Film Review - TRANSFORMERS: REVENGE OF THE FALLEN: Autobots Roll Out! ...and Out and Out and Out and Out...

Watching Michael “Blow It All To Hell” Bay’s latest thought-impaired robotic punch ‘em up Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, the sequel to 2007’s lumbering, migraine-inducing Transformers, it occurred to me that the director doesn’t give two stinking spark-plugs about his titular titanium-plated titans. Sure, we’re treated to endless scenes in which they cave in each other’s craniums with ginormous swords and mega-detonating projectiles, but personality-wise they’re empty vessels, characterized solely by their vehicular appearance and distorted booming voices. It takes a certain amount of determination to cut together 150 minutes of mechanized car-nage, Pauly Shore-level comedy and infinite shots of anonymous military people spouting jargon ala “The target is located!”, and not reveal a single interesting idea about the characters, but boy did he succeed. In fact, the flick could be renamed GoBots or Voltron and only a few superficial changes would be required.

The plot? Oy. Oddly, the script by the shallow writing duo Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (with added “help” from Reindeer Games scribe Ehren Kruger), is both lamely simplistic and torturously convoluted at the same time. Much like the similarly bloated Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End, lots and lots of things happen, but very little matters.

Essentially Revenge of the Fallen can be synopsised as thus: Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) is departing for Maxim College – where all the women dress like Seymour Street hookers and seem perpetually on the brink of orgasmic ecstasy – when he discovers a fragment of the all-powerful All-Spark, which zaps his head full of alien code. The Decepticons, under the rule of the disgraced warlord The Fallen, need this implanted information to find a potentially world-ending device that will give them unlimited supremacy. Hence, Optimus Prime and the Autobots, along with a few one-note human sidekicks, must assemble to thwart their wicked scheme. Much joyless brawling, screaming and showering scrap metal ensues.

Transformers die-hards (Trans-fans?) will no doubt devour the numerous diesel-injected dust-ups. There’s an impressive forest-set melee where Optimus takes on multiple mechanized assailants at once, along with an impressively staged gargantuan climax in Egypt which, up to the underwhelming final boss battle, is almost pornographic in its obsession with money shots and Megan Fox’s heaving bosom. But what about the Transformers’ personalities and feelings? What do they think about when not clashing? There are some interesting questions raised – probably unintentionally – regarding the alien race’s birthing process. Do these creatures mate? They appear asexual, and almost entirely masculine. How does an Optimus Prime reproduce? Also, we get a glimpse at Robot Heaven, where angelic Auto-bots – I’m guessing that there’s a Robot Hell reserved for Decepticons – stand in front of the pearly gates bathed in light. Is there Transformer theology? Who do they pray to? Do they dream of electric sheep? Fans might as well bellow these questions into the never-ending void, because the film-makers could care less. They’re vehicles for seeking and instigating mayhem, little else.

...Which would be forgivable if there was a single human performance in Revenge of the Fallen that rose above the level of transparent. LaBeouf, the team’s MVP and everyman, is helpless in the face of Bay’s orchestra of idiocy. He sweats fetchingly, shouts insipid terminology with gusto and gamely charges into the numerous bombastic set-pieces head-first. Megan Fox is window dressing, with nothing to do except be willingly molested by Bay’s salacious camera - although newcomer Isabel Lucas is the primary target for the director’s unique brand of creepy misogyny – while Tyrese Gibson and Josh Duhamel’s soldiers are best represented in an art-imiating-life dialogue exchange wherein they are informed that they are paid “to shoot, not talk”. John Turturro, reprising his annoying Sector 7 agent role, feels unnecessary but somewhat pleasant when compared to Ramon Rodriguez, as Sam’s conspiracy theory-fixated roommate, a narcissistic jerk of a character that’s an endurance test to tolerate.

Bay surrounds his human and mechanical nonentities with liberal heapings of masturbatory CG polish, characters TALKING! LIKE! THIS!, racially insensitive caricatures (the “twin” Auto-bots Skids and Mudflap have already provoked much passionate debate) and toilet-bowl sex humour. This is the type of film where mini-bots defile Megan Fox’s leg, dogs graphically hump each other (twice!) and a giant Decepticon named Devastator wields wrecking-ball testicles. I don’t necessarily blame Bay for going juvenile, but there is a cold-hearted cynicism at work that feels condescending toward adults and potentially harmful to impressionable children.

Ultimately, Transformers makes the classic blockbuster mistake of not comprehending the difference between enchanting an audience and numbing it into submission. Despite its massive budget, there’s not a single memorable line or moment of creative inspiration to be found amongst the reckless state-of-the-art computer-born gimmickry. At the conclusion of Revenge of the Fallen little doubt remains that Optimus Prime and his hulking horde of synthetic ciphers will return. Maybe next time they’ll actually let us see the soul beneath the aluminum armor.

