Dear Priest,
There stands a long war between the "good" films and the "entertaining" films. Most films either take several sticks of dynamite, light them and force their actors to run around screaming as the director violently chucks said explosives, or they stick two people in a room to talk about why they should've kept the baby instead of sending it away to Zimbabwe to be eaten by a hippopotamus when its left leg was taken by cancer. Few films perform well in both categories, and a truly good and entertaining film is difficult to find.
And you aren't one of them.
I think I have given you a much higher rating then you deserve but I went in knowing that the best I would get out of this was the cheap adrenaline rush induced by digitalized monster sneakiness. With your categorization (horror/sci-fi/western) and setting (dystopian futuristic Catholic-run state) and your premise (warrior priest hunts vampires to rescue his daughter), I can honestly say that no one with even the mildest amount of movie sense would expect Academy Award winning material even with a few decent actors (Paul Bettany, Karl Urban, Christopher Plummer) thrown in.
Despite a rousing set of Clint Eastwood impressions and strange flashbacks to Star Trek, you are disturbingly entertaining. Explosive action sequences with physically implausible (if not utterly impossible) stunts (Scotty can't change the laws of physics, but Maggie Q can) throw eye-candy at an amused (and somewhat bemused) audience. Poorly scripted lines are predictable (but humorous in that the audience can call and imitate them before the actors finish them) and delivered in such a fashion that hints all acting talent was left at the door (they had a little bucket that asked for the plot and character development as well). The megalomaniac (Karl Urban) bad-guy (who is neither explained, named, or justified despite his obvious importance to the Priest) is appealing in his shallowness and the Priest's (Paul Bettany) unrelenting quiet makes him the stereotypical badass people like watching these days (rosary whip and throwing star crosses, anyone?).
Add in a rather pointless sidekick (Cam Gigandet) and a gravity-defying, love interest (Maggie Q) and you have a stupid summer spectacle that spends the better part of its hour and thirty minutes blowing things up with the thin purpose of reacquiring a girl (Lily Collins). At the same time, it manages to insult the integrity of world religions, several races and the intelligence of its viewers.
I enjoyed every second and feel absolutely no shame.
So, with a 4/5 stars for entertainment and a -1/5 stars for value to society, I can firmly leave you with a 1.5/5 overall.
Now Lacking Several IQ Points,
Savvy
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Thor ★★★☆☆
Dear Thor,
Thank you for starting the Summer Blockbuster Season. Nothing screams excruciatingly expensive (and excessive) film like a Marvel comic-book adaptation. Just look at that mostly CGI-d world, intense action sequences and underused big-name stars. You fit the profile perfectly.
And much like the blockbusters of last year, you disappoint. Between Kenneth Branagh (an undeniably talented director) and your target audience's propensity to accept anything thrown at them (gods living in a distant galaxy on something similar to Discworld, sure, no problem, why not, even I can get behind that), you killed the biggest obstacles in your way. Throw in a rather gorgeous Chris Hemsworth (for the long-suffering girlfriends of the nerds), a beautiful and talented Natalie Portman (for the ever adoring nerds themselves), Anthony Hopkins (for anyone who actually believes acting should be a part of a superhero movie) and Stellan Skarsgard (for those of us who know actors and appreciate them), and you conquer at least part of the pretty/basically-talented side of the mountain.
Unfortunately, that mountain has only one side and sheers off to a steep cliff with a wild, jagged descent into a brush fire; you overconfidently tossed yourself from it with little regard to imminent danger and possible death. Whether you land on the rocks or not, you're still plummeting rapidly towards the ground in a flurry of muddled plot, poorly delivered lines and empty dialogue. The best parts of you come in clumps as you desperately attempt to slow yourself with fingers made of fighting sequences and toes made out of sporadic humorous scenes of the beleaguered man (and unfortunate rescuers/companions/babysitters) tossed into an unfamiliar cultural situation.
When you finally pull your parachute, it becomes apparent that even the undeniable chemistry between the overlooked (except by S.H.I.E.L.D. because S.H.I.E.L.D. knows all and has Clark Gregg to enforce its omniscience and Samuel L. Jackson to look scary and Jeremy Renner to sit around with a bow and do absolutely nothing) scientist and the exiled (rather bizarrely by Odin who, arguably, should have realized his son's overconfidence long before the Ice Giant Fiasco and maybe should have punished his other son for setting up everything in the first place) Norse god creates only the most gossamer of fabric betwixt you and your imminent failure. Cutting down Anthony Hopkins part with a convenient coma (or permanent sleep, whatever) and failing to explain exactly what Tom Hiddleston intended on doing (kill his adoptive father? become king? realize his Ice Giant heritage? destroy the universe? erase his brother? fill the time before dinner?) or exactly why he was doing it (beyond "I like mayhem" and "Daddy lied to me" and "You love my pretty, buff, stereotype-hero brother better than pale, scraggily, shifty villain-in-the-making me") whittles your harness down to mere thread. Overall, you crash and burn not because of your actors (who have their weak moments but show a reasonable amount of skill), premise (no one really went into the theatre expecting a true-to-life drama) or even your director (who encouraged some rather bizarre delivery choices but created, overall, a striking set of visuals)-- your script simply rotted you away with unanswered questions and trite plot twists.
