All posts by David DeMoss

Movies, Reviews

Hulk (2003)

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You know, straining too hard can cause a brain embolism.For various and sundry reasons, the Incredible Hulk casts a long shadow over my pantheon of superheroes…and what better time than now to examine each and every one in agonizing detail? It’s all because of that damned TV show. See, a long time ago, on a farm far, far away, my parents had a brief flirtation with mid-eighties middle-class status symbols. They got the VCR. They got the VHS. They got the satellite dish. One of those unwieldy, forty-foot fuckers that typified success for millions. Sure, go plant a ten foot tall metal tree in my back yard. Boy, that’ll really add value to the house.

By the time I came around, we got exactly two channels on the damn thing. Everything else was snow, bandwidth to bandwidth. Until the Sci-Fi Channel. One day, there it was: twenty-four hours of good ol’ fashioned science fiction programming. The Visitor, The Prisoner, The Twilight Zone, Planet of the Apes, Battlestar Galactica…and The Incredible Hulk, every day at four, staring Bill Bixby. I’d get off school and bam, there it was,  Lou Ferrigno large and in charge. I developed quite the ritual around it, as I did with all the good shows. And like all the good shows, eventually, Hulk disappeared without a trace. {More}

Movies, Reviews

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (2002)

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Why, you may ask, don’t I like Harry Potter? After all, hasn’t it captured and captivated many a fan of speculative fiction (including my girlfriend)?

Is it the infectious commercialism? A paranoid distrust of the mainstream? Or the thousand and one soccer moms crying joy to the heavens? “Oh, The Children are reading again!” As if some of us haven’t been reading all this time. But then a trend isn’t a trend until the lame, the halt and the stupid catch up. Remember that, children, and remember it well. Especially once Michael Bay makes another movie.

Oh, wait, he already has.

On that happy note…

To be fair, I went into Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone with a kind of wry resignation. Alright, I thought, I can at least read one of the damn things before I go off and bitch about them. At the very least, I figured I could get some good ammo for the daily debates on the subject I was having at the time. Probably not the best mind-state for good analytical analysis, but I made it.

While J.K. Rowling’s prose is nothing to write home about, I survived The Sorcerer’s Stone without any permanent damage. Rowling’s no R.L. Stine, but she never pretends to be. Stylistically, Harry strikes me as more in keeping with the old school children’s authors of the early twentieth century. Think of J.M. Barrie. By now, Harry’s certainly as famous as that other supernatural English pre-teen male. Whether he’ll have an equally long shelf life is a debate I’ll leave to the actual fans.

I watched the movie version of Sorcerer’s Stone on my old computer, during the three glorious months I enjoyed a cable modem and KaZaa version 1.0. The movie went exactly as I thought it would, being an almost perfect Xerox of its source material. The only surprise came when I clocked the movie in at just under three hours. Not the most satisfying experience. So when my girlfriend rented The Chamber of Secrets my first thought was, Well, at least this time I’ll be surprised.

We catch up to The Boy Who Lived (still played by Daniel Radcliffe) as he sits in his room, making googly eyes at his Magic Photo Album (ask for it by name). It’s summer, and summer finds Harry confined to his eevil aunt and uncle’s house (still played by Richard Griffiths and Fiona Shaw). But Our Hero’s non-life takes a sharp left when Dobby the House Elf (voiced Toby Jones) shows up with a requisite Dire Warning. Harry “must not return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this fall.” Apparently, “terrible things” are massing against him, and Dobby (a horrible Gremlin/Gollum crossbreed) is determined to keep Harry safe, despite the wishes of his unmentionable “master.”

Thankfully, the timely intervention of the Weasley brothers and their flying car saves Harry from having to spend another damn day with his hopelessly muggle relatives. Soon, Harry’s right back in his element and Year Two begins eerily enough as soon Harry begins hearing voices: mysterious whispers that inevitably lead him to The Wrong Place at The Wrong Time. It seems someone (or something, dun, dun, dun) is petrifying the students of Hogwarts, leaving behind cryptic messages written in blood. “The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir…beware.”

