The Edukators (2004) - A Guest Review by J. Robert Parks
Seems like J. Robert Parks is seeing all of the great films this year, while I sit and wait for them to show in Seattle... Here he goes again, raving about another must-see: The Edukators.
The month of August is not usually a banner month for cinema. Hollywood will release some of its worst films in the next few weeks, assuming that most people are either on vacation or getting ready for school and, therefore, aren't going to the movies anyway. But in Chicago at least, these last weeks of summer are shaping up as some of the best in recent memory, at least for those of us who know our way to the arthouse theaters.
It kicks off with a small German film called The Edukators, which opens this Friday at the Landmark theater. Directed by an Austrian filmmaker named Hans Weingartner, it stars Daniel Bruhl (Goodbye, Lenin!) as a young man named Jan. He and his friend Peter (newcomer Stipe Erceg) fashion themselves as anti-capitalist activists. Their main mode of protest is sneaking into the homes of rich people who are on vacation. There, Jan and Peter rearrange the furniture, often stacking it in big piles, and leave notes with ominous messages like "Your days of plenty are numbered." It turns out that Peter is dating a pretty woman named Jule (Julia Jentsch, Downfall), who's not as politically oriented, in part because she's too busy working--"You create endless debts, so you need a career to pay for them." But when Peter goes to Barcelona for a vacation himself, Jan and Jule start hanging out.
One night, she convinces Jan to help her break into the house of a man named Hardenberg. She hit his expensive Mercedes the year before and is still paying for the damages. Jan's nervous at first, and his fears are confirmed when Jule discovers afterward that she left her cell phone in the house. When they go back to retrieve it, they're interrupted by a returning Hardenberg. A confrontation ensues, and Jan ends up clubbing the older man on the head. They panic, call Peter (who's just returned), and decide to kidnap the man and flee to the mountains.
But what should they do there? At first, they think of making their kidnapping public and issuing various manifestoes. But talk soon turns to the practical issues of milk and toilet paper. Then there's also the touchy subject of Jule. It slowly dawns on Peter that things have changed since he was away. One of the many great things about The Edukators is how Weingartner sets up the rhythm of these relationships. He captures the way lovers snuggle together as well as the furtive glance that doesn't go unnoticed. And even if you're not terribly interested in the film's politics, you won't help but be fascinated by how the love triangle plays itself out.
A number of critics have accused Weingartner of self-indulgence and political naivete, but I suspect those same people would rather have the dull, droning heads of documentaries like The Corporation. What The Edukators does so well is interrogate the difficulties of being a leftist in today's capitalist society. The three would-be revolutionaries are clearly not effective on a larger scale or even in their own little spheres. Yet, the movie doesn't patronize them with pats on the head or celebrate their lack of effectiveness. Instead, it asks, what's the alternative? In a powerful night-time conversation, Hardenberg talks about how he participated in the '68 protests. His captors are amazed and ask how he turned into a Mercedes-driving capitalist. The discussion that follows is both poignant and challenging. And when one character remarks, "What was considered subversive then, you can buy in shops today," it's hard not to think about how capitalism consumes almost every kind of opposition.
I fully admit that part of my admiration for The Edukators is due to the issues it raises, and that someone who wasn't as politically conscious or as interested in radical politics wouldn't find it as interesting on that level (I would then suggest that such a person should see more political films to help rectify the problem). Yet, the movie also works as a simple relationship story. The growing romance between Jan and Jule in the film's first half hour is detailed and captivating, as both actors delightfully convey the joie de vivre of early infatuation. The two bond over shared music and a weekend when they paint an apartment, and anyone who's fallen in love will recognize themselves in these moments. But the film also explores and interrogates that old chestnut of the love triangle. It's no accident that the names Jan and Jule echo Truffaut's classic Jules and Jim, and Weingartner takes the same optimistic approach that Truffaut did while acknowledging (as Truffaut also did) the inevitable difficulties when two friends love the same woman.
What makes The Edukators so brilliant is how the film integrates these personal themes with the larger political ideas. My friend Garth and I had a furious argument last spring over the Italian movie Best of Youth, which I asserted found a way to explore political issues through a personal lens (Garth found that approach "bourgeois"). The Edukators does the opposite--it finds a way to explore personal issues through a political lens, acknowledging that the two are rarely as separate as activists on both sides of the fence would have us believe.