I can say that you develop a fascinating amount of intrigue in your last few minutes (post credits) with the S.H.I.E.L.D. underground. I can also concede that a giant, indestructible robot makes any movie fun. I admit to liking shiny objects and enjoyed the vast amount of them. I can even appreciate this for what it is: a $150 million overture for The Avengers.
I just wish you had a little more substance.
Wishing to Reclaim That Lost Sleep,
Savvy
Thank you for starting the Summer Blockbuster Season. Nothing screams excruciatingly expensive (and excessive) film like a Marvel comic-book adaptation. Just look at that mostly CGI-d world, intense action sequences and underused big-name stars. You fit the profile perfectly.
And much like the blockbusters of last year, you disappoint. Between Kenneth Branagh (an undeniably talented director) and your target audience's propensity to accept anything thrown at them (gods living in a distant galaxy on something similar to Discworld, sure, no problem, why not, even I can get behind that), you killed the biggest obstacles in your way. Throw in a rather gorgeous Chris Hemsworth (for the long-suffering girlfriends of the nerds), a beautiful and talented Natalie Portman (for the ever adoring nerds themselves), Anthony Hopkins (for anyone who actually believes acting should be a part of a superhero movie) and Stellan Skarsgard (for those of us who know actors and appreciate them), and you conquer at least part of the pretty/basically-talented side of the mountain.
Unfortunately, that mountain has only one side and sheers off to a steep cliff with a wild, jagged descent into a brush fire; you overconfidently tossed yourself from it with little regard to imminent danger and possible death. Whether you land on the rocks or not, you're still plummeting rapidly towards the ground in a flurry of muddled plot, poorly delivered lines and empty dialogue. The best parts of you come in clumps as you desperately attempt to slow yourself with fingers made of fighting sequences and toes made out of sporadic humorous scenes of the beleaguered man (and unfortunate rescuers/companions/babysitters) tossed into an unfamiliar cultural situation.
When you finally pull your parachute, it becomes apparent that even the undeniable chemistry between the overlooked (except by S.H.I.E.L.D. because S.H.I.E.L.D. knows all and has Clark Gregg to enforce its omniscience and Samuel L. Jackson to look scary and Jeremy Renner to sit around with a bow and do absolutely nothing) scientist and the exiled (rather bizarrely by Odin who, arguably, should have realized his son's overconfidence long before the Ice Giant Fiasco and maybe should have punished his other son for setting up everything in the first place) Norse god creates only the most gossamer of fabric betwixt you and your imminent failure. Cutting down Anthony Hopkins part with a convenient coma (or permanent sleep, whatever) and failing to explain exactly what Tom Hiddleston intended on doing (kill his adoptive father? become king? realize his Ice Giant heritage? destroy the universe? erase his brother? fill the time before dinner?) or exactly why he was doing it (beyond "I like mayhem" and "Daddy lied to me" and "You love my pretty, buff, stereotype-hero brother better than pale, scraggily, shifty villain-in-the-making me") whittles your harness down to mere thread. Overall, you crash and burn not because of your actors (who have their weak moments but show a reasonable amount of skill), premise (no one really went into the theatre expecting a true-to-life drama) or even your director (who encouraged some rather bizarre delivery choices but created, overall, a striking set of visuals)-- your script simply rotted you away with unanswered questions and trite plot twists.
I can say that you develop a fascinating amount of intrigue in your last few minutes (post credits) with the S.H.I.E.L.D. underground. I can also concede that a giant, indestructible robot makes any movie fun. I admit to liking shiny objects and enjoyed the vast amount of them. I can even appreciate this for what it is: a $150 million overture for The Avengers.
I just wish you had a little more substance.
Wishing to Reclaim That Lost Sleep,
Savvy
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Rango (2011) ★★✰☆☆
Dear Rango,
I do not limit my frequent forays into the fields of film to live action phenomena for a number of reasons, starting with my six year old heart and ending with Pixar Studios. More often than not, I find myself squealing and dragging my mature (and exasperated) friends to everything I can bribe them (Starbucks works wonders) to watch.
Needless to say, when I see Johnny Depp headlining an animated feature (that doesn't belong to Tim Burton's House of Crazy), I start hunting down innocent mortals to suffer through two hours of screaming babies at a matinee. What better than Captain Jack Sparrow playing a talking lizard in a pseudo-Western? I ask. The answer: nothing, except maybe Geoffrey Rush swinging in as a ninja. My recent spell of decent kids' flicks (How to Train Your Dragon, Tangled and, of course, Toy Story 3) lolled me into a sense of complacency and my excitement overrode my necessity for companionship and, apparently, my self-preservation skills. I hazarded a 12:30 showing, surrounded by neurotic, candy chewing kindergarteners.
