Brilliant, funny short film, showing the zombie apocalypse from the perspective of felines.
Brilliant, funny short film, showing the zombie apocalypse from the perspective of felines.
English producer-director Pete Walker answers questions from David Del Valle at the Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood on September 9, 2015. Walker was attending the American Cinematheque’s double bill of two of his horror films, HOUSE OF THE LONG SHADOWS and SCHIZO.
Wes Craven, father of Freddy Krueger, has passed away. The writer-director helmed a variety of horror films, thrillers, and some non-genre work during a career that stretched from LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT in 1972 to MY SOUL TO TAKE in 2010. Other titles included THE HILLS HAVE EYES, THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS, SHOCKER. After a career ebb, he bounced back in the late 1990s with the SCREAM trilogy.
His most seminal work, however, was A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET (1984), which unleashed dream-demon Freddy Krueger on the world. The film launched a franchise that led to multiple sequels, a short-lived TV series, and a 2010 remake. Craven was at times critical of the direction in which the character was taken in later films; after the original film, he was directly involved only with A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 3: DREAM WARRIORS and WES CRAVEN’S NEW NIGHTMARE, a self-referential film, in which Craven appeared as himself, while his creation seemed hell-bent upon penetrating the “real” world.
Craven died of a brain cancer. He was 76. Variety has details.
If you are expecting an exciting, tongue-in-cheek thrill ride with gallons of ridiculous gore, you are one-fourth right.
If you sit down to watch a film called Tokyo Gore Police, you certainly have no one to blame but yourself, right? It’s not as if you had no idea what you were in for. Or maybe you didn’t. You could have been expecting an exciting, tongue-in-cheek thrill ride with gallons of ridiculous gore. In which case, you were one-fourth right. Although blood flows freely, excitement and thrills are in short supply; as for the tongue, it’s been ripped from the cheek and tossed out the window.
The story, such as it is, follows Ruka (Eihi Shiina), who is your standard-issue tough but troubled ass-kicking hot chick. She’s part of an elite police unit that handles a new kind of criminal, who sprout weaponry from wounds inflicted upon them. (And you thought Hercules had it bad with the Hydra!)
Before delving any deeper into Tokyo Gore Police, I should pause to acknowledge that, if you are interested in seeing it, you probably don’t care about any plot deficiencies I may be about to enumerate. Which is fine by me: nonsense cinema can be fun.
However, there is a more fundamental problem, which supersedes narrative coherence: there’s really nothing Ruka does which comes close to justifying the high regard in which she is held by the other characters (and, indeed, by the film itself). It’s not as if there is anything about her skill with a sword to convince us that she could succeed where an armed squad of other police would fail. Sure, she kills all the mutant criminals, but that happens pretty much because the script says so.
The story follows Ruka’s quest to find the “Key Man,” who created the virus that turns criminals into “engineers” capable of transforming. He turns out to be one of those villains with a righteous cause, regardless of his methods. And considering the brutality of Ruka’s comrades (who are ruthlessly cracking down on everyone suspected of being an engineer), you can hardly blame the Key Man for hating the police (though he has a more specific reason as well).
His motivation ties in with Ruka’s decision to join the police, which stems from a childhood memory of seeing her father (also a policeman) murdered. Since then, she has been raised by her father’s colleague, who is also now the police chief and, hence, Ruka’s boss. Anyone want to take early bets on whether the chief turns out to have been involved in dad’s murder? No? Good, I figured you were too smart to fall for sucker action like that.
Eventually, Ruka gets infected, which turns out to be a good thing, because she can mutate a cool new arm and eye and turn the tables on her former colleagues after finding out that her dad was murdered precisely because he resisted police force privatization – though, to be frank, it’s not as if the film generates any real rooting interest in this regard.
Too a large extent, none of this matters, because the appeal of Tokyo Gore Police is based upon the weird mutations it can visualize for Ruka to slice to pieces. Strangely, as excessive as it it, Tokyo Gore Police falls short in this area, at least by its own standards, with certain effects – or at least types of effects – repeated. Make no mistakes: there is an abattoir full of mutant, mangled flesh on view, but after awhile it seems as if the writers ran of out ways for Ruka to dispatch the engineers.