4.5 stars
Say "Yes" to The Ragbirds - "Yes Nearby"
The most engaging new band I’ve heard this year is The Ragbirds, led by erin Zindle. It’s not a typo. Small “e”, big “Z.”
It’s an unconventional name for an unconventional sound. Zindle and her cohorts stir up a style-shifting row on their debut, Yes Nearby, with such enthusiasm, confidence, sincerity, and skill that it’s not hard to imagine them growing up to be one of those beloved bands of spirit and substance like Over the Rhine and The Innocence Mission. Attention, dispirited fans of the now-defunct Sixpence None the Richer: You can stop crying now.
But there’s a sort of playfulness in the music too that none of those bands exhibit. Songs dash along with blitzes of lickety-split banjo-and-bluegrass, then morph into tricky hand-clap rhythms and bum-bum-ba-dum singalongs, and suddenly darken and twist into eastern drones with the lyrics of echoing prayers. At first listen, it can take a while for the songs to sink their hooks in; but listen to it twice, and then a third time... turn it up... and you’ll find that the ambitious, complex, multi-layered rhythms become irresistible. Yes Nearby has an endearingly homemade quality to it, but if the Ragbirds get the attention of the right producer—Calling T-Bone Burnett!—their next album could be a major breakthrough.
Zindle’s voice strikes a sort of happy medium between the triangular points of Karin Bergquist’s blow-out-the-back-wall power and Amy Grant’s smooth pop sincerity. What she lacks in vocal distinction she makes up for with the force of her personality and perspective, which is clearly the driving force of the album. She’s front and center from beginning to end, only occasionally accented with backing vocals (most memorably in “Adoration,” where she swaps verses with seven-year-old Darby Horne). And in some songs, such a “Picture,” she’s also responsible for the mandolin, violin, dunun, and percussion.
She has good help too, from guitarist Adam Lambeaux. Multi-instrumentalist Randall Moore lends international flavors with performances on darbukka, djembe, dunun, talking drum, congas, and other varying percussion.
“Low Flying” is a prodigal’s lament, in which she croons over the restless fiddles, “Delirious with weariness and confusion / I fly a hundred miles from home with no conclusions.” In “Love’s Great Joke,” she further affirms her own insufficiencies: “My word is worth a mouthful of ashes and smoke.” And in the reggae pulse of “Narcissick,” she’s so blue that everything in the world seems like it’s her fault, including “wild fires in the west, wild storms in the east.”
All of these songs circle the suffering Christ who supports, who eludes our feeble definitions, who remains the only satisfying source of help. In “Picture,” Zindle sings, “I drew a picture / You were a thousand warriors defending my city / Then I saw a picture / You were a horse, a beast of burden / And we were the weight on your shoulders.” The groovy singalong “Tipi Baya” finds her shopping for solutions at the market, the courthouse, and the church, only to be disappointed by merchants of false hope.
Like the traveler in Pilgrim’s Progress, she’s clearly fed up with Vanity Fair. “Door in the Wall” is one of the album’s peaks—a pop powerhouse with so much soul it should be immediately covered by Joan Osborne. Punctuated by smart backing vocals, she sings about the nature of American pop culture to lull our sensibilities to sleep until we’re too numb to be moved by artists or truth. And in “Totem Pole,” she begs to be reminded of her “salvaged soul”: “You found me there, alive in the ashes.”
This leads to the album’s most inspiring flourishes: The soaring, echoing prayer of “Adoration” (“I am bursting with confessions/ Open up your ear to me/ Have mercy,” which leads to the loop-laced vow, “Now that I have seen the face of my Friend / I will not confuse or misplace my worship again.”