2 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: June 29th, 2009.

Film Review - DEPARTURES: A Life-Affirming Story With Some Deadly Cliches.

A considerable swirl of debate surrounded Departures last February when, to the surprise of many, the Japanese film snatched up the Best Foreign Film prize at the 2009 Academy Awards. Beating out hipper, edgier fare such as France’s The Class and Israel’s Waltz With Bashir, the film’s triumph was viewed with a mix of contrasting opinions. While many saw Departures’ win as further evidence of the committee’s preference for unabashedly sentimental films over bold medium-challenging accomplishments, others championed the picture as being a transfixing work of meditative splendour, subtly poetic and achingly beautiful.

Well, after finally viewing the film – no thanks to an unfortunately sluggish release schedule – I find myself tap-dancing somewhere in the middle. On one hand, acclaimed director Yojiro Takita has crafted an often enchanting and compelling character-driven exploration into mankind’s uneasy relationship with death. However, on the flip side, he has also made an often shamelessly manipulative tear-jerker.

The movie stars Masahiro Motoki as Daigo Kobayashi, a visibly troubled young cellist forced to leave the comfortable urban jungle of Tokyo after his orchestra is dissolved due to lack of interest. Low on finances and suffering an identity crisis, Daigo, along with his loving wife Mika (Ryoko Hirosue), moves back to his small hometown of Yagamata, taking up residence in his deceased mother’s ramshackle house. Eager for employment, and under the mistaken impression that he is applying at a travel agency, the anxious young man unwittingly winds up being hired as an NK Agent, or “encoffineer”, under the tutelage of the weary, laconic Ikuei Sasaki (Tsutomu Yamazaki).

Daigo’s new job consists of retrieving dead bodies from their points of expiration and then performing the traditional funereal ceremony in which bodies are prepared for their entrance into the next phase of life. After a bumpy start involving a much-decayed corpse collection case, Daigo proves himself to be a born natural, presiding over a series of elegant, bittersweet memorial services, and gradually discovering his own sense of inner-peace. But when the truth of his publicly frowned-upon occupation becomes known within the small community, alienating many of his closest friends and relations, the conflicted former-cellist must examine his own feelings towards his new vocation as well as his long-lingering resentments towards the father who abandoned him as a child.

Now, I’m a sucker for any movie that shows me something I’ve never seen before, and Departures’ “encoffineering” scenes are truly astonishing to behold. Graceful and delicate, these moments, which detail the process wherein the deceased are bathed, dressed and made-up, are powerfully captivating and choreographed by director Yojiro Takita like individual dance routines, each one with its own feel, rhythm and emotional undertone.

Fortunately the living actors also provide the journey with its own share of rewards. Motoki, as the conflicted protagonist, is so earnestly heartfelt that we feel personally invested in his own emotional quest. Despite the odd moment of goofy mugging from the actor, he really manages to reveal the buried hurt and conflicting thoughts of his character without making him into an overly melancholy man-child. The father/son dynamic he shares with the quietly commanding Yamazuki - whose low-key style yields the film’s richest, most stunningly layered performance - gives the film a captivatingly vibrant pulse. In one of many particularly remarkable scenes – almost a mini-movie unto itself - the two men share a meal and quiet conversation in a small indoor garden, allowing their characters to breath and simply exist, sincere and unguarded, in the moment.

If only Departures had remained focused on capturing authentically honest human relationships it could have really added up to something extraordinary. Sadly though, in its meandering latter half it too often stoops to relying on musty clichés and groaning implausibilities to reach its insipidly syrupy ending. One of the biggest offences is against Hirosue as Daigo’s wife, one of the film’s most radiant presences who, for the sake of creating conflict, behaves in ways that seem at diametrical odds with her sunny, open-minded personality. Equally damaging is the script’s decision to stage not one, but TWO draggy climactic funerals, packed with “Important Revelation”-revealing peripheral characters and a nonstop barrage of ham-fisted symbolism and teary-eyed close-ups, all set to an absurdly treacly score. It’s as if Takita lost confidence in his otherwise restrained film and felt compelled to pander to the audience when it really wasn’t necessary or appropriate.

Although the film's considerable problems prevent it from being a completely successful endeavour, it still contains enough uniquely touching insights into the human condition – namely our fears of mortality and need for love and acceptance – to humbly warrant a visit. Sometimes it takes a long, hard glimpse into the inevitability of death to make life feel that much more exhilarating. In the end Daigo discovers this truth and, when Departures is working, so do we.

3.5 out of 5

*Originally Printed in SFU's The Peak: June 22nd, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 12 - "Gettin' Down With UP (Yo!)"