The one small saving grace is that the film mimics the satirical tone of the original Robocop. Set in a vaguely fascist future, Tokyo Gore Police is sprinkled with TV adverts and public service announcements that are often morbidly funny (topics range from suicide to trendy wrist-cutting self-inflicted by happy teenage schoolgirls). Unfortunately, these scenes add up to approximately three minutes of the overlong 110-minute running time; you’re better of watching them on YouTube.
Center stage in all this is the “Tokyo Gore Police” (actually identified as the “Tokyo Police Corporation” in the film), whose ads show them mercilessly gunning down miscreants while jovially announcing to the camera, “We will protect you!” This is followed by a voice over extolling the virtues of privatizing the police force. The satirical emulation of mindless propaganda is as cutting as anything in Starship Troopers.
Sadly, Tokyo Gore Police has neither the resources nor the inclination to infuse this satire into the main body of the film, which thus fails to live up to its own best idea. Apparently, privatization hasn’t been particularly profitable, because Ruka’s “elite” police unit operates out of what looks like a dingy warehouse, with so little equipment and staff that, when it finally falls under attack late in the proceedings, you wonder why no criminals realized sooner that they could just walk in and start shooting. (If one were very generous, I suppose one could theorize that the intent was to show the discrepancy between the propaganda and the reality, but on screen it just looks as if the producers could not afford a set and some extras.)
Instead, all creativity goes into the engineers, who are truly a ghastly and disturbing menagerie, their mutated bodies, with suggestions of S&M and deviancy, like something out of a joint nightmare by David Lynch and Clive Barker. Seen as still photos, these images may intrigue the curious and the unwary, but ultimately the film has little idea what to do with these creatures besides set them up to be knocked down in a repetitious series of gore-infused fights scenes. Ultimately, Tokyo Gore Police would work better as a coffee table photo album, nestled somewhere below Giger’s Necronomicon, The Alien Life of Wayne Barlowe, and The Art of Olivia, all of which manage to be not only bizarre but also fascinating – a feat that eludes Tokyo Gore Police.
TOKYO GORE POLICE (Tôkyô zankoku keisatsu, 2008) Directed by Hoshihiro Nishimura. Written by Kengo Kaji, Maki Mizui, Yoshihiro Nishimura (English translation by J.J. Vallejo). Cast: Eihi Shiina, Itsuji Itao, Yukihide Benny, Jiji Bu, Ikuko Sawada. Unrated. 110 mins.
Blood, watery though it may be, is nonetheless much, much thicker than plot.
PSYCHO GOTHIC LOLITA is one of those films that must be seen to be believed – which is not the same as saying it “must” or even “should” be seen. Essentially, this is a vaguely futuristic, Japanese rip-off of KILL BILL, with a nod toward a Tokyo fashion trend that you can probably surmise from the title, filled with sound and fury but signifying very little. It’s not all bad, but the good parts can – and pretty much do – fit into the trailer.
After a briefly glimpsed exterior suggesting we’re in one of those gloomy movie worlds that might be the future or just an alternate reality, PSYCHO GOTHIC LOLITA gets immediately down to business, with its title character graphically killing a bunch of people in a nightclub before facing off with the female owner in a vengeful duel to the death.
Just in case you’ve never seen a Quentin Tarantino movie, I will not pause to explain that this sequence is essentially a reprise of the Crazy 88 episode from KILL BILL, VOLUME 1. I will also pause to explain that, individually and/or collaboratively, director Go Ohara and writer Hisakatsu Kuroki are no Quentin Tarantino. Taking cues only from the over-the-top violence, they do not bother to replicate KILL BILL’S time structure; instead, after the initial carnage, they settle into the monotonous rhythm of a bad porno movie, in which every scene of spewing bodily fluids is alternated with a dull dialogue scene that “advances” the “plot.”