The album accelerates into a euphoric spirit-lifting anthem called “Believe It,” where she testifies, “I’d like to fly south, but I’m a Yankee bird/ Born in blankets of snow in Buffalo/ I’ve made a little nest in Michigan/ Where there’s plenty of hope for me/ To start again.” And in a piano meditation that recalls Peter Gabriel’s “Here Comes the Flood,” she draws straight from scripture: “Have we understood that God is love/ And everywhere his lips confess his strategies?” Zindle brings back the festive combination of mandolin, violin, tin whistles, and bells to end with a surge of hope and celebration: “I see you’ve found your voice/ And are singing again/ I see you’ve found your pulse/ And are breathing again.” Both singer and listeners have found rejuvenation. And patient, attentive listeners have a feast that will last them for many months to come.
(Many thanks to Thom Jurek and Josh Hurst for bringing this band to my attention!)
Home at Last. What a week.
Anne and I have come crashing through the front door of our home, leaving behind us a memorable weekend in Colorado Springs, where we met Don Pape, the literary agent that's changing our lives.
Don gave us a tour of Alive Communications, his place of work. It's an agency that has represented such admirable writers as Donald Miller (Blue Like Jazz), Brennan Manning, Eugene Peterson, and Philip Yancey. We met a whole corridor full of warm and welcoming people. Then Don treated us to a fantastic meal at a well-concealed but excellent restaurant where we were the only customers, and talked for hours about Auralia's Colors and its sequel, about our lives as writers and readers, about married life, and about other stories I intend to publish someday (if the Lord's willing).Read more
Film Forum is Up... Thanks to Chattaway
Still basking in the greatness of the Glen Workshop. Just had tearful goodbyes with several of the fiction writers with whom I formed strong bonds this week. Things are wrapping up in a hurry now. Sigh. I could live with this community, and it would bear many resemblances to my idea of heaven.Read more
Hiatus Report #2: Over the Rhine Rocks the Glen
Just a quick post, and then I'm off to do homework for tomorrow's workshop.
Last night, I had the overwhelming thrill of introducing Over the Rhine before their concert at the Glen Workshop. I barely got the words out around the lump in my throat, but it went well. The concert was, of course, sublime. It was just Linford and Karin this time, but they did a fair number of songs from "Drunkard's Prayer" and the best peformance of "Jesus in New Orleans" I've seen them do.
Highlight: In my introduction, I mentioned my love for "Good Dog Bad Dog." Later, while Linford was singing "Jack's Valentine" from that album, Karin was doing her usual, jazzy scat in the background. At one point, she said, "Y'all can join in with me. Jeffrey, come up here. I *KNOW* you'd like to join me." I suspect I turned a deep shade of purple, and declined in order to keep from spoiling the show.
Later, Anne's poetry provided the big finale of the writers' Open Mike event. (Pretty cool, considering poet Luci Shaw got things off to a great start.)
We're having a marvelous week hanging out with those two and with so many new friends. My biggest "It's a Small World" moment--Joel Pinson, who used to be part of the music group at my church, is here at the festival. I haven't seen him since we went out to lunch about four years ago. He's becoming an Anglican priest. Amazing.
Several of the writers I've met here are going to be big deals. Watch out for Sara Zarr, who just scored a two-book deal with Little-Brown. Michael Harris-Stone has a talent comparable to Guy Gavriel Kay. Great stuff.
We've also had the pleasure of meeting poet B.H. Fairchild (leading Anne's poetry workshop) and artist Barry Moser. Novelist Robert Clarke is also here; he read from a ne non-fiction work yesterday. I missed Paula Huston's reading and Laura Lasworth's art show... doggone it.
This morning, Anne and I took writers Erin McGraw (novelist) and Andrew Hudgins (Pulitzer-Prize-shortlisted poet) out to breakfast and had a stimulating chat. Tonight we're hosting a read-aloud party at our apartment that will probably run late into the night.
Oh... and another thing... The producers of a popular prime-time television series are showing interest in buying the rights to "Auralia's Colors."
Speaking of colors, the rain interrupted the relentless heat today, and we had a spectacular stack of rainbows here on the hills. I'll post a photo... in fact, a whole world of photos... over at Zero Zero Zero when I return.
It's been a very interesting week. Greg Wolfe and Company have developed a truly marvelous event here.
Many thanks to Josh Hurst and Peter T. Chattaway for covering for me at Christianity Today Movies.
More soon.
Hiatus Report #1
Ha!