You can't keep a good podcast down. You can try but you will fail. Wanna know how I know? Cuz the Epi-Cast is back, droppin' rhymes, takin' names, giving you all the straight film-related poop you require. Despite a one week break from our usual bi-monthly schedule, we're back and ready to serve. NEXT!

Epicast: Episode 12 - "Gettin' Down With UP (Yo!)"

In which Cam and Tom put on their pixie shoes and frolic joyously around Pixar's latest beautiful gift for the senses, Up. Aside from the roughly 25-minute love-in with the film, and the studio's other magi-tastic wonders, they waste time nattering on about Sam Raimi's spook-a-blast odyssey Drag Me to Hell, Will Ferrell's baffling Land of the Lost and the surprise smash The Hangover. New flicks aside, Tom finally reports back from his first encounter with The Terminator while Cam shows some love for the 1981 Jack Nicholson box-office flop The Border. Plus, in a very special Trailer Park Encounters segment the dizzy duo puzzle over Scorsese's Shutter Island, giggle at Roland Emmerich's disaster epic 2012, snore through the preview for the John Travolta/Robin Williams mid-life crisis horror-show Old Dogs and, finally, snicker and scratch their heads over Twilight: New Moon. It's 90+ minutes more fun than a Robert Pattinson jockstrap fitting. Ew.

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your dear heart's content.

P.S.: We also available on iTunes too. Simply do a shop search for "Epi-Cast" and PIA-ZADORA!, there we are! Oh, and we're movie-ramble show, not the holy roller one.

Film Review - THE TAKING OF PELHAM 1 2 3: Hyperkinetic Scott Keeps The Train From Derailing.

God bless Tony Scott. At 65 years of age, Ridley’s little brother is still out there, blowing expensive cars to hell and back, over-editing himself into a foaming frenzy, and kicking shallow young upstarts like Michael Bay in the ass and reminding them that, long before they were taking credit for the modern-day ADHD action explode-ation flick, he was making magnificently stupid audience pleasers like Top Gun, Days of Thunder and The Last Boyscout. Call him superficial and ham-fisted if you must, but you gotta give props to arguably the hippest movie-making grandpa out there who, with The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, continues his cheerful trend of fashioning energetic MTV-esque bursts of empty-calorie amusement.

A quasi-remake of the 1974 Walter Matthau/Robert Shaw caper-thriller The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (The update’s abbreviated single-digit titular numerals is a sign of how much more EXTREME! it is, I suppose), the premise of the flick is refreshing in its simplicity: A violent crook named Ryder (John Travolta), along with his one-dimensional accomplices, takes a New York subway passenger train hostage and demand 10 million dollars within an hour. However, the twist is that the only person Ryder is willing to communicate with is a shlumpy subway dispatcher named Walter Garber (a dependably sturdy and convincing Denzel Washington – Tony Scott’s longtime go-to guy), who is facing his own crisis, having been recently demoted from the big leagues for alleged bribery. As casualties mount, time ticks down, and the Mayor (James Gandolfini) and an NYPD hostage negotiator (John Turturro) get involved, Garber and Ryder find themselves locked in a collision-course battle of the wits where the stakes are... Well, you know. And it doesn’t take Vulcan mind meld skills to deduce how it all wraps up, either.

At any rate, before even attempting to dissect the ludicrous plot of Pelham, it seems vital to acknowledge the film’s villain. Cracklingly portrayed by a flamboyantly garish biker-gear clad Travolta, Ryder – who could easily be the actor’s Wild Hogs character after a nasty prison stint – is a memorable cartoon pop psychopath who shrieks hilariously awkward threats (“Lick my bunghole, [expletive removed]!” - An ill-advised Beavis and Butt-head homage, perhaps?) and seems to occupy an entirely different wacky plane of existence than his reserved co-stars. While I don’t for a second buy the intricacies of his grand plot, which feels too small-scale for the results it achieves, or the psychological reasoning behind his transformation into a metrosexual Marlboro Man, it’s a treat to watch Travolta recapture and revel in the unique brand of ultra cranked-up lunacy he perfected over a decade ago in Face/Off and Broken Arrow.

Likely rushed to meet the WGA strike deadlines, Oscar-winning scribe Brian Helgeland’s script is often as chaotic as Scott’s pyrotechnics, haphazardly introducing numerous elements that go nowhere. A teenage transit-rider has a hidden video-chat connection which his girlfriend which, after the hostage crisis begins, gets picked up by the media. However, instead of using this covert insight to their advantage to uncover the identities of the hijackers, Garber and the NYPD - who are portrayed as being so farcically inept that they should sue for defamation of character - almost completely ignore it. Similarly, in a clumsy 9/11-inspired moment, two passengers decide that they “have to do something!”, and then don’t. And the film’s last act defies all reason; putting Washington into a heroic situation which seems tacked on solely to provide the requisite one-on-one confrontation required by all contemporary action films.