Which amounts to this: Yuki (Rina Akiyama” and her father Jiro (Yurei Yanagi) are seeking revenge for the murder of Yuki’s mother. They talk about this during the plot scenes, without every really saying anything important. There is no trail of clues they seem to be following, nor any particular long-term strategy; they’re just plugging away at this one killing at a time. One presumes they are working their way up the pecking order of villains until they get to numero uno, but it scarcely matters.
Consequently, after the first ten minutes, you’ve pretty much seen the movie; everything else is repetition, except insofar as the fight scenes can upgrade the insanity with ever more outrageous invention, some of which are, admittedly, worth a chuckle (such as an umbrella that shoots like a rifle).
The gore effects – the real star of the show – are, of course, way – way – way beyond belief, which is good, because the watery read geysers are too fake to induce nausea, allowing us to laugh as Yuki slices and dices her way through her various targets.
There is a tiny break in the monotony when one of Yuki’s victims is being attacked by some thugs for unexplained reasons: Yuki must first kill the attackers before killing her victim. I guess the irony of her “rescuing” someone only to kill him is supposed to be amusing, but the effect would have been more effective if this had been the opening scene, before we knew what to expect from her.
The movie picks up a bit when Yuki confronts another young, hot female warrior, whose weapon serves double-duty as a cell phone, allowing her to chat with her boyfriend during the no-holds-barred death duel. It’s not much, but when you’re in a desert, any drop of water feels like an oasis.
In the last reel we get a “development” that is no doubt intended to suggest that there really is a “plot” to be developed: we finally learn the motivation of the murderers who killed Yuki’s mother. It has something to do with mom being a demon or something, whose energy of power the murders wanted (don’t quote me on this – the exposition was so perfunctory that I couldn’t bring myself to commit the details to memory).
This leads to the big finish, in which Jiro is kidnapped and put on a guillotine, forcing Yuki into a situation in which she figurative fights with one hand tied behind her back – or in this case, one hand holding a rope to prevent the blade from dropping on her father’s neck.
That this sounds suspenseful is a testament to my poor writing skills, which if they were up to par would clarify that the absurdity of the sequences utterly squelches any rooting interest. As Yuki battles back and forth, advancing and retreating, the blade goes up and down so many times that when it finally does fall, the inevitably has been forecast for what seems like hours, and the only emotional response is relief that an overextended sequence has finally come to an end. (And no, this does not count as a spoiler, because even without reading this, you would have seen what was coming long before it happened.)
Anyway, Yuki kills the bad guys, but in the way of Japanese films, we’re left feeling that maybe that’s not a good thing, because there was that demonic aspect to her mother, which – who knows? – might be hereditary or something. And anyway, Yuki’s an orphan now, and it’s not as if her mission in life has really helped her develop the skills to make friends, so she’s rather a lonely soul. But at least she still looks good in that Gothic Lolita garb, so what the hell, right?
The denoument provides another glimpse of a gloomy exterior, which reminds us that PSYCHO GOTHIC LOLITA is supposed to be something other than mundane in its setting, even though much of it looks as if it was shot on locations available to any student filmmaker (gymnasiums, warehouses, empty roads), often with available sunlight. At least the interiors occasionally show some stylization, with Bavaesque colors proudly beamed across the screen quite regardless of realistic light sources.
PSYCHO GOTHIC LOLITA is apparently part of a a Japanese splatter sub-genre that includes such titles as TOKYO GORE POLICE. The unabashed exploitation zeal of these films – in which blood, watery though it may be, is nonetheless much, much thicker than plot – has a certain charm – but not nearly enough to sustain a feature. We’d really all be much better off if the fight scenes from these films were repurposed as three-minute YouTube videos.
PSYCHO GOTHIC LOLITA (U.S home video title; a.k.a., GOSU RORI SHOKEININ [“Gothic & Lolita Psycho”], 2010). Directed by Go Ohara. Written by Hisakatsu Kuroki. Cast: Rina Akiyama, Ruito Aoyagi, Minami Tsuikui, Misaki Momose, Asami, Yukihide Benny, Jonny Caines. 88 mins.