I found an available computer at the library at St. John's College in Santa Fe, so I'll just give you these juicy tidbits about my week so far.
- I'm in a week-long fiction workshop with Erin McGraw, an author I hadn't yet discovered, but now you can call me a fan. She read from an upcoming work tonight, and it was extraordinary. She's married to the poet Andrew Hudgins, and Anne and I had the pleasure of enoying a meal with these two. They're amazing. Read their stuff.
- Speaking of meals. Last night, Anne and I stole away for a dinner with two folks with the initials L.D. and K.B., late, in downtown Santa Fe. If you know who I'm talking about, you know how indescribably happy Anne and I were to have such a blessing... how happy we still are.
- The first chapter of the sequel to my novel "Auralia's Colors" was well-received by the fiction workshop... very encouraging as I dive into the deep end of bringing this book to fruition and then into your hands.
- Anne is reveling in her poetry workshop with the brilliant B.H. Fairchild.
- Santa Fe is as gorgeous as ever. Every evening is a sky gallery of work painted by Georgia O'Keeffe... Yes, she's getting better and better in the afterlife.
- Wednesday night: Over the Rhine, live. I have the privilege of introducing them. Good grief, how do I keep my introduction from running longer than the show?
All of this to say: See what can happen at the Glen Workshop? Tell me you're signing up for next year's event as soon as possible!
Oh... Arts and Faith board folks... TCTRUFFIN is here too. I've met another A&F'er!
More to come, in greater detail, upon my return to my desk at home. This is a library computer, and there are folks waiting, so....
T.T.F.N.
Bewitched (2005)
[This review was originally published at Christianity Today.]
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It goes without saying that Bewitched owes a lot to the 1960s sitcom that inspired it. Fans of the show can rest easy—Nicole Kidman proves perfectly capable of the magical nose-twitching that made Elizabeth Montgomery everyone's favorite televised witch.
In recent years, we've seen far too many episodic television shows pumped up to forgettable, feature-length versions. Writer/director Nora Ephron (Sleepless in Seattle, You've Got Mail) deserves kudos for her smart game plan. She might have re-contextualized characters like Samantha the witch, her bumbling husband Darrin, and her imperious mother Endora, in contemporary surroundings (The Honeymooners). Or, she could have "spiced up" the old mix with today's too-dirty-for-prime-time humor (Starsky and Hutch). Instead, she conjures a premise that captures the spirit of the original while developing a new and engaging scenario.
Thus, Bewitched is just as likely to remind viewers of other popular big screen comedies, and it borrows ideas from several. Like the hero of Groundhog Day, Isabel the witch (Kidman) has the capability of reliving situations and correcting her mistakes. And, taking a note from Bruce Almighty, Isabel manipulates her circumstances with godlike powers—even scrambling the speech of her love interest, Jack Wyatt (Will Ferrell) when he doesn't cooperate—until she learns that that human limitations might be a good thing after all.
But there's another film that Bewitched resembles in surprising ways: Wim Wenders's Cannes-award-winning masterpiece Wings of Desire. Like that film's central character, an angel named Damiel, Isabel walks amongst troubled human beings, mystified by their limitations, trying to imagine how it would feel to be one of them. One question in particular becomes an obsession: What would it be like to fall in love?
Isabel, a magical flibbertigibbet, is seeking romance in the kingdom of artificiality—Beverly Hills. She's determined to win love honestly, unlike her philandering father Nigel (Michael Caine), a suave spellcaster who deceives women with enchantments and trickery. Nigel thinks Isabel isa-bonkers; after all, he seems satisfied with his self-gratifying love affairs. (Caine, who played the original Alfie, is once again perfectly cast as an insufferable seducer who learns lessons the hard way.) But Isabel wants to be done with potions and power plays. She wants human experience and all of its complications. She wants to be loved for who she is, to be needed instead of merely desired. In the aisles of Bed, Bath, and Beyond, she watches a husband and wife argue about home improvements, and enviously declares, "I want to argue about paint!"
Eventually, like Wenders's curious angel, Isabel takes the plunge, and awkwardly attempts to pass herself off as a typical human being. Soon, she's hanging out on movie sets, just as Damiel did, and falling for a show business personality whose career needs a jump-start, just as Damiel did.