But if logic is truly bedamned, crazy ol’ man director Scott almost succeeds in burying the head-scratching absurdities under a veritable junkpile of rapid-fire editing trickery, pulsating techno-beats and Tasmanian Devil-like camera work. Many critics have taken issue with Pelham’s stylistic tics, however it’s hard to argue that they don’t give the film, which slackens when it doesn’t have Washington and Travolta’s kinetic verbal jousts to propel it, serious momentum. Subtitles counting down to Ryder’s deadline slam onto the screen, accompanied by jolting synth-effects, with the subtlety of an Optimus Prime uppercut, while the camera spins around the actors like a hurricane, giving even the most mundane exchanges at least the illusion of electrical charge. They’re cheap tricks for sure, but employed with a confident professional’s eye and instinct.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is a slick, unpretentious summer-time star-vehicle that has all the lasting power of a piece of Bazooka Joe bubble-gum. It knows exactly what it is, what it hopes to achieve and why an audience would check it out. While the cynical side of me takes issue with its trivial aims, I must confess that I was entertained by the nonsense of it all. Pelham shows that, twenty plus years after Maverick took flight, Tony Scott is still merrily barrelling down the track.

3 out of 5

Film Review - LAND OF THE LOST: A Prehistoric Oddity...

Brad Silberling’s Land of the Lost is a most curious specimen; a big-bucks bonanza summer movie ostensibly made for almost absolutely no one. It fails as a mainstream comedy, with an unfocussed spattering of gags either too dimly childish for paying adults, or conversely too esoteric and scatological for kids. It also fails at being a successful action-adventure movie, with humungo-bungo special-effects scenes that undercut any potential excitement with ironic silliness and don’t even bother attempting to convince the audience that the actors and creatures are sharing the same geographical space. Some critics have suggested that perhaps it’s aimed at the basement-dwelling stoner demographic who (sadly) made Harold and Kumar into a lucrative franchise. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s intension is solely to please the rapidly withering passionate fan collective (all 106 of them) who worshipped the 1970’s Sid and Marty Krofft Saturday morning TV show of the same name? If you can answer this skull-scratcher, you’re more than a leg up on Universal pictures.

Now, although the above musings may not intimate that this review will wind up being an encouraging recommendation (it won’t.), it isn’t going to be a complete condemnation either. There’s something almost irresistibly weird about this latest Will Ferrell vehicle, so gonzo in fact that more entertainment can often be found in imagining the behind-the-scenes decisions being made at the time than in accepting the doofy on-screen images at face value. I want to know how Silberling et al managed to swindle the studio out of 100 million cocoanuts in order to craft an epic featuring Ferrell joyfully bathing (repeatedly) in dino piss and Danny McBride gaily singing Cher songs into a gigantic vibrating CG crystal monument. Seriously, if the dude ever writes a book about this production I’m sold. My Amazon shopping cart will be one item fuller, yes sir-ee.

I guess when you’re dealing with a ludicrous audience-unfriendly script – written by Chris Henchy & Dennis McNicholas – Will Ferrell is a good fellow to get signed on. He’s genuinely likable and willingly does that out-of-shape-middle-aged-man-in-his-underwear thing which people seem to love. And for sure, his Dr. Rick Marshall, a clueless outcast goofball genius with an eating addiction, does get his chance to strut his ungainly stuff after he, as well as a saucy Cambridge scientist (Anna Friel) and a misogynistic redneck tour-guide/firework salesman (Danny McBride), are transported to the titular location through a space-time vortex created within a sucky forgotten tourist trap attraction.

Arriving in the land, full of gorgeously rendered expansive deserts and impenetrable jungles, the trio are introduced to the smutty Cha-Ka (SNL’s Jorma Taccone – comically deranged), a local missing link-type, whose stunted brainpower puts him on fairly even ground with Dr. Marshall. With their time-travel device misplaced, and under constant attack by a deceptively clever Tyrannosaurus Rex and the campy local lizard army known as the Sleestaks, the insecure man-child Doctor must find the microscopic hero within himself and lead his ill-equipped inter-dimensional team of explorers (Cha-Ka’s rather expendable) back into their own time.

While variations of this plot could (and indeed have) provided bountiful fuel for dozens upon dozens of high concept crowd-pleasers, Land of the Lost begins on an odd note from which it stubbornly refuses to recover, with an on-air scuffle between Marshall and a clearly rigid Matt Lauer wherein the two verbally spar over accusations that the good Doctor’s theories are whack. The scene feels strangely paced – not punchy enough to properly open the film with the necessary bang – and provides a lethargic introduction (and later, end) to the film’s unique universe. As opposed to being a slovenly nimrod, it would have been more fun had Ferrell played his character akin to Michael Richard’s Kramer character; as something of a Rainman-esque idiot savant so far ahead of everyone else around him that his genius can be mistaken for sheer lunacy. Nope, here he eats donuts and acts like a sloth. A Ferrell speciality, but a tired one.