I don’t know whether you know this or not, but Tom Cruise is the most awesome guy on the planet. Not having met Cruise personally, I know this only because that’s what the plots of all his movies are about. This plot comes in two variations. The first one is straight-forward: Tom Cruise is totally awesome! The second variation is a little less direct: People don’t appreciate how awesome Tom Cruise is! (Think of Jerry Maguire, in which his girlfriend dumps him and he loses his job, just to prove that even though he’s totally awesome, we should still sympathize with him because the world treats him so unfairly.) The interesting thing about Cruise’s latest effort, insofar as there is anything interesting about Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, is that it conflates these two strains into a single if somewhat uncomfortable hybrid.
In Phase One of Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, Cruise plays the super-awesome Ethan Hunt once again, who hangs off airplanes when he’s not out-fighting, out-running, and out-maneuvering everyone else in the film. In Phase Two of Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, the CIA (in the person of Alan Hunley, played by Alec Baldwin) wants to kill Hunt because, in a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, Hunley doesn’t like the Impossible Mission Force’s carte blanche to engage in unsupervised covert ops. Consequently, while Hunt is busy trying to save the world yet again, his own ungrateful country is trying to terminate him with extreme prejudice.
It’s really not fair for such an awesome dude to be treated this way, but the plot plays well for viewers who think that America should kick-ass on the rest of the world, and that any sort of restraint is the result of scheming forces that want to undermine the good guys.
Unfortunately, this amalgam, instead of being more than the sum of its parts, turns out to be somewhat less, because the two phases, like musical notes out of phase with each other, tend to cancel out rather than combine. The filmmakers can’t spend half the movie showing us how awesome Cruise is and then expect the audience to worry that the CIA might actually catch and execute him. Likewise, when the filmmakers spend the other half of the movie showing Cruise easily evading the entire CIA, they can’t expect us to have any doubts that he will have any trouble defeating the villain du jour.
Which is rather unfortunate, because Phase One of the film is supposedly built around the concept that Hunt may have finally met his match, which would have been interesting if we had believed it. Of course, we don’t – the two-phase approach makes it impossible to even pretend to believe it, and it certainly doesn’t help that the fiendish mastermind is too blind to notice (or at least do anything about) the rather obvious double-agent he is employing. But at the end of the day, none of this really matters, because the movie’s only message is: even when Hunt meets his match, he still wins, because no one can match Cruise’s awesomeness!
Before I forget, let me mention that the plot mechanics are constructed around a MacGuffin that Hunt must steal from a super-duper high-security facility. There is an explanation for what this MacGuffin is and how it got into the facility, which makes a kind of movie sense at least; however, the MacGuffin actually turns out to be something completely different from what we were told (you need twists in this kind of spy thriller),. This raises a question the film never bothers to address: if the explanation of the MacGuffin’s identify was false, does the explanation for how it got into the facility make sense anymore?
I suppose one could dismiss all of this as mere pretext, the necessary plot elements to justify exciting set-piece, of which there are several. Unfortunately, the best one comes up front, with Cruise hanging off the side of a plane taking off from the runway. It’s a bold, can-we-top-this? gambit that overshadows the rest of the film; the following fight scenes, suspense scenes, and chase scenes (including a pretty nifty one on a motorcycle) are all good – but not that good.
With Cruise’s awesomeness blazing throughout the film, there is not much room for anyone else to shine. It’s nice to see Ving Rhames again, but I’ve already forgotten what if anything he contributed. Jeremy Renner cements his position as Hollywood’s top also-ran, treading water while waiting for the producers to spin him off into a Bourne-like sequel. Rebecca Ferguson is supposed to be amazing, but she’s just okay – good enough to play second fiddle, but no threat to the star. Alec Baldwin somehow manages to make his CIA prick fun to watch even before his change of heart (he’s basically Ralph Fiennes from SKYFALL).
In spite of my qualms I did find Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation reasonably diverting, and the ending even managed to build up a fair share of tension (though why I should have doubted that Cruise’s awesomeness would prevail, I don’t know). Maybe my expectations were too high. Its predecessor, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, supplied some actual thrills (for once, the danger seemed real rather than pretend), and I was expecting more of the same – an expectation seemingly confirmed by wildly enthusiastic reviews (93% fresh on Rotten Tomatoes).
