I'm going to come charging out of the gate with my commentary on this film; its awesomeness is matched only by its astonishing stupidity. Make no mistake, Transformers is a Michael Bay film, and if your memory of schlocky summer blockbusters needs any refreshing a few of his towering contributions to the cinematic art form include Armageddon, Bad Boys and Pearl Harbor. Yes, Pearl Harbor—the film that, despite sexing up what was a lightning strike on a dormant fleet into a drawn-out 45 minute bullets & bombs slugfest, managed to shit all over the legacy of the thousands who died via perhaps the sluttiest love story ever to grace the screen.
Señor Bay's oeuvre is pretty much defined by variations on the concoction outlined above: hot chicks in slutty romances, really huge explosions and no regard for story, plot, character development or—God forbid—causality. Transformers is in no way a departure from Mr. Bay's established aesthetic; the special effects signal a milestone achievement, the audio engineering is completely immersive and none of it makes a lick of sense.
Here are some of the points that made me feel like I left fifty or so IQ points in the movie theater.
Why does freezing the robots immobilise them when they're apparently capable of functioning in the cold depths of space?
Why is the network breaker locked when it is needed the most? Shouldn't it be readily accessible in the event of an emergency?
Why is Soundwave so adept at taking out secret service agents on Airforce One but really struggles when in combat with a small group of cryptographers?
Why are Sam's parents so oblivious to the presence of four 40 foot tall robots in their back yard?
Why does shoving the cube into a robot's chest kill it? Why shouldn't it miraculously transform the robot into something new since it was established that the cube can bring machinery to life? For that matter why shouldn't the cube imbue the robot with so much power that it becomes a super robot?
How can a 75 metre tall cube transform down into a cube about the size of a computer monitor? What happens to all the extra mass?
How does Bumblebee know how to activate the cube's transformation when an army of scientists who have been working on the problem for nearly a hundred years have no idea?
What purpose did the blond Australian woman serve aside from providing window dressing?
I've barely scratched the tip of the iceberg that represents all of the plot holes and gaffes that riddle the film. They're manifold and overwhelming. Oddly enough Michael Bay has been engaged in a war of words of sorts with the producer of the film, Tom DeSanto, over writing credits. Considering the ridiculousness of the story, one would expect them to be fighting over who gets to distance himself most from the mess, but no, they're each trying to hog their share of the glory.
And glorious it no doubt will be once the receipts have been counted. Transformers is the kind of silly summer junk that packs the seats at megaplexes, and I'm counted amongst them. Calculated, profit-maximising entertainment targeted at delivering the highest spectacle to intellectual engagement ratio will always sell, and as the weeks progress expect the coffers of Hasbro and Paramount to balloon. The kids are putting mustard on it and eating it up. Watching really big robots beat the living shit out of each other is going to be fun no matter what, but does it really have to be so stultifying?
The sequel is slated for a 2009 release.
Showing posts with label cinema. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cinema. Show all posts
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Ratatouille - Good Viewing
I took in Ratatouille on Sunday night and left the theatre a very satisfied movie goer.
Last year's Cars was the first Pixar movie I'd decided to dodge at the cinema—it looked a little too trite for my tastes, but I've since been told that it held up pretty well. Ratatouille, on the other hand, was not going to slip past me. The main reason for that is the director: Brad Bird.
The Incredibles was a masterful achievement, doing what Pixar does best by embedding relatively complex subtexts beneath a visually stunning layer of computer wizardry and well paced action. Moreover the script was polished to a gleam, and the characters evoked a genuine visceral engagement. It touched upon themes of exceptionalism—about how when everybody's special then nobody's special. It's a theme that Brad Bird has further built upon in Ratatouille, and much like The Incredibles he's done it with a deft hand that skillfully avoids the kind of violent message bludgeoning so often found in almost any other big budget animated film.
The choice of a rat as the protagonist is an interesting one. Rats are nearly universally reviled as the harbingers of death and disease (thank you, Black Death), so the use of a rat as both the main character and as an aspiring haute cuisine chef throws a prejudicial gauntlet down squarely in front of the audience. It's a direct challenge to the viewer's preconceptions of assigned stations and roles. Rats are horrible, pestilent creatures. Rats should never come near food or else they'll riddle it with their disease. Rats are borderline demonic and kept as pets by creeps and weirdos. To plonk one down in the middle of the kitchen of a schmicko restaurant is the ultimate heresy. We're just not culturally trained to readily accept a rat as a suitable subject for the kind of heartwarming anthropomorphism found in Ratatouille. And that's the film's primary genius. In order to accept Remy as a chef, so many of our other preconceived notions about how hereditary elements factor into our development in life are called into question. One of the main theses of film is that ultimately one's pedigree counts for nothing, and when all is said, done and counted it's the merits of the individual that really spell the difference between one who can cook and one who can be a celebrated chef. Linguini, despite being Gasteau's son, is an awful cook. Remy, despite being a rat, is an outstanding chef.
I'm digging too deep, I know.
There's an awful lot to say about this film—wet fur is evidently the latest effect that impressed the animators at Pixar the most; the character acting, especially by Skinner, is better than most living, breathing people; the commentary on the tension between personal limitations and aspirations is powerful yet not forceful—but it's more than space will allow. Just as with The Iron Giant and The Incredibles, Brad Bird and Pixar have delivered another near-perfect kids film that's more than suitable for the shorties, but serves up a whole lot more for the older set as well.
Update: Brad Bird and Patton Oswalt appeared on NPR's Fresh Air on 28 June. I was grateful to hear them discuss some of what I crapped on about in my post. It's also worth it for Patton's routine about Black Angus commercials. Check it out.