That’s not to suggest that the actor doesn’t get the odd laugh, though. Never one to just idly cash a paycheck, Marshall’s conflict with the film’s dinosaur-star Grumpy, in which their creative ensuing scuffles build to a weirdo crescendo, really works. Similarly, Silberling and Ferrell made a wise decision in refusing to allow Dr. Marshall and Cha-Ka a cheerful union. One of the more hilarious moments comes courtesy of an immature little bit of bitchiness aimed at the dim cave-man by Dr. Marshall with maximum scorn.

McBride, an actor I’ve derided more than once in print and on the Epi-Cast (For download on iTunes right now!), actually managed to worm his ugly little way into my cold, black heart this time around. He’s casually funny, never going too far out there for a joke, but building fun chemistry with his co-stars and even, dare I say, making me laugh out loud once or twice (It’s gonna be a snowy July!). Anna Friel’s input is relegated mostly to acting perky and parading around in really short shorts and a low-cut tank-top. She looks like she’s having a good time, though! Good for her!

Unfortunately though, the cast isn’t the problem. It’s that the film can never find a proper tone, and is as unfocussed as Marshall and crew during a kinda-lame prolonged scene of drug-induced stupor (featuring a giant crab straight out of One Million Years BC!). The laughs are intermittent because most of the lines aren’t particularly sharp, and they’re further weighed down by the effects-driven chaos around them. There’s a raptor attack that is almost savage in its callousness, which seems aimed at horrifying children, shortly followed by an inane gross-out gag featuring a cartoonishly massive mosquito. And just when it couldn’t get any more confused, the Sleestaks show up, looking very much like (read: fake) the Gorn from the original Star Trek series. When the plot kicks into gear involving these scaly beasties it is so off-puttingly bizarre and bewildering that the film stops dead in its tracks. It all just feels too convoluted for a 90-minute comedy featuring prehistoric-poop jokes and caveman boob-grabbing. When all is said and done, movie-goers will likely just shrug their shoulders on the long, silent trudge out of theatre, cursing themselves for not seeing The Hangover instead.

Nevertheless, as I said earlier, it’s impossible to truly despise Land of the Lost simply for the gutsiness of the filmmakers who have birthed its unholy mass, kicking and screaming, into the summer movie market. It’s a disjointed mess, an exercise in idiocy, a tribute to style-over-substance and further proof that dragging up the corpses of long-dead properties may not be the best idea. However, in actually managing to occasionally surprise me in a season where astonishment is a highly deficient commodity, and concocting a veritable f-u to the ticket-buying public, I feel compelled to express an ounce of admiration. All lovers of the offbeat and slightly subversive should check it out this time around because it’s unlikely, and probably for the better, that you’ll ever get Lost again.

2.5 out of 5

Note: Although grading systems are faulty at best, this particular one has been liften slightly to reflect my admiration of the filmmakers' the-hell-with-the-mainstream mentality. It's a 2-star movie, the extra half-point is my bonus mark.

Film Review - DRAG ME TO HELL: An Absolute Spook-a-Blast!

After spending nine years in the arduous Spider-Man salt mines, it’s perfectly logical that Sam Raimi would feel the urge to exorcise some demons. After all, before the mega-lucrative days of web-slinging and wall-crawling, the director was better known and adored in geek circles for being the hammy huckster behind the Evil Dead (un)holy trilogy. Those films – arguably the finest contemporary horror series - were essential touchstones for a generation of fright enthusiasts, spawning the Cult of Bruce Campbell, countless brain cell-slaying college drinking games, an unstoppable epidemic of DVD re-releases and feverish dreams of Raimi’s return to the genre he o’ so puckishly perfected.

Well mainstream respectability be damned, because he’s back in fitfully ghoulish form with Drag Me to Hell, a screamingly uproarious joy-buzzer of a scary movie epic which manages to wring boundless laughter from a sinful sea of blood, maggots and phlegm. If that mental illustration sounds like enough to make you toss your cookies you may find yourself stunned at just how much innocent free-wheeling fun is in store for you. Unlike most modern horror-show masterminds, who aim to repulse and humiliate the audience with appalling atrocities, Raimi is an impish prankster who only wants to entertain you, whether through squeals of amusement or corny out-of-your-seat-launching shocks, before depositing you into the lobby with a dopey grin on your face. Does it help if I mention that an entire scene is built around a haunted handkerchief?