Sadly, Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation winds up seeming a bit like someone who tells you he’s funny instead of telling you a joke. The film insistently harps on Cruise’s awesomeness, without fully achieving awesomeness itself.
Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation (July 31, 2015). Directed by Christopher McQuarrie. Screenplay by Christopher McQuarrie, from a story by McQuarrie and Drew Pearce, based on the television series by Bruce Geller. With: Tom Cruise, Jeremy Renner, Simon Pegg, Rebecca Ferguson, Ving Rhames, Sean Harris, Simon McBurney, Jingchu Zhang, Tom Hollander, Jens Hulten, Alec Bladwin. In IMAX 3D. PG-13. 131 mins.
Here is a blast from the past: Goblin – the Italian prog-rock group delivers a live rendition of “Mad Puppet” from the soundtrack for Dario Argento’s 1975 horror masterpiece DEEP RED.
The performance took place at the Henry Fonda Theatre in Hollywood in May of 2014. The line up included original members Massimo Morante, Fabio Pignatelli, Agostino Marangolo, Mauizio Guarini, and guest Steve Moore.
Courtesy of Hollywood Gothique, here is a video tribute to the House of Horrors at Universal Studios Hollywood. This year-round attraction served double duty during Universal’s annual Halloween Horror Nights, providing a home for classic creatures from the studios’ old horror movies: Frankenstein, the Mummy, the Wolf Man, etc.
Unfortunately, House of Horrors closed after Halloween 2014. Read the article that accompanies the video here.
I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man.
Why? Because miracles do happen.
After two miserable sequels, the world had no reason to expect anything good from another Jurassic Park movie; in fact, we had every reason to expect we would be better off without one – and it’s not as if the trailers did much to assuage our feelings of apprehension that Jurassic World would be a heaping pile of dino-dung. Why the hell would anybody build a park on the site of the previous disaster, and who would be stupid enough to put up the insurance? What kind of morons would buy tickets to visit a place with that kind of horrible and undoubtedly very high-profile history? Are we really supposed to get excited over the sight of Chris Pratt using Raptors like a pack of hunting dogs to track some new mutant dinosaur? Doesn’t the whole thing feel desperate and ridiculous?
And yet, in spite of every ill omen, Jurassic World turns out to be the most enjoyable blockbuster in recent memory, easily eclipsing the moribund Marvel superhero franchise. How this miracle was achieved, I am not quite sure – perhaps through some bureaucratic oversight, Universal Pictures hired some people who actually wanted to make a good movie? Maybe someone realized that, in a marketplace saturated with special effects, just doing another formulaic dino-munch-athon was not going to cut it?
I suspect that both may be the case: some talented people realized the challenges they faced and devised clever ways to meet those challenges. In particular, Jurassic World works because it is almost as much about Jurassic World the film as it is about Jurassic World the tourist attraction. The premise is that audiences grow jaded with familiar wonders; this attention-deficit-disorder requires an ever increasing escalation of scale in order to continue selling tickets; unfortunately, escalation can lead to disastrous results for audiences, who end up being assaulted instead of entertained.
In essence, this is the situation in which the makers of Jurassic World found themselves: back in 1993, showing regular dinosaurs – with the added novelty of computer-generated imagery – was enough to wow viewers; twenty-two years later, the familiar beasts are old-hat, so upping the ante is necessary. Thus, is born the new Indominus Rex; fortunately, the ensuing disaster is visited upon the on-screen audience in the park, not the real live audience in the theatre, because the filmmakers seem completely aware of how far wrong this strategy could go.
After all, they had only to look at Jurassic Park III, which gave us the Spinosaurus. Remember him? No? I’m not surprised. Spinosaurus is the equivalent of a “new and improved” product that provides exactly what you got before but in new packaging. It’s just a T-Rex with a sail on its back, and though having it kill a T-Rex early in the film is supposed to strike terror in our hearts, we all realize that – regardless of whether it looks a little different and kills the monster from the previous films – a Spinosaurus can’t kill you any deader than a T-Rex, so in practical terms there is absolutely no difference.