Just what is the Chamber of Secrets? Who the hell is the “heir”? And just where is all this blood coming from? Fear not: two out of three of those questions will be answered. All one has to do is survive this movie’s two hour, forty minute running time.

Chamber of Secrets was (apparently) made hard and made fast. All involved got a total of four months between films to bask in the success of Sorcerer’s Stone. Then it was back to the grind for all the principal cast and crew, which is a blessing in itself. And a curse.

Once again we follow the adventures of Harry, Ron (Rupert Grint) and Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) in agonizing detail. Director Christ Columbus opts for a literal translation from book to film in a painstaking effort to piss off as few fans as possible. Which makes it all the more amusing when he fails.

I know my girlfriend was pissed. I endured many a dissertation from her on the (apparently numerous) divergences from the book. She informed me that a fair amount was cut from this production for (one presumes) running time. If this proves true, I can only thank Chris Columbus and screenwriter Steven Kloves. As it is, Chamber of Secrets moves like a roadrunner with grapeshot tied to its ankles. God only wonders what the Columbus/Kloves team will make of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. At one hundred and four pages longer than this movie’s source, their Azkaban could shatter the three hour mark. To say nothing of that 870-page monstrosity Rowling’s just loosed upon us (and already sold to Hollywood). Are the Golden Globe’s ready for the eight hour, scene-to-screen director’s cut of Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix?

Am I? Jesus, only a die hard masochist would even contemplate such things. But then again, I did watch Chamber of Secrets twice.

And, yes, we were talking about Chamber of Secrets before we skewed into this tangent. You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve just spent the last three days immersed in Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72. That’s my excuse.

All the principal actors pull through once again. The children’s acting is no more or less adequate than the last time around. I suppose that’s more a fault of what they have to work with than anything else. This is obviously Harry’s movie. His Little Friends function more as foils than anything else. Hermione manages to pull through with some relevant plot info, but by then we’re over two hours in and it’s time to rap shit up. Radcliffe has just enough Leading Man Mojo to carry the flick, but by the 130-minute mark (when the epilogue is dragging on and I’m beginning to wonder what’s on the WB) even his honest face starts to wear a bit thin.

Actually, it’s not that bad. The Two Towers was longer, and galaxies more complex, but Chamber of Secrets is missing something. Perhaps it’s a reason for me to care. I salute Christ Columbus for his efforts. Every Harry movie he makes distract him from making another Home Alone. But no amount of CGI assisted sweep-pans is going to make me fear for these character’s lives. I already know who lives and who dies. Not all that different from a Slasher flick, now that I think about it.

Chamber of Secrets, for all its sluggish plotting and one-damn-thing-after-another storytelling, its still light years away from, say, your Jurassic Park 3s or your Tomb Raiders. And it is nice to look at. Columbus and cinematographer Roger Pratt make sure of that with a lush color palette, the aforementioned sweep-pan, and some great production design from Stuart Craig.

So, yes, props to all involved. They gave us a finely made, empty movie. I’m tempted to tack on an extra half-G purely for technical reasons. It’s an okay flick for a boring Thursday afternoon, but is it good for much else? Doubtful.

Because when you get right down to it, I just don’t care about Harry Potter. And now we’re back where we started. Which is always a good place to stop.

GGG

 

Movies, Reviews

The Incredible Hulk Returns (1988)

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In 1979 the gray hairs at CBS shocked the world by unleashing The Incredible Hulk on prime time television. It was revolutionary in a post-Superman America, where comic book properties were thought either too expensive for television (unless they were animated), or just too damn campy. The tragicomic failure of TV’s Spider-Man the year before only worked to shore up these illusions. And yet…

On one level, The Incredible Hulk was a horrific Franken-show. Its cast and crew of soap opera veterans had little idea how to run a superhero series. Its producers could barely drum up enough money to keep the green paint on Lou Ferrigno’s skin. And the network insisted on changing the main character’s name from “Bruce” to “David” because “Bruce” was just sooo gay. Even in 1979.