And did I point out that he has a really clever story about a sunny heroine to tell as well? Well, he does! Employing the willowy charms of Alison Lohman to full effect, Raimi’s script (co-written by his brother Ivan) follows the misadventures of Christine Brown, a doe-eyed loan officer with small-town dreams of big-city advancement, who makes the grave error of refusing a dead-eyed gypsy woman named Mrs. Ganush (an effectively campy/menacing Lorna Raver) a bank loan. Shamed and mightily pissed, Mrs. Ganush places the lamia curse on poor Christine, which calls for three days of supernatural torment followed by an eternity roasting on Beelzebub’s barbeque. Aided by her professor boyfriend Clay (Justin Long) and a local psychic (Dileep Rao), our protagonist must endure a ghastly parade of otherworldly terrors all the while searching for a means of ending the gypsy’s portentous soul-swiping spell.

The biggest joy of watching Drag Me to Hell is to witness the unbridled joy of a story-teller in full control of his environment. After the notoriously turbulent back-stage politics of Spidey 3, which neutered the director’s zany trademark style, Raimi seems nimble and sure-footed again, lovingly crafting a bizarro world not dissimilar to a Looney Tunes cartoon (a precariously situated anvil even makes an appearance!).The film often feels inspired by bravura crowd-pleasing sex comedies, where hilarity is squeezed from the dizzying extremes of rapidly intensifying set-pieces. One slow-burning scene, featuring a devious hand-rubbing fly, starts off small and icky before building up to a rambunctiously goofy-grotesque crescendo. Also unforgettable, among the film’s numerous classic scenes, is a lengthy over-the-top-and-down-the-other-side séance which begins with participants (devoid of irony) solemnly chanting “I welcome the dead into my soul.”, before being attacked by giggling ghosts and demonic live-stock.

Enough credit cannot be given to Alison Lohman who not only gets slimed and terrorized like a pro, but manages the Herculean task of remaining likable and relatable for Drag’s entire duration. The director sure doesn’t make it easy for her, either. Like previous Raimian reluctant heroes, Christine is often selfish and self-centred, as well as foolishly dismissive of the daunting powers of the paranormal. She also, in perhaps the film’s most shocking twist, breaks one of the cardinal rules in Movie-land for retaining audience sympathy. You’ll know it when you see it, but observe how Lohman and Raimi undercut the moment with sharp humour to alleviate potential outrage. It’s a scene that, in the hands of a less gifted director and actress, would sink the entire enterprise into the muck.

The vibe of Drag Me to Hell feels like everyone involved had a blast making the film and enthusiastically upped their individual game to match Raimi and Lohman’s unabashed gusto. The practical effects by KNB are distastefully top-notch and the score by Christopher Young – an astonishing concoction of bombastic gothic lunacy – is perhaps the composer’s most exciting work to date. Additionally, Peter Deming’s slanted, wobbly cinematography is like a satanic response to the 60’s Batman TV show.

I can’t stress enough how imperative it is to experience this film’s delirious mixture of chuckles, gasps and shrieks in a theatrical setting either. Playful cheesiness aside, Sam Raimi, cinema’s foremost cackling Crypt Keeper, has produced one of the most stylish and creatively dazzling rollercoaster chill ‘n thrill-rides of the year. Forget being dragged, this Hell deserves being sprinted to.

4 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: June 8th, 2009.

Film Review - NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM: BATTLE OF THE SMITHSONIAN: Don't Look, Don't Touch.

The original Night at the Museum was not a very good movie. It was mostly frantic and dumb, with an over-emphasis on loud special-effects and Ben Stiller awkwardly mugging for the camera. BUT, when not being overly abrasive, it didn’t shy away from revealing a certain gentle and whimsical spirit, which made its simplistic and uninspired family message digestible and even slightly moving. Museum also boasted gorgeous cinematography by Guillermo Navarro, with lustrous, fuzzy-fantastical brown and yellow hues helping accentuate the film’s magical premise, and featured an oddly soothing performance by Robin Williams as Teddy Roosevelt, which almost erased my spiteful long-held memories of Patch Adams.

Interesting then, that the sequel, subtitled Battle of the Smithsonian – if ever a title promised strident frenzy... – makes the profoundly wingnut-minded decision to do away with almost all of those positive attributes. The earlier film’s focus on family, with Stiller’s single-dad Larry Daley learning to become a dependable provider and positive role model, is thrown clear out the ever-loving window, with his son (Jake Cherry) now downgraded to an exposition-spewing bit part. Similarly, Williams’ screen-time is cut in half, and Navarro’s incandescent work has been dropped in favour of the mood-killing, flat work of John Schwartzman. Sacre bleu, what gives?!