At first, Indominous Rex seems to be Jurassic World’s Spinosaurus – just another bigger, badder T-Rex, no doubt intended to sell new tie-in merchandise. Fortunately, it turns out to be something much better than that. Indominous becomes a self-referential plot point, in which the filmmakers acknowledge what circumstances are forcing them to do (create a new dinosaur as a marketing gimmick) and then ruthlessly satirize the result while ultimately inviting us to root for the old-school dinosaurs we lovingly remember from the first film.
And if my prose makes this sound like a dry, intellectual exercise, I apologize, because the result is a kick-ass, high-octane adventure that perfectly manipulates its pop entertainment elements – which is to say that, whether or not Jurassic World features sophisticated drama and in-depth characters, it makes you feel involved with the on-screen events,so that, even if the scenario plays out in a way that might seem predictable of even trite when viewed with cynical, retroactive disdain, you will fall under the spell while the film unspools before your eyes – fearing the threat and rooting for the heroes to defeat it. Or to put it another way: the film can get away with roasting a lot of chestnuts, because it cooks them to perfection and makes the audience hungry for more.
Indominous Rex (the dialogue acknowledges the absurdity of the name, manufactured – like the creature itself – to sell tickets) is a freak of science, a gene-spliced hybrid that emerges as the modern equivalent of Frankenstein’s Monster – an abomination that has no right to exist in our world of naturally evolved organisms. Intelligent and ruthless, the creature kills for sport – a hint that pays off late in the film, revealing that Indominous is something more sinister than just a redesigned Tyrannosaur.
In short, Indominous is almost a dictionary definition of a monster, which beyond any doubt needs to be exterminated, and much of the triumph of Jurassic World is that the battle that ensues is not a Transformers-like exercise in empty visual flash; it’s a textbook example of the value of rooting interest: I cannot remember the last time I anxiously cheering for a character to be put down for good (unless it was the moment in Evil Dead II when Ash jabs his finger at the severed head of his undead girl friend and angrily intones, “You’re doing down!”).
Of course, this is no easy task; it requires some satisfying inter-species cooperation. Not only does Owen (Pratt) ride out with his Raptor-pack; Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) unleashes a useful ally at the climax. The sly joke is that these two dinosaurs were mortal enemies at the conclusion of the first Jurassic Park, but now they set aside their differences to help humanity defeat the monster.
In a weird kind of way, Jurassic World is the franchise’s equivalent of Ghidorah, The Three-Headed Monster, in which Godzilla teams with former foes Mothra and Rodan to fend off the new threat. The difference is that, avoiding camp, Jurassic World sells the idea with a straight face conviction that precludes us from even questioning the convenience that a worthy opponent for Indominus just happened to be conveniently waiting in a pen to be unleashed for the climax. I certainly wasn’t going to question it, because it was sure as hell what I wanted to see happen.
To spread some credit around to the humans, Pratt and Howard and effortlessly appealing in their roles; yeah, they’re fairly typical movie characters, but they’re watchable and even believable. The two brothers at the center of the story are likable instead of annoying (and neither one defeats a Raptor with a kick from the parallel bars). It’s also nice that even some nominal bad guys – execs and scientists responsible for Indominous Rex – seem sort of like people, and sometimes even make a halfway decent attempt to do the right thing, as when new park owner Masrani (Irrfan Khan) pilots a helicopter attempting to shoot down Indominous – even though he is not fully qualified for the task. It’s always nice to see B.D. Wong (here as the dino-designer), and Vincent D’Onofrio does good work as the film’s one officially unredeemed asshole, who wants to use the Raptors as dog soldiers. Guess what happens to him?
But while you’re guessing, remember this: the joys of Jurassic World do not being and end with seeing an unlikable character get what he deserves (a la the lawyer in Jurassic Park). This movie wants to bring you back to a state of mind where a rampaging dinosaur would have you scared shirtless. (Did I just write that? Must have been a typo!) When Indominous escapes his pen, you are not chanting, “Go, go – Godzilla!” You are moaning, “Oh no! Oh hell! Everybody – run!” It’s a sign of truly impressive film-making when even the disposable “red shirt” character inspires more sympathy than blood-lust in an audience that has paid to see a creature with an appetite for destruction go on a wild rampage.
