, lending themselves to ridicule or contradiction. But in a ten-second speech, Mickey Rourke gives the audience every reason to believe that his character has a right to feel hard done by. There is a reason why Rourke is experiencing a minor new surge of interest, and it is on display in every frame that features him. It is a credit to Robert Downey junior that he can stay credible whilst sharing the screen with Rourke.
One of the most controversial aspects of Iron Man 2 was Marvel's choice to replace Terence Howard with Don Cheadle, their original choice to play Rhodes. Howard made much noise about it, but Marvel made the right decision here. Cheadle is far more credible as the Colonel despite being noticeably physically smaller. During one scene in which Cheadle dons the suit and acts in a fight with Downey, his delivery of the dialogue ("you are not fit to wear this suit!") is much more credible to boot. Also holding up their end of the platform are Gwyneth Paltrow, Samuel L. Jackson, and Scarlett Johansson in some of the best support roles thus far seen in a superhero film. Paltrow in particular scores top points for performing as a responsible woman trying to hold up a boss she cares for like a husband but is psychologically disintegrating into a mess before her very eyes. Jackson, for his part, plays the same Jackson he plays in every other film he is in, but it works well with the role of Nick Fury, so why not.
The story itself is fairly simple and linear, without any extra layers or references for the viewer to take something out of. But instead of seemingly endless dialogue that has very little linguistic verve interspersed with the aforementioned so restrained it feels like a dog collar action sequences, Iron Man 2 has mostly very riveting dialogue and action sequences that, although nowhere near the standard set by the likes of Verhoeven, are at least entertaining to watch and contribute something to the plot. In fact the only aspect of the original that I prefer over this film is the score music. Whereas the Iron Man score had powerful themes that lifted certain shots well above the drudgery of the rest of the film, Iron Man 2's score is almost non-existent and remarkably tame. And while we are on the subject of music, whilst the Iron Man of the Black Sabbath song and Iron Man would not recognise each other if they met, can we please get something better than AC/DC? They have not released a single good record since I was born.
Iron Man 2 is a ten out of ten film. To paraphrase a line from an early sequence: **** you, Brian and Kirk, **** you.
Typically, when I contemplate offering my commentary on a film, the one
question that always comes to mind is what difference I will make by
making my voice heard. Sometimes, with dehumanising propaganda like
Mozart And The Whale or Rain Man, it is not so much important to
convince anyone to stop watching as it is to simply voice objections.
Sometimes, with masterpieces like RoboCop or Night Of The Living Dead,
convincing a skeptic who might have otherwise not seen the film to do
so is its own reward. And then there's films like Death Race, where
commenting seems like something you do out of obligation, kind of like
when you file a report after being raped or robbed. The irony here is
that some commentators seem to think Roger Corman's approval of this
remake somehow indicates quality. What they do not know is that Corman
wanted the original to be approached as seriously as this bloated turd,
and it was only Paul Bartel's knack for making the most of an
opportunity that saved Death Race 2000 from being the complete disaster
that Death Race is.
Death Race 2000 was made on a budget that likely amounted to a few hundred grand at the most. And more than likely half of that budget went up the filmmakers' nostrils. So when I tell you that Paul W.S. Anderson's remake is not only rightly compared to the original, but is on the losing end of such a comparison, that should tell you all you need to know about what went wrong here. Themes and ideas fly by the screen in an almost manic fashion. In one shot, they are trying to satirise the concept of reality television. In the next, they are trying to give a shout-out to the original. In another, they attempt poor jokes based on a character's sexual orientation. And they get every single thing they attempt utterly wrong. Where Bartel's original shone in particular is also where this Death Race is an epic failure. Anderson attempts to sell the idea that authorities will allow a gladiatorial racing sport in the prison system due to the collapse of the economy. Which could have worked if the person running said sport was not made out by the script to be functionally retarded.
Not helping matters any is that the structure of the race itself makes absolutely no sense. Cars run over lit markers in order to activate their weapons, but absolutely no concern is given to how their activation works for the story. Guards switch the markers on and off like crack-addled children in the hopes of giving favoured contestants an advantage. Racers detach armour plates that are helping to prevent their fuel tank from exploding. Racers leap out of cars that are moving at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour without suffering so much as a broken collarbone. Any competent director would have sent this shooting script back to the studio and told them to shoot its author in the head twice. But possibly the worst aspect of this film is Machine Gun Joe, an inferior rip-off of the Machine Gun Joe Viterbo character Sylvester Stallone made his best ever performance. Not only is the new Machine Gun Joe a urination upon blacks and homosexuals the world over, but how often do you see actors compared to Sylvester Stallone and finding themselves on the losing end for aspects other than action-heroism?