Switching extremes, Larry Daley is no longer an undependable, unemployed sponge, but rather an undependable, workaholic douchbag, who carries around a Blackberry and talks on his cell phone a lot. Apparently, in the short-time between films (a year-and-a-half, tops.), Stiller’s character has managed to parlay his museum nightwatchman gig into a lucrative inventing career, hocking glow-in-the-dark flashlights on TV alongside George Foreman. However, all is not well at New York’s Museum of Natural History where, if you’ll recall, the exhibits come to life at night through the power of a mystical – and plasticky-looking – Egyptian tablet. Due to demands for modern technological learning tools, curator Dr. McPhee (Ricky Gervais) has decided to replace the museum’s star attractions with multimedia-friendly holograms.

Nevertheless, there is still adventure to be had, as the goofy gang of wax figures and miniatures are shipped off to Washington D.C.’s Smithsonian archives, which becomes a lot more chaotic when the magical tablet restores the livelihood of the evil, but dim-witted, warlord Kahmunrah (Hank Azaria – camping it up with a fey performance which ostensibly combines Jeremy Irons with Dame Edna). Dejected and peevish after many years of slumber, he declares war on the lovable exhibi-crew and dedicates himself to using the tablet to lure an army of monstrous demon warriors into the real world. After receiving a frantic call from pint-sized cowboy Jedediah Smith (Owen Wilson), Larry skedaddles over to D.C., infiltrates the gargantuan storehouse, and teams up with Amelia Earhart (lovable Amy Adams with a Katharine Hepburn accent and very, very tight pants), in a heroic quest to save the world from certain doom.

If all this sounds convoluted beyond all get-go, that’s okay because returning director Shawn Levy have given the story even less thought than I just did transcribing it. Whether the WGA strike is to blame or not, Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian seems remarkably script-free. Rather, we sit, in slowly-dawning horror, as Levy repeatedly turns his camera on his comically gifted actors for stupefying long stretches, as they (seemingly) improv sweat-stained stretches of comedic “gold”. There is one endless scene featuring Stiller riffing with a gung-ho guard played by Jonah Hill that should be bottled up, labelled and sold as “Anti-Funny”. Also, if I had to guess, Azaria fabricated 90% of his dialogue on the fly.

Even the effects forget to infuse any sense of joviality or enchantment to the kid-friendly enterprise. The first film contained occasional moments of actual wonder, whereas in Smithsonian it just feels like insipid CG junk-candy. Majestic towering statues, splendorous paintings and captivating denizens of the deep unceremoniously leap into action, only to be overwhelmed by the frenetic bursts of 1’s and 0’s carelessly erupting around them. There’s even a chaotic scene spoofing 300, for no discernable reason other than to shamelessly mimic a recent hit film. With all the money and resources available, why not inspire your young audience and paint dazzling creative visions which they can take with them when they leave the theatre? Only one infinitesimal moment manages to become something special; as Stiller and Adams soar over the Washington monument’s reflecting pool, lovely echoes of Lois and Superman’s night-flight in 1978’s Superman: The Movie can be almost be heard.

Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian should be ashamed of itself. It’s the most contemptuous and worrying brand of high-gloss entertainment: a shamelessly pandering attempt at robbing young movie-goers of the gifts which can be derived from remarkable visual sights and stirring, fanciful storytelling. After sitting through this inert, turgid mess, I would recommend that the filmmakers join alongside future exhibits and get stuffed.

1.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: June 1st, 2009.

Epi-Cast: Episode 11 - "The Passion of the Tom"

Cue up your "Also Sprach Zarathustra" cuz you are in for a big 'ol treat. The Epi-Cast is rearing its ugly head with another slice of cynicism and irreverence. Only this time, it's personal. Don't get what the flim-flam I'm talkin' about? Read the episode synopsis below. If you dare. Muhahahahahaaaaaaaaa!

Epi-Cast: Episode 11 - "The Passion of the Tom"

All bets are off, because your favourite ornery bastard co-host is mad as hell and not going to take it anymore!!! He's tired of Dan Brown's pseudo-intellectual tripe and ready to throw down with the best of 'em. That's right, Tom is a man on a mission, and that mission is hate-mongering! When not shooting combustible bile at Mr. Brown during his and Cam's review of the Tom Hanks film Angels & Demons, he also joins in on the volatile critical vivisections of Terminator Salvation and Night at the Museum: Battle of The Smithsonian. In the odd moment where he escapes his deep-seated hatred, he finds time to show some flowery love for Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven and the Coen Bros.' Miller's Crossing. Chuck a couple of scorching trailer critiques of the upcoming Sherlock Holmes, Gerard Butler's Gamer, Robert Rodriguez's Shorts and Woody Allen/Larry David'sWhatever Works and you have yourself an ear-drum singeing blockbuster of an installment. Just be sure to have a fire extinguisher with you, cuz this one's a hot one.

To download, right-click and save on the green episode title above and then listen/suffer to your dear heart's content.

P.S.: Whatsmore, we also available on iTunes as well. Simply do a sto' search for "Epi-Cast" and JABBA-SULU!, there we is! Oh, and we be tha film-discussion show, not the bible thang one.