And yet it ran for five years with respectable ratings. The fan base seemed to grow and grow. People just couldn’t get enough of the not-so-jolly green giant and his puny human alter-ego. This marked a spike of hope in that superhero dead zone. Not bad considering every show featured exactly the same plot.

Then in 1982 The Incredible Hulk vanished. And silence covered the sky. With their mainstay gone, Marvel Comics seemed to fold in upon itself, shying away from live action film production. Just look at the ratings, they told themselves: people were getting bored with it, we were getting bored with it. Better to fade away than burn out. Could’ve been worse. They could’ve hated it. {More}

Movies, Reviews

Valentine (2001)

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Yes, I've sunk to showcasing blatant T & A. Now keep reading.I know what you’re thinking, because I sure thought it when I saw Valentine in my TV listings: Christ, didn’t this just come out in theaters?

Yes. Yes, it did. And when your crappy movie makes reams and reams of Jack Squat in the theaters, that’s when you push it into video circulation as fast as possible. You also try your darndest to sell your crappy movie to the cable networks and hope against hope that they show your little darling of a picture in Prime Time, where a much more receptive audience will finally, finally understand and appreciate your genius. Those theater-going plebes wouldn’t know a good movie if it brained them with a Dolby anyway.

I found Valentine playing at 9:45 p.m., Tuesday night, on one of the HBO Clone channels. It played right after The Craft. You guys remember The Craft? Much, much, much better movie than this POS, despite Fairuza Balk’s Mick Jagger lips…which, I will admit, I’m more than a little fond of. They’re so damned…delicious. She’s so damned delicious. Though it’s probably just my thing for goth chicks. And witches. When I see a movie with goth chick witches, man alive, am I ever in heaven. {More}

Movies, Reviews

The Giant Gila Monster (1959)

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Our Hero. So perfect you want to slaughter him.Like most movies of its era, The Giant Gila Monster begins with a soliloquy from Our Humble Narrator. While the camera lovingly moves over shots of a desolate desert landscape, Our Humble Narrator informs us that:

“How large the dreaded Gila Monster grows, no man can say.”

Looking for an explanation as to why this Gila Monster is so Giant? Well, there it is.

We cut to a couple parked in the middle of the tangled desert wasteland. (Not the most romantic setting in the world but what do I know? Maybe gnarled old trees are like Spanish Fly to some.) Later on, we’ll learn their names: Pat (Grady Vaughn) and Liz (Yolanda Salas). But for right now, don’t get too attached. Just as they get all close and lovey, an unseen force shoves their car over a cliff. Now, if I were one of those people who’s obsessed with finding subtext in even the most bizarre pieces of crap cinema, I’d be amazed. I’d point out that it showcases just how merciless the morality of 1950s horror pictures really was…even make the observation that, unless Liz is giving her man a nice, off-camera handjob, this couple’s only crime is snuggling. I’d then go on to note that at least 80s Slasher flicks let you have sex before you died. Let no man say our culture hasn’t moved forward. {More}

Movies, Reviews

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (2001)

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Lara keeps a look out for falling plot contrivances.

As Tomb Raider opens, we find Lara Croft (Angelina Jolie, of course) hanging suspended from a rope. Not even her intricately woven braid stirs. Then, in what will quickly become a matter of course for this film, she runs-jumps-flips-climbs her way through an ancient looking cave of faux ruins and blows the holy hell out of the ultra-advanced robot assassin that serves as her “sparing partner.” All in a flash-bang opening action sequence designed to drive home a singular point: that Lara Croft is a Badass. Needless to say, the sequence accomplishes its goal…so, I asked myself, what the hell is the rest of the movie supposed to do?