That rampage is rendered with excellent CGI that is not merely pretty; it also suggests a believable physicality – a sense of inertia and momentum seen in real object but lacking in most digital work, which tends to betray its virtual origins. The 3D aspect is reasonably well-used: true to form for recent 3D films, the effects tend to be less in-your-face than the old school “comin’ at ya” shots of the 1950s and 1970s, but the extra dimension helps convey the sense of gargantuan size, and there is one great shot of a pterodactyl trying to fly out of the screen to escape a predator.
Despite its wonders, not everything is perfect in Jurassic World. Some early scenes do not strike the intended note (an early aerial shot, backed by swelling music, implies a sense of grandeur that simply is not visually evident in what looks to us like a standard theme park layout). The over-reliance on digital dinosaurs robs the film of the satisfying blend of computer and mechanical effects that worked so well in Jurassic Park, providing a live-action texture and immediacy that yielded a greater sense of human-saurian interaction. And finally, near the end, Jurassic World goes a little bit “Ray Harryhausen” on us, in a bad way.
To my surprise, I had bought into the Raptor scenario up till then, which had Owen interacting with the predators like a tamer dealing with lions: yes, he could get them to obey commands, but that didn’t mean he would turn his back on them. Still, there was some sense of a bond, insofar as Owen was the “alpha” member of the group, the pack leader upon whom the others had imprinted when they were born. This bond is tested, strained, broken, and possibly repaired in the film’s third act, which sees shifting alliances that lead to some shuddery plot twists. At the end of the day, certain characters make a decision to stand not with their biological kin but with their adoptive relative – even at risk to their own lives. And for too long during this sequence, Owen stands there like one of those slack-jawed heroes in an old Ray Harryhausen stop-motion monsterfest, watching while a friendly creature does his fighting for him. As much as I was rooting for Indominous Rex to take his well deserved fall, I was practically yelling at the screen for Owen to get off the sidelines and get some skin in the game – you don’t just stand and watch while your brothers-in-arms become dino-chow.
It’s ironic that, in a film which tries to add a glint of humanity to the usual blockbuster formula, the heroes turn out to be not so much the humans as the cold-blooded reptiles. In a weird kind of way, despite my misgivings, I’m okay with that. Because it’s nice to see old enemies united against a common foe; T-Rex is still the Lizard King, and like the end of Jurassic Park, the climax of Jurassic World takes you back – mentally, at least – to a time When Dinosaurs Rules the Earth.
Jurassic World (June 12, 2015). Directed by Colin Trevorrow. Screenplay by Rick Jaffa & Amanda Silver and Colin Trevorrow & Derek Connolly, from a story by Rick Jaffa & Amanda Silver, based on characters created by Michael Crichton. Cast: Chris Pratt, Bryce Dallas Howard, Irrfan Khan, Vincent D’Onofrio, Ty Simpkins, Nick Robinson, Jake Johnson, Omar Sy, BD Wong, Judy Greer, Jimmy Fallon. PG-13. In IMAX 3D.
One certainly cannot deny that San Andreas delivers on the promise inherent in its title: it really is a feature-length road trip up the San Andreas fault, which just happens to be periodically shaking California to pieces along the way. That may not sound like much of a plot, but the film vastly improves upon the approach of its obvious disaster-era progenitor, Earthquake (1974), which never adequately answered the question: after two minutes of tremors, what can we do for the rest of the movie except dig people out of the rubble? Propelled by a continuing series of quakes spread out over the entire state, San Andreas is all forward momentum and non-stop action, but with enough narrative focus to avoid letting the calamity totally engulf the picture.