And spent my time hoping someone would text me.
An odd reaction, to be sure, seeing as everything about you should add up to excellent, even without Geoffrey Rush. Rango literally falls out of his comfortable pseudo-life into the harsh reality of the real world, plays up a fake identity, acquires unmerited fame, falls from his pedestal, takes a spiritual journey and comes back to save the day while still managing to be (almost) painfully inept and awkward. A predictable (yet workable) plot, good for children, easy on the aching minds of long-suffering parents, that ought to work for the masses; especially, when it's paired with a big name star, a few coarse jokes, mariachi owls and stunning visuals.
I remain unimpressed.
And, apparently, so did the rest of the audience. Not one child laughed, leaving the adults to snort cynically at a number of "big person" jokes and yawn at the oppressive (and, sadly, predictable) political and social statements. My duel cognitive state as one third functional human and two thirds childish imagination should have given in to the world of talking lizards (and turtles and rabbits and groundhogs and crows and...); but, Rango, you failed me. I may have managed one giggle but it dribbled away like the water from Dirt Bank.
I can only conclude that the talking animals bored the adults and asking, “Mommy, what does that mean?” bored the kids. Adult’s brain in child’s clothing equals failure.
As for me, I'm not sure if I don't like Westerns as much as I thought (sorry, True Grit, let me change my opinion) or I'm growing out of kid's flicks (even as I plan my procurement of Tangled on Blu-ray) or if your environmental sentiments simply turned me off. For every second I sat slack-jawed over your beautiful graphics, I spent five minutes surfing Facebook to see what that friend of a friend of a friend (who I met once at a party in grade school) did last Christmas. For every moment that I wondered if Rango would find the culprits responsible for Dirt’s drought, I spent ten looking up pictures of what really happens when an armadillo fails to properly cross the road.
If I needed a lecture about "Waste Not" and "Take Care of the Environment" I could've retaken Honors Current Events.
Still Searching for the Spirit of the West,
Savvy
I do not limit my frequent forays into the fields of film to live action phenomena for a number of reasons, starting with my six year old heart and ending with Pixar Studios. More often than not, I find myself squealing and dragging my mature (and exasperated) friends to everything I can bribe them (Starbucks works wonders) to watch.
Needless to say, when I see Johnny Depp headlining an animated feature (that doesn't belong to Tim Burton's House of Crazy), I start hunting down innocent mortals to suffer through two hours of screaming babies at a matinee. What better than Captain Jack Sparrow playing a talking lizard in a pseudo-Western? I ask. The answer: nothing, except maybe Geoffrey Rush swinging in as a ninja. My recent spell of decent kids' flicks (How to Train Your Dragon, Tangled and, of course, Toy Story 3) lolled me into a sense of complacency and my excitement overrode my necessity for companionship and, apparently, my self-preservation skills. I hazarded a 12:30 showing, surrounded by neurotic, candy chewing kindergarteners.
And spent my time hoping someone would text me.
An odd reaction, to be sure, seeing as everything about you should add up to excellent, even without Geoffrey Rush. Rango literally falls out of his comfortable pseudo-life into the harsh reality of the real world, plays up a fake identity, acquires unmerited fame, falls from his pedestal, takes a spiritual journey and comes back to save the day while still managing to be (almost) painfully inept and awkward. A predictable (yet workable) plot, good for children, easy on the aching minds of long-suffering parents, that ought to work for the masses; especially, when it's paired with a big name star, a few coarse jokes, mariachi owls and stunning visuals.
I remain unimpressed.
And, apparently, so did the rest of the audience. Not one child laughed, leaving the adults to snort cynically at a number of "big person" jokes and yawn at the oppressive (and, sadly, predictable) political and social statements. My duel cognitive state as one third functional human and two thirds childish imagination should have given in to the world of talking lizards (and turtles and rabbits and groundhogs and crows and...); but, Rango, you failed me. I may have managed one giggle but it dribbled away like the water from Dirt Bank.
I can only conclude that the talking animals bored the adults and asking, “Mommy, what does that mean?” bored the kids. Adult’s brain in child’s clothing equals failure.
As for me, I'm not sure if I don't like Westerns as much as I thought (sorry, True Grit, let me change my opinion) or I'm growing out of kid's flicks (even as I plan my procurement of Tangled on Blu-ray) or if your environmental sentiments simply turned me off. For every second I sat slack-jawed over your beautiful graphics, I spent five minutes surfing Facebook to see what that friend of a friend of a friend (who I met once at a party in grade school) did last Christmas. For every moment that I wondered if Rango would find the culprits responsible for Dirt’s drought, I spent ten looking up pictures of what really happens when an armadillo fails to properly cross the road.
If I needed a lecture about "Waste Not" and "Take Care of the Environment" I could've retaken Honors Current Events.
Still Searching for the Spirit of the West,
Savvy
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