Spiral ever downward, apparently. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Angelina Jolie is Lara Croft, the Tomb Raider, only child to “legendary” archeologist Lord Croft (Jon—Anaconda—Voight). So when she’s not destroying her own robots or lounging about the eighty-plus rooms of her ancestral home Lara likes to gallivant around the globe and engage in a spot of grave robbing, stealing priceless artifacts and…doing…something…with them. If you don’t live under a rock, you probably already knew this, or could figure it out from the incredibly-obvious title. {More}

Movies, Reviews

The Blob (1988)

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When a movie critic takes ill, coughing up and subsequent spitting out of large, globular balls of protoplasm, it’s best to avoid films centered around amorphous masses of protoplasm.

I, being me (i.e., stupid), ignored this credo and rented this: the 1988 remake of The Blob. Nothing like a horror movie to get you over a bout with the flu. Or am I the only kid who’d fake a sore throat so he could stay home to watch the one o’clock creature feature, back before the Sci-fi channel sold the fuck out?

So I rented The Blob and it is anything but appetizing. I managed to keep things under control. When there’s nothing in your stomach, logic suggests that nothing can come out, and logic prevailed. Thanks to a childhood encounter with Cronnenberg’s Fly, it takes a lot to send me to the porcelain bus. I could go into detail and have all of you bask in my gorge-holding prowess, but my mother reads this, too. And she’s already heard it.

Enough about bodily functions. Let’s talk about large, gelatinous, alien monsters. Yeah, baby, yeah!

The basic story hasn’t changed. Giant rock falls from space, deposits carnivorous alien ooze. Rustic old coot pokes ooze with a stick. Hilarity ensues. Alien ooze begins devouring residents of Small Town America and its up to a bunch of “no-good kids” to stop it before it grows too large to handle. As always, the devil’s in the details.

This time, town badboy Randall Brian Flagg (Kevin Dillon) and cheerleader Meg Penny (Shawnee Smith) are charged with stopping the malevolent muck. And while Meg still begins the movie as A Nice Small Town Girl, Brian Flagg is the kind of rebel that would make Steve McQueen mess his pants. He’s a cigarette smokin’, motorcycle riddin’, beer drinkin’, leather jacket wearin’ son of a bitch, and even though I liked Flagg well enough (I always root for the Rebel Without a Clue), I’m smart enough to recognize him for the caricature that he is. Still, he’s a fun caricature. And the script does manage to shoehorn some his softer side into the goo and gore. Occasionally. I counted four such scenes myself. Your actual mileage may vary.

With that kind of stellar characterization, it falls on Kevin Dillon to play a reluctant hero that’s both believable and likeable. He does a decent enough job, but I’ve seen people bungle this character so badly. Dillon plays the roll competently, and if that’s what you like, go ahead. He doesn’t embarrass himself, but he won’t be earning a place in the Rebellious Teenager hall of fame, either.

Shawnee Smith, on the other hand…now there’s an actress I could get into. (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, knowwhatImean, knowwhatImean?) Here, she’s playing another great caricature of 1980s horror: the Final Girl, escaped from her Slasher origins, the traumatized heroine who  goes from cheerleader to machinegun toting Righteous Babe in under 85 minutes, a transition that would make Heather Langenkamp proud. Now, Smith is no Langenkamp, but like her costar, she’s competent enough in the Final Girl role.

That word, competent, just about describes this entire movie. It provids just enough fun to fill up your life, never rising above the sum of its parts. Co-writers Frank Darabont and Chuck Russell (who also directed things) seemed to know exactly what was needed to turn out an old fashioned B-movie…rather like The Blob. They don’t try to explore any Great Themes of Literature or examine the Heart of the Human Condition. With the exception of the Evil Government Agency sub-plot, it’s all Teenagers vs. Slime.

Evil Government Agency sub-plot, you say? Yes. Here we see the only real contrast between the two Blobs. In the 1950s, a bunch of “no-good kids” spend the entire movie trying to convince skeptical authorities of the Horror mucking around. Once everyone gets a good look at the Blob in action, the residents of Small Town American came together to defeat the alien menace with  American can-do spirit. Because if we don’t, the Commies win!