My father was a semi-professional photographer once (he mostly did weddings and the like). I photograph things both as a hobby and as a vociferous protest in favour of my own civil rights. I shoot my video footage with an interlaced HD video camera and painstakingly edit it on a computer that is not even the top of the line for home consumer use. And I can heartily attest that if you made me drink enough vodka to kill a bodybuilder then held a gun to my head as I cut together footage of races, I could easily slap together something both more cogent and exciting to watch than the drivel that passes for race footage in this mess. If I could go back in time with two bullets and the exact locations where Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini will be at certain points, I would take a detour and shoot the monkey who invented shaky-cam twice before bashing his head in with a brick. Considering that Paul W.S. Anderson used to shoot films so that the audience could actually see what the hell was going on, my disgust with him is getting ever more severe.
Joan Allen looks completely lost trying to follow the direction of a director who clearly no longer knows which end of the camera to point at her. If I were to spit on Tyrese Gibson for his performance in this film, I do not doubt for a second he would cry racism. In fact, I would like to film him doing just that for the benefit of the homosexual community. Natalie Martinez is quite apparently frustrated by a role so underwritten it makes the sacrificial lamb in Death Race 2000 look like Scarlett O'Hara. But the biggest disappointment of the lot would have to be Jason Statham as the central hero. Where David Carradine was so deadpan and smooth that he made the most absurd material work, Statham plainly cannot give a stuff about what he is part of. It literally seems all he can do to not ask where his paycheque is. Everyone in the film save for Gibson has that patented "I am in a bad film and I know it" look.
Death Race is the embodiment of a two out of ten film. If Roger Corman had the slightest bit of sense, he would disown it. Defenders of this puke be advised: your opinion regarding the colour of the sky is of no interest to me.
There are statements people can make that instantly tell you everything
you need to know about them. When Albert Einstein stated that the
simple version of relativity was akin to how quickly time moved in
different situations, for example, it told the world they were dealing
with an intelligence too great to be easily understood. So when a
person tells you that Resident Evil: Extinction is a good film, you
instantly know that they are a grade A moron who is best swiftly
removed from the gene pool. And it is not like the filmmakers failed to
try this time. After the exercise in failure to deliver that the
previous sequel turned into, this installment simply had to get better
by comparison. The unfortunate downside to this being that a lot of
mouth-breathers who have obviously never seen a Romero or Fulci film
have the unfortunate habit of confusing "better" with "good". Websites
dedicated to the savoring of bad films will tell you that a film is in
trouble when it starts to remind you of better ones. RE:E takes less
than four minutes to remind viewers of the substantially better
By now, we know better than to go to a Resident Evil film expecting anything like good acting or a well-told story. But what separates the first film from its sequels is a little quality called atmosphere. Simply put, the look, the feel, the music, and even some of the performances, were "right". Resident Evil took the time to suspend the viewer's disbelief and draw them into its world. The sequels absolutely fail at this deceptively simple step because they take it for granted that the viewer has been drawn in. This becomes painfully obvious when voiceovers describe how the T-virus has somehow dried up the oceans or other such rot. No matter how lethal and easily transmissible a virus can be, one that destroys the environment that it is meant to thrive in is not well-equipped for long-term survival. But since we are meant to accept this virus as being able to instantly adapt to whatever needs the plot requires, we also accept that making sense is not high on the list of priorities the filmmakers have.
If only the film having a voice of its own was a higher priority to these filmmakers. As said previously, RE:E wastes no time in reminding the viewers of better films. Aside from the original in the series, RE:E also attempts to steal from not one, not two, but three George Romero films, all from the same series. Say what you will about Day Of The Dead especially, but Day Of The Dead's subplot about attempts to domesticate the zombies made an interesting metaphor for the intolerance human society was and is developing for natural behaviour that does not meet the expected norm. In RE:E, this subplot is handled with such clumsy focus on attempting to move the plot forward by any means necessary that any social commentary is lost in the disbelief at how inept the storytellers seem. The concept of parties raiding old towns for supplies is also about as original as a third-generation fax, but it is done so badly here that it truly makes one appreciate how Land Of The Dead negated questions about what the heroes are going to do when the leftovers run out.
And even if RE:E fails to remind one of much better films, the philosophy that less is more completely and utterly backfires. One reason the Resident Evil sequels remind this viewer a lot of Romero's Dead series is because Romero's Dead series allocated sufficient time to explore enough of the characters that their plight and struggles seemed real and compelling. The manner in which the shopping mall environment slowly evolves from a safe paradise to a prison is very palpable due to the acting in Dawn Of The Dead. The real Dawn Of The Dead, I mean. When you see Omar Epps return for another performance in RE:E, all the toning down of the bling bling act in the world cannot help but bring back memories of his performance in the previous film. Which in turn leaves audiences who can read and speak at an adult level wishing to see his character die a gruesome and horrid death. While RE:E is not quite as softcore as its immediate predecessor, its seemingly unending ability to leave the viewer wanting more is a stark contrast to how Dead films can make even the most hardcore viewer wonder if they are perhaps going too far.