Last year's Cars was the first Pixar movie I'd decided to dodge at the cinema—it looked a little too trite for my tastes, but I've since been told that it held up pretty well. Ratatouille, on the other hand, was not going to slip past me. The main reason for that is the director: Brad Bird.
The Incredibles was a masterful achievement, doing what Pixar does best by embedding relatively complex subtexts beneath a visually stunning layer of computer wizardry and well paced action. Moreover the script was polished to a gleam, and the characters evoked a genuine visceral engagement. It touched upon themes of exceptionalism—about how when everybody's special then nobody's special. It's a theme that Brad Bird has further built upon in Ratatouille, and much like The Incredibles he's done it with a deft hand that skillfully avoids the kind of violent message bludgeoning so often found in almost any other big budget animated film.
The choice of a rat as the protagonist is an interesting one. Rats are nearly universally reviled as the harbingers of death and disease (thank you, Black Death), so the use of a rat as both the main character and as an aspiring haute cuisine chef throws a prejudicial gauntlet down squarely in front of the audience. It's a direct challenge to the viewer's preconceptions of assigned stations and roles. Rats are horrible, pestilent creatures. Rats should never come near food or else they'll riddle it with their disease. Rats are borderline demonic and kept as pets by creeps and weirdos. To plonk one down in the middle of the kitchen of a schmicko restaurant is the ultimate heresy. We're just not culturally trained to readily accept a rat as a suitable subject for the kind of heartwarming anthropomorphism found in Ratatouille. And that's the film's primary genius. In order to accept Remy as a chef, so many of our other preconceived notions about how hereditary elements factor into our development in life are called into question. One of the main theses of film is that ultimately one's pedigree counts for nothing, and when all is said, done and counted it's the merits of the individual that really spell the difference between one who can cook and one who can be a celebrated chef. Linguini, despite being Gasteau's son, is an awful cook. Remy, despite being a rat, is an outstanding chef.
I'm digging too deep, I know.
There's an awful lot to say about this film—wet fur is evidently the latest effect that impressed the animators at Pixar the most; the character acting, especially by Skinner, is better than most living, breathing people; the commentary on the tension between personal limitations and aspirations is powerful yet not forceful—but it's more than space will allow. Just as with The Iron Giant and The Incredibles, Brad Bird and Pixar have delivered another near-perfect kids film that's more than suitable for the shorties, but serves up a whole lot more for the older set as well.
Update: Brad Bird and Patton Oswalt appeared on NPR's Fresh Air on 28 June. I was grateful to hear them discuss some of what I crapped on about in my post. It's also worth it for Patton's routine about Black Angus commercials. Check it out.
Monday, May 28, 2007
It's Probably Not Worth It
Were you considering watching Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End? If not then you've probably made the right choice. It makes even less sense than Spider-Man 3 and that's an achievement in itself. Characters switch allegiances based on motivations buried so deep in the frantic on-screen madness and mayhem that any attempt to keep track of it all just makes for a nasty headache. I gave up trying after the second apparent double cross, which supposedly wasn't a double-cross after all, or was it? I couldn't tell and more importantly I didn't care. By that stage I was content to settle back into a seat that, after about the one and a half hour mark, was slowly turning my bum numb and enjoy the spectacle. And Johnny Depp. Without him there'd be nothing to watch but a lot of genuinely amazing special effects. From a technical perspective the these Pirates films are masterpieces, but when judged as satisfying summer entertainment all but the first installment falls horribly short. No pun intended, but how did they run so far aground after such a fun start? Cynical, money-minded bean counters at Disney might have much to answer for, but realistically the blame probably falls at the feet of the producers who sought to over stuff the last two films in the franchise in order to create what they thought would be the consummate summer film extravaganza. Well kiddies, sometimes less is more.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Grindhouse: Thoughts
Julia and I caught Grindhouse last night and I feel compelled to offer a few comments. Firstly, Robert Rodriguez turned out a great effort with his guns-and-gore fest, Planet Terror. Robert's got a sound understanding of what makes trash cinema so enjoyable. Planet Terror dishes up the perfect measure of violence so over the top you have to laugh, comical, pustule-squirting gore and troubled, buxom women. I'd swear the cinema management was pumping the scent of tasty barbecue ribs into the theater in order to heighten the experience. I'm serious, the smell of barbecue. See the movie and you'll understand why it makes sense.
Then there's Tarantino's entrant, Death Proof. There's no question that Tarantino can make good films—Pulp Fiction; Reservoir Dogs; even Kill Bill; they're classics—but this time Quentin has let himself go to seed. The output of toils in this instance reflects the character he self-consciously plays in the film: sleazy, lecherous and altogether too self-impressed. Death Proof runs about 45 minutes too long—it's a 90 minute movie—due to forced attempts on Tarantino's behalf to jam in protracted scenes of his now-famous dialog and a general incoherence of the plot—what are the drivers motivations? Why should we care about Jungle Julia and her slutty cohorts? Ultimately Death Proof plays like a mildly amusing, and admittedly viscerally enjoyable, female revenge masturbation fantasy of a tired, old man. I expected more.
Then there's Tarantino's entrant, Death Proof. There's no question that Tarantino can make good films—Pulp Fiction; Reservoir Dogs; even Kill Bill; they're classics—but this time Quentin has let himself go to seed. The output of toils in this instance reflects the character he self-consciously plays in the film: sleazy, lecherous and altogether too self-impressed. Death Proof runs about 45 minutes too long—it's a 90 minute movie—due to forced attempts on Tarantino's behalf to jam in protracted scenes of his now-famous dialog and a general incoherence of the plot—what are the drivers motivations? Why should we care about Jungle Julia and her slutty cohorts? Ultimately Death Proof plays like a mildly amusing, and admittedly viscerally enjoyable, female revenge masturbation fantasy of a tired, old man. I expected more.
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