Not so here. Post-Watergate, an Evil Government Agency, headed by the shifty Dr. Meddows (Joe Seneca), descends from on high, invading Small Town America in level 5 bio-suits. They quarantining the town, touting machine guns, and aren’t the least bit shy about opening fire on United States citizens. I won’t tell you what connection they have to this incarnation of the Blob, but…you’ve probably already guessed.

The two Blobs are obvious children of their timess. In the 50s, cops and “punk kids” worked side by side and the local sheriff could get on the horn to the local military base with no problem. The institutions of authority that we, as Americans, put our faith in triumphed because, by God, they’re American institutions, and these colors don’t run!

Here, the institutions of authority we put faith in are useless in the face of an alien menace. They run around fruitlessly trying to maintain the status quo, shooting everything that looks at them funny. Don’t close those beaches. I am not a crook. We had to destroy that village in order to save it. Not at all a metaphor for current geo-political conditions. Not at all. Blah, blah, blah. In the end, this evil government agency’s efforts come to nothing, society breaks down, anarchy rules, and its up to those “no-good kids” to save the world. I don’t know about you, but that kind of story  just warms the cockles of my heart.

A few more things before I let you go. I’d just like to point out that what I said about Chuck Russell’s writing goes double for his directing. He keeps things simple and direct, with no fancy tricks or directorial eye candy to distract you from what’s on screen. Good job there.

Also, props to Lyle Conway for his excellent creature FX. Let’s face it, the old stop-motion Blob was cutting edge…for 1956. Twelve years old or not, Conway’s Blob is much more kinetic than its cinematic father, proactively chasing its prey rather than just rolling over whatever hapless human it encounters. And you gotta love those tentacles.

You don’t have to love the fistful of side characters that populate this Idyllic Small Town…but I found I couldn’t help myself. Because, while they might not be interesting, they’re at least recognizable. The shrewd dad (Meg’s father, played by (Art LaFleur), Fran (Candy Clark), who owns the local diner; even Moss the mechanic (Beau Billingslea). Like Brian the Rebel, they’re all caricatures. But through decent writing and competent acting, I enjoyed spending some time with them.

All in all, you might enjoy spending time with this movie, too. Instant classic? Hell no. Fun waste of time? Hell yes. If you want more Blob for your buck, then step right up.

GGGHalf-G

Movies, Reviews

The Killer Shrews (1959)

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The second part of our Ray Kellogg fort night (thank you once again, Nathan) begins with this statement, which has nothing at all to do with the rest of the movie. But whatever. Bad Movie Law states that Our Humble Narrator must say something before the start credits role, even if it’s an unnecessary non sequitur.

The actual story begins with Thorn Sherman (James “Roscoe P. Coltrane” Best)! Hell of a name, isn’t it? Thorn Sherman! Just disserves to be written with an exclamation point, doesn’t it? Thorn Sherman! One of those strong, manly action names like Buck Rogers! or Dirk Pit! Names of manly men who do manly things without a hint of those ugly feminine traits. You know, like emotions.

So Thorn (!) Sherman and his Token Black Dude, Rook (Judge Dupree), are sailing to this deserted island with a cargo full of supplies. Seems there’s this weird scientist who lives on this island and he’s set himself up a nice little spread, far away from humanity. Out here, all alone, nothing but miles and miles of ocean in every direction. No possible way that someone could just happen by to, oh, I don’t know, save their lives. Oh, and did I mention there’s a hurricane on the way? Yep. Both Rook and Thorn (!) can feel it coming with their Sailor-Sense.