All this leaves one wondering exactly what Capcom think of how these second-tier studio gatherings have used their property. The first film in the series at least had a freaky sense of atmosphere and some replications of game conventions to tie it to its source material. If you changed the titles of the two sequels and removed all references to the Umbrella corporation, they would be unrecognisable as connected to Capcom's games. Simply put, the Resident Evil title is nothing more than a transparent ploy to fanboys and video game addicts to pay for films that are increasingly poorly-written. If truth in advertising laws were more stringent, they would be required to be titled something along the lines of We Have No Respect For You At All, Videogamers: Just Give Us Your Money. The saddest part of it is that this kind of corporate shill film designed to whip consumers into a money-shedding frenzy is exactly what previous, far superior works such as (the real) Dawn Of The Dead were trying to warn us about.
Resident Evil: Extinction is a film so bad that it makes misfires like Day Of The Dead seem like Zwartboek by comparison. It is a two out of ten film in every sense: too bad to be worthwhile, not bad enough to be entertaining. Avoid.
It seems Transformers splits viewers firmly down the middle, with
people either denouncing it as a lot of crap or saying they loved it. I
do not denounce people because they have an opinion, not unless they
want to tell me I am diseased and incapable because I was born
different to the expected norm anyway, but this... film... goes beyond
the limit of bad writing. Hence, when a defender of this film tells me
that the sky is blue, I will ask someone else for their opinion. You
see, I was a hyperlexic child in 1986 (that means I had a wider
vocabulary when I was in elementary school than most people have when
they enter tertiary education). Hence, I not only enjoyed The
Transformers, the real Transformers, I could have explained to you in
very lucid terms why the physics of their abilities are not only
impossible but, in light of feasibility on a planet that is not blessed
with a literally infinite power source, completely ridiculous. Why do I
say all that? It is very simple. This film does not just insult my
intelligence, it assumes that I am like my onetime elementary school
teachers and have none.
Like all the truly bad films, there are moments when you start to just care about some of the characters. The soldiers who first meet one of the titular robots are likable, genuinely interesting guys. The teenagers that the film spends the majority of its time following, on the other hand, are the most insipid and annoying pieces of human filth it has been my displeasure to watch. In contrast to the Spike, Chip, or Sparkplug that gave the audience an element to relate to in the real Transformers, the Sam, Mikaela, and Maggie that pollute this abortion of an adaptation slow down the interest factor to a halt. It is one thing to make a film about a war between disparate factions of intelligent robots uninteresting. It is another altogether to make the human factor so monotonous and cliché that even the moments of interaction between people are boring. The "oh my god I do not know how to talk to another human being because it is feminine" act is so 1950s, guys.
Adding to the misery are the action sequences. Yes, the parts of the film that are meant to give relief from the monotony of the dialogue or the who-cares tepidness of the human characters actually bring the most pain. This is because director Michael Bay, like all directors who do not know how to make an action film interesting when all else has failed, resorts to the tried and tired method of making sure the audience cannot see what the hell is going on. Michael Bay, if you are out there and can read this, I promise you that if we ever meet, I am going to make you feel as dazed and nauseous as your piece of crap film has made me. I will sign a contract to do so in blood if you want commitment. Bay should really have trusted his original instinct, as he has made nothing more than a stupid toy film. Put simply, I did not just hate this film. I turned it off feeling like Bay had just shaken his ding-dong at me for two hours.
And what of the characters we were bracing ourselves to see on film? Well, Bumblebee is the one we get to see first, so let us deal with him. Put simply, Bumblebee's function in the real Transformers was to demonstrate that size alone does not make a person worthy. In spite of being not much bigger than your average Human, he often steered his fellow Autobots out of danger when it was really needed. Or rescued the human element. Take your pick. But in Michael Bay's conception of the world, everyone who is worth anything is at least 6'7" and weighs 250 pounds, minimum. Do not try telling him Albert Einstein was a mere 5'9", it will fall on deaf ears. And it gets worse from there. The real Optimus Prime was a leader because of several things. One, he was as intelligent as he was large (that's right, Michael, intelligence counts for A LOT in battle). Two, he was unafraid to serve the greater good, even if it came at the cost of his own life. Three, he led by example. Four, he led by example. Five, he led by example. Six, well, you get the idea.
When you add all these things together, you find they contradict the very nature of the robots Michael Bay presents to us and asks us to believe are the Transformers. Optimus Prime in this film cannot even take one of his human wards to retrieve a vital element of their mission without crushing major backyard ornaments and, along with his fellow Autobots, making enough noise to alert an entire city block to their presence. Oh, and by the way, Jazz had class. He was not a twenty foot tall expression of bling-bling culture. Ugh, being that I could read Tolkien when Darius McCrary was probably failing elementary school English, his presence in this film is an insult to everything the original series was about. It is one thing to have characters who are, to quote George Clooney, dumber than a bag of hammers. This film goes a lot further This film assumes that its audience is made up entirely of four year olds who have never read a cereal packet. In so doing, it takes everything that such writers as Dennis O'Neil and Bob Budiansky created and perverts it.