Film Review - TERMINATOR SALVATION: Flawless Tech, Short-circuiting Brain.

Remember that poignant scene in James Cameron’s 1984 classic The Terminator when, during a temporary lull from Arnie-fuelled mayhem, time-travelling resistance hero Kyle Reese looked into actress Linda Hamilton’s anxious, determined eyes and, with unabashed sincerity, told her: “I came across time for you, Sarah. I love you. I always have.” That solitary moment, which choked up an entire generation of hard-wired action fanatics, single-handedly elevated the film from its B-movie genre roots and flashy hardware and pyrotechnics, and exposed a very gentle, organic heart at its core. The Terminator, and its two sequels to varying degrees, understood that the enduring strength and, dare I say, beauty of the series laid in its ability to thematically explore the human condition, and stress the importance of mankind’s compassion, inner-drive and ingenuity, and willingness to fight for greater ideals, in defining and separating us from the omnipresent technology around us.

Regrettably, it pains me to say, the fourth film in the venerable science-fiction franchise, the semi-pretentiously titled Terminator Salvation, seems less inspired by the integrity of mankind, than by the metal marauders clomping noisily around the frame. It’s technically state-of-the-art, unyielding and callous, devoid of higher-brain function or, most importantly, a soul.

Set in the washed-out, post-Judgment Day landscape of 2018, Salvation picks up a few years after the events of T3, as small fractured bands of resistance fighters across the globe battle valiantly against the sinister Skynet program and its army of deadly Terminator machines. Acting as the voice of dissent is John Connor (Christian Bale), a battle-weary pillar of strength, who is destined to one day lead mankind to victory. Under constant attack from tin-plated killers and at odds with his unfathomably stupid superiors, Connor and his men have discovered a new signal-weapon which may help turn the tide of the conflict.

Conversely, across the blistered warzone, a mysterious figure named Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington) has emerged, mud-caked and amnesia-addled, onto the scene. A former death row inmate, who possesses a secret which makes him as much an asset as a threat, Marcus quickly comes into contact with the youthful Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin), a resourceful rebel whose continued survival is vital for humanity’s future. However, after Reese is captured by a gargantuan “Harvester” Terminator, Wright finds himself brought into contact with the intensely guarded Connor who, for the possible advancement of his cause and continued livelihood, must choose whether or not to trust this capable stranger of dubious origin.

Directed by Charlie’s Angels mastermind McG, Terminator Salvation feels curiously distant from its forebears, which mixed rudimentary science-fiction-based ideas amongst the skull-rattling chaos and propulsive pursuits. To be sure though, the helmer does present some memorable on-screen mech-anarchy, such as during a grittily constructed burnt black-top chase featuring an unwieldy plow-truck and automated machine-gun firing motorcycles, as well as in a visceral Children of Men-style helicopter attack. Those attending the film for pure action-porn will no doubt be more than satisfied, and McG shows a real flare for comprehensible, large-scale pandemonium – although he visibly needs work on his close quarters combat shooting, judging from the film’s clunky climactic mano-a-machino bout – and his clever blending of CG and practical elements goes a long way towards not breaking Salvation’s spell.

But to quote Macbeth (original, I know), the whole concussive enterprise feels like a whole lot of sound and fury signifying nothing. The script, by T3 writers John D. Brancato and Michael Ferris – not to mention numerous uncredited scribes – feels vacant and anticlimactic. Rather than build a compelling universe, or craft characters who feel like more than cardboard place-holders (Worthington and Yelchin being the only exceptions), the filmmakers were either entirely placing their faith on future sequels to provide detail or interest, or were simply in it for a quick ‘n easy paycheck. It’s all somewhat aggravating, especially when one considers how the Marcus character could have been used intelligently to further expand and redefine the series’ long-held thematic focus.

The other big problem is Bale - whose preparation regimen seems to have consisted of gargling gravel and nixing fibre from his diet – who is a one-note bore, and never remotely convincing as a prospective iconic warrior-leader who could rally and inspire the faith of his people. Gruff and short-fused, he’s consistently unpleasant to watch and, more than once, comes close to crossing into self-parody, as when he heatedly barks orders at a quivering mute girl.

Perhaps what makes Terminator Salvation all the more disconcerting is that it feels factory-assembled and joyless. Unlike James Cameron’s first two films, it’s perfectly content to pay short-shrift to its legacy and aim solely for the empty-calorie thrills of a witless contemporary generic blockbuster. After two silly hours it becomes impossible to differentiate between the deteriorating glow emanating from a mutilated Terminator’s crimson-red eye and the franchise’s once vibrant creative spark slowly being snuffed out.

2.5 out of 5

*Originally printed in SFU's The Peak: May 25th, 2009.