Thorn (!) and Rook anchor their boat and row ashore, seeking shelter from the storm. On the beach, they meet Dr. Craigis (Baruch “One of my sperm will soon become Sidney” Lumet), his Hot Scientist Daughter Anne (Ingrid “Former Miss. Universe” Goude, once again proving movie scientists really are trying to create a master race) and a gun-toting, drunk looking assistant named Jerry (Ken “I produced this piece of crap movie” Curtis). Thorn (!) shares news of the storm with Dr. Craig, and we discover that the One Radio on the whole damn island has been broken for some time. Wow. Now they’re completely cut off. Sure would suck if some form of mutant killer monster were to be roaming the island…

Everyone but Rook treks to Dr. Craig’s little island villa, surrounded by an eight foot high picket fence. Thorn (!) doesn’t ask questions. Sure, everyone’s acting a bit strange and Anne keeps jumping at every song she hears. And these people sure are doing strange things to rodents and really sound like they want to leave the island before dark but, hey, why ask questions? Thorn (!) is like that. If it isn’t his business, he doesn’t poke his head in. He even says so, later on. He’s a 50’s man!

Except that all this is about to become his business very soon. It seems Dr. Craig, Jerry, and fellow scientist Dr. Radford Baines (Gordon MacLendon), have been playing around with shrew genetics, trying to do something about the problem of overpopulation. Or some such. They chose shrews because of their rapid reproduction rate (try saying that three times fast) but their experiments have had a few…unforeseen side effects.

Faster than you can say, “Tampering in God’s Domain” Rook (who stayed behind to secure the boat for the approaching hurricane), is chased up a tree by a pack of dogs with lots of fake fur glued onto their backs, with similarly fake tails sticking out of their asses. However, once director Ray Kellogg gives us a shrew close up, you’ll see the Killer Shrews magically transform from dogs with fur glued to their backs to stiff, doll-eyed, fang toothed puppets. It’s magic, man, I tell you what.

So Rook catches a nasty case of dead from the Killer Shrews. Meanwhile, back at Isolated Local Central, Anne and Dr. Craig spill the beans to Thorn (!). Somehow, this strain of giant shrews escaped the lab and began breeding. Since shrews need to eat about twice their body weight everyday to keep their metabolisms going, the Killer Shrews have pretty much depopulated the island’s native wildlife. So the Shrews are looking to rustle up a nice human on rye with a side of fries and a coke. Now just $4.98, please pull up to the next window.

After all was said and done, I turned to my friend and asked her a riddle. “What do you get when you take Night of the Living Dead, fill it with uninteresting characters and tack on a stupid happy ending?”

Answer: The Killer Shrews.

Except that won’t work, really, because Shrews was made in 1959, it’s just the obvious parallel that every review of The Killer Shrews follows…both of them.

Like The Giant Gila Monster, this movie is (in)famous for its <air quotes> special air quotes effects. In this case, the extra harry dogs and their rat puppet counterparts. How do they look? Like harry dog and puppet heads on sticks. And even though so much of this movie is dark (I’ll be damned if I knew how the shrews get through that kitchen window–I had to wait for a character to explain it to me), the scenes with the Head Puppets are always lovingly well lit. Too bad for them.

Acting wise, everyone in the movie gets stuck in that bog of mediocre acting. After this, the highest anyone in the cast would rise is James Bests role in *snort* The Dukes of Hazard. Hell, he’s the only one really worth talking about. Here, best plays Thorn with an off-Southern accent. That, plus the few crumbs the script drops about his past, made me call him a Good Ole Boy more than once.

Thorn seems quite the redneck, yessir, but (despite my better judgment) I found myself…not liking him, exactly. But he does what I would do in this situation: he grabs a gun and tells everyone to shut the hell up. In my case, I would tell everyone to shut up so I could think. I guess Thorn just tells everyone to shut up so he can throw some more bad pick-up lines at Anne or drink copiously in silence.

The rest of the cast is…wait, I said they weren’t worth talking about, didn’t I? Wow, there goes that paragraph. Coolness.

Seriously, though, I think the acting here is better overall than the acting in our last Ray Kellogg picture. Mostly because the actors here are adults playing adults instead of thirty year-olds playing teenagers. Baruch Lumet doesn’t embarrass himself too badly as Dr. Craig, even though the good Doc gets all the pontificating speeches. Everybody else, though…fuck um. Let the shrews take um.