Transformers as directed by Michael Bay is a two out of ten film in every sense. Avoid.
Thirty years ago, when Star Wars was just being released to theatres
and Superman was in production, this film might have been impressive.
Twenty years ago, a little before Tim Burton slapped a lot of
expectations upside the head and redefined the way comic book
adaptations are filmed forever, ROTSS as I will call it henceforth
might have been mildly impressive. But the thing about storytelling is
that once your audience has seen or heard a good story told in an
impressive fashion, the bar is instantly raised. Ten years ago, in the
wake of the stink that was Batman Forever, this half-baked offal might
have seemed passable. But after the incredible statements on how far we
have not come since 1945 that the real X-Men films turned out to be,
ROTSS is woefully inadequate. As I stated in my comments about the
previous Fantastic Four film, ROTSS is more a case of X-Men Dumbed Down
For Infants, and the fact that director Tim Story was not fired after
his appalling effort on the first film demonstrates that not everyone
at Fox has their act together.
One of the most commonly-cited complaints about the original Fantastic Four film was that the characters seem largely indifferent to their newfound powers and their situations. This was because, with the sole exception of Michael Chiklis, the actors are never given any time to explore their characters, their characters' emotions, or their characters' situations. We ended up knowing less about the Four than we do most characters in a soap opera, and as a result, they seem less real. Even in Dark Angel, arguably a top ten contender for the worst-written dialogue ever heard on television, we had more reason to care about the support characters there than we do the titular heroes in ROTSS. And that is the one big problem which ROTSS just cannot recover from. Because these so-called heroes live like celebrities and are treated like rock stars, we end up with no reason to care what happens to them. In one memorable (for all the wrong reasons) scene, as Reed is using his flexibility to impress women in a nightclub, we cannot help being reminded of Rogue's abject fear of even touching someone.
In the original Fantastic Four, this effect was bad enough on its own. Its poor time economy and seeming inability to properly develop the characters left this sequel with little or no foundation to balance itself upon. Where X-Men 2 had the inevitable attack of the Normalness Patrol upon its heroes and its anticipation, the biggest event in ROTSS when going in is the wedding of two characters. Since the two characters have about as much character as the leads in an episode of Neighbours, we are not just indifferent to this event. We literally just flat out do not give a crap. And considering that ROTSS has to make do with a mere ninety-two minutes of running time, you cannot count on any story development to give you an investment in what happens to the characters, either. When Victor Von Doom steals the silver surfboard for his own purposes, one ends up being too aware of how little time remains in the film's running length to really get worked up about the possibility of anything exciting.
Not helping anything is the mostly-droll acting. Jessica Alba looks more comfortable here whining about the inevitable challenges of her nuptials than she does convincing us that she regards the safety of our world as her responsibility. Ioan Gruffudd and Chris Evans are just there, and just basically adequate. Even Michael Chiklis is ultimately reduced in this sequel due to his character being given all of the perks of fame without a single drawback being given the slightest exploration. Julian McMahon could not play Victor Von Doom on the most maudlin day of his life, and in this film his credibility as a genuine threat is almost as sorely missed as that of the Silver Surfer. Speaking of the Silver Surfer, the film attempts at one point to flip gears and make him into an unwilling servant of a much greater menace, but one ends up caring a lot more about those millions of civilians who were presumably killed when he dug one of his little holes in the Earth's crust. This is not helped by the fact that when the Silver Surfer attempts to explain why he does what he does, it amounts to a lot of tell and no show.
Not helping matters any is the parameters of the softcore PG rating. Exactly what convinced the MPAA this film was even nearly as adult in tone as either of the real X-Men films is going to be one of the great unsolved mysteries years from now. The action is about as intense as the effort with which I blow my nose, and only a delusional crackhead could find any suggestive content here. You could probably shave another five minutes off this film and get it a G rating in Australia. And when you consider that this film is dealing with the possibility that every life on Earth might be extinguished, such beating around the bush is simply not on. I am not saying that the film needs to be another RoboCop, but when you present the audience with a situation in which people will inevitably be killed, reminding the audiences that there are consequences to detaching a chunk of a building from its foundations is actually a good thing. And no, the impalement at the end does not count, because like one of those ghastly Narnia films, the director cannot resist the temptation to invoke the magic reset button.
Fantastic Four: Rise Of The Silver Surfer is the epitome of what I call a two out of ten film. Even twenty-five years ago, I would have told the nearest adult to turn this kiddie trash off.
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