Dwayne Johnson plays Ray, a rescue-copter pilot going through a divorce from his wife Emma (Carla Gugino), whose new boyfriend Daniel (Ioan Gruffudd) does not look like an ex-wrestler, meaning he cannot possibly be man enough to replace Ray. Fortunately for Ray, two science guys, Lawrence (Paul Giamatti) and Kim Park (Will Yun Lee) have figured out that a humongous quake is about to destroy California, which will give Ray a chance to prove that Emma should stay with him. This is actually achieved rather quickly, when he whisks her off a collapsing rooftop in downtown Los Angeles; the plot complication, such as it is, arises from the fact that Ray and Emma’s daughter Blake (Alexandra Daddario, introduced to us in a flattering poolside bikini shot, because obviously we can’t care what happens to her unless she’s hot) is in San Francisco with Daniel. So away go Ray and Emma on their rescue mission, first in Ray’s copter, then a stolen vehicle, then a stolen boat.
The notion that Ray, a professional rescue worker, is abandoning his post in an emergency is never acknowledged let alone questioned, because movies are all about family these days – at least, that’s an easy way to generate a little rooting interest. It also goes without saying that using the company copter for your personal needs and stealing someone else’s car is okay as long as you’re the protagonist, because – hey, it’s only a movie!
Strangely, despite these questionable narrative leaps, San Andreas never completely matriculates into the “Dumb Movie” school of filmmaking; the scenario manages to maintain at least a small illusion of credibility, asking us to engage with the characters as if they are people in genuine peril, not merely pawns in an empty spectacle. It’s a sign of what’s right in the film that when one of the scientists dies on a collapsing bridge, the sequence is played as a tragedy, not an aint-it-cool moment of awesome special effects.
Likewise, San Andreas mimics the reserved (a relative term, I know) approach to vast destruction seen in Godzilla (2014): much of the action is shown from the point of view of the distraught characters instead of lovingly photographed like epic disaster porn. Although San Andreas is filled with collapsing buildings, tidal waves, fires, and explosions, not all of these scenes are show-stopping set-pieces; often they are glimpsed on the fly as Ray and Emma race by – relegated to sideshow status while the film maintains focus on the their quest to save Blake. It’s almost as if the filmmakers thought they were making a real movie in which we cared more about the characters than the quake.
In fact, San Andreas lingers on the verge of being something a little bit better than a by-the-numbers blockbuster. In old school disaster movies, characters tended to be clearly divided into heroes, victims, and villains. Ray is clearly the archetypal disaster movie hero; however, it’s a nice touch that Blake, though serving the function of victim in need of rescue, does not sit around waiting for her brave daddy to arrive; she takes action, seeking higher ground, instead of blindly following the panicked crowds. Sadly, this element gets a bit jumbled; with all the chaos of plans gone awry, it’s not entirely clear whether Blake’s actions will improve or diminish Ray’s chances of getting to her in time.
This is not the film’s only squandered opportunity to better itself. San Andreas initially avoids offering a typical disaster-movie villain. These take one of two forms: either they are responsible for the disaster, or they irresponsible in the way they save themselves at the expense of everyone else. The obvious candidate here is Daniel, who is – somewhat surprisingly – presented as a halfway decent guy. Yes, he abandons Blake in a crisis, but not out of self-interest; he really seems to be in a complete state of shock. Unfortunately, as the shock wears off, so does the film’s sympathy for him, morphing the character into a traditional prick who pushes others out of the way to save himself, until his own efforts ironically put him in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Which I guess means that the film is happy to revert to clichés. Ray, Emma, Blake, and a couple of British immigrant Blake found along the way are okay, which means it’s a happy ending all around on the big screen, in spite of presumably millions of corpses buried beneath debris from one end of the coast to the next. Presumably, Ray and Emma will live happily ever after, now that she sees how useful Ray is during a crisis – though how that’s going to sustain a relationship during those long periods of time when California isn’t quaking itself into a pile of rubble, remains unclear. Hopefully, Giamatti’s science guy can spot another earthquake on the near horizon.
San Andreas ( May 29, 2015). Directed by Brad Peyton. Written by Carlton Cuse, from a story by Andre Fabrizio & Jeremy Passmore. Cast: Dwayne Johnson, Carla Gugino, Alexandra Daddario, Ioan Gruffudd, Archie Panjabi, Paul Giamatti, Hugo Johnstone-Burt, Art Parkinson, Will Yun Lee, Kylie Minogue. PG-13. In IMAX 3D.