Then we can move on to talk about what really pissed me off about The Killer Shrews. The movie has no brains and no balls. I hate to do this, but I’m going to sully Night of the Living Dead‘s name some more by bringing it out again. It’ll help me show all of you just why Shrews is such a bad movie. Its not because of the mediocre acting. It’s not because of the thrift-shop special effects. It’s not because Our Hero is a dick. Oh, gosh no.

Want to know why Shrews sucks so much? It’s all because Thorn doesn’t kill Jerry.

Halfway through the movie, Thorn beats Jerry senseless because Jerry is an even bigger dick than he is. Climbing a stack of crates, Thorn gets ready to toss Jerry over the side, down into the shrew horde. But, at the last moment, Thorn catches Anne staring at him and her beauty sooths the savage beast. Somewhat.

Had Thorn done his bit of Jerry-tossing, this movie could’ve touched on some very weight subjects, my fine feathered friend. Instead of a movie about a bunch of people trapped in a little house surrounded by killer shrews, this movie could’ve had a damn sight more brains. It could’ve been a movie about just how far a man can go. It could’ve made the audience sit back and think, Damn, would I be able to hold on to my humanity in a similar situation? It could’ve done what horror fiction is supposed to do: scare you. Unnerve you. At least Night had the balls to kill a nice, juicy blond haired-blue eyed white girl. Here, the only people who die are bad guys and ethnic characters…making me wonder if The Killer Shrews is really thinly valid Nazi propaganda.

Yeah, well, if everyone were after you, you’d be paranoid, too.

Half-G

Movies, Reviews

Batman: Mask of the Phantasm (1993)

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It's the shadow of the Bat.
It's the shadow of the Bat.

This is more than a good movie: it’s the movie I watch at least once a year to remind myself why I watch movies. Produced by the same writers, directors, composers and cast as Batman: The Animated Series, Mask of the Phantasm is not only the best superhero movie of the 1990s, its easily the gold standard by which to judge all subsequent  superhero films.

Shame the thing isn’t better-known outside of the fan community. It’s unique among superhero movies of its age, both for its faithful importation of material already present in Batman comics and for its deft incorporation of new story elements that add depth and meaning to the source, reinforcing key themes without hitting the audience in the face with some overriding Message or a lot of heavy Exposition. Arguably the most mature American cartoon feature to date, it deals with grand questions of fate, free will and the psychological cost of living in the shadow of one’s past. Plus…it’s frickin’ Batman. Honestly, what’s not to love? Continue reading Batman: Mask of the Phantasm (1993) →

Movies, Reviews

Jurassic Park 3 (2001)

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I can remember walking out of the first Jurassic Park with a headache and a thought: This movie deserves a sequel. Retrospect allows me to see how very, very wrong I was to even sub-vocalize such sentiments. Jurassic Park, for all its numerous, PG-13, summer-blockbuster flaws, was too good for a sequel. And now it has two to sully its reputation. Two mediocre attempts to recapturing the magic and the wonder that just dripped off the first film…something utterly impossible. And do you want to know why? Want me to tell you? ‘Cuz I will. Just watch me. But first you’ll have to sit through the plot synopsis, and a few paragraphs of my bitching and moaning. (Well, it is what we’re here for, after all.)

We open in the waters of Isla Sorna, The Lost Wrold‘s Site B. As the camera pans over picturesque cliffs the word “restricted” flashes across the bottom of the screen in BOLD RED CAPITALS. This, of course, means nothing to us, and even less to a guy named Ben (Mark Harelik), who’s decided to take his future-stepson, Eric (Trevor Morgan) parasailing over Isla Sorna’s many panoramic coves. After an unseen something-or-other makes a meal of their boat’s crew, Ben and Eric compound their original Bad Idea with a One That Is Still Worse, landing on Isla Sorna, the Worst Vacation Spot on Earth. {More}