That show business personality is Jack Wyatt (Ferrell). Jack's been trying to salvage his unstable career, hoping to avoid becoming "the lower right square on Hollywood Squares." Cast as Darrin in a new Bewitched television series, he's seeking a new Samantha—someone who'll ensure that the spotlight remains fixed on Darrin. Thrilled by his discovery of Isabel, Jack brings her to the set, where she charms the discouraged filmmakers. (Yes, we're served another example of that tired cliché—the montage of bad auditions—and it's surprisingly unfunny.)
Even though Nigel objects, saying that Bewitched is "an insult to our way of life," Isabel's willing to play along, hoping it'll earn her a chance at true love. She's a natural at playing a witch—go figure—and that makes it difficult to repress her control-freak tendencies. Like a smoker trying to quit, Isabel repeatedly declares, "That was my last thing as a witch!" Before long, Jack's storming about in a supernaturally amorous frenzy, not unlike the recent, reckless, lovestruck exhibitions of Tom Cruise. Meanwhile, Nigel becomes distracted by Iris (Shirley McLaine in feather boas, vamping up a storm), the silver screen diva playing Samantha's mother Endora.
Ultimately, Isabel will learn not only the challenges of true love, but also that she is not the first to make "the big switcheroo"—just as Damiel discovered in Wings of Desire.
But that's where the similarities with the German art-film masterpiece stop. Wenders's film was a ponderous journey, an ocean of spiritual inquiry, and by comparison, Bewitched is more like a puddle. But puddles can be fun for splashing around in. If you're looking for a movie that will turn your brain off instead of on, you could do far worse. Captured colorfully by cinematographer John Lindley, production designer Neil Spisak, and costume designer Mary Zophres, Bewitched is an old-fashioned, relatively inoffensive comedy. Even though Ephron surrenders her inquiry into human experience and settles for screwball situational comedy and Hollywood sentimentality, her cast provides pleasant amusement for about 60 of their 98 minutes. Is that enough bang for your summertime moviegoing buck? You decide.
Most of the highlights belong to Kidman and Ferrell, who invest this mediocre material with inspiration and energy. Kidman is rarely given permission to turn loose her inner Loony Toons, but here she fulfills the potential for comedy that she demonstrated during the zanier stretches of Moulin Rouge and the outrageous Saturday Night Live skits she performed with Mike Meyers back in 1993.
Jack Wyatt is a character designed to give Ferrell room to do all of the things he does best: the goofy cheerleader jump, the audacious nakedness, the absurd attempts at melodrama—there's even a nod to his notorious impression of James Lipton. The role was reportedly intended for Jim Carrey, but Ferrell's shtick is as inspired as some of Steve Martin's classic performances. (As for that "audacious nakedness," Jack appears as a guest on a late-night talk show, and Isabel zaps him so his clothes disappear, leaving him leaping around in embarrassment. His vital parts are blurred out in the scene.)
In fact, Jack is unfortunately too crazy and erratic to be taken seriously as Isabel's romantic ideal—and that's the film's biggest problem. We sympathize with Isabel's yearning for a real relationship. (After her first real fight, she declares, "It was very hard, but secretly quite thrilling!") And thus, it's disappointing that the film doesn't find her a more promising match than this self-centered oaf. In a better movie, Isabel would have realized that she doesn't need to a man's adoration in order to be fulfilled.
But alas, in that last act, it's suddenly obvious that the brains behind this brouhaha belong to the woman who wrote the cliché-ridden favorites Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail. Spirited, anarchic comedy gives way to such familiar devices as the last-minute change of heart, the nicely packaged lessons (like learning to say "I'm sorry"), and the race to catch the girl before she leaves for good. In Ephron's world (she co-wrote this movie with her sister Delia), the only "happily ever after" vehicle is a two-seater.
Even the soundtrack turns obvious and unimaginative. The hit parade of witch-oriented pop songs culminates with the Police's "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic." Frantic to inspire some kind of feeling in the audience, they even dust off R.E.M.'s emotional anthem "Everybody Hurts."
To make matters worse, Isabel and Jack are surrounded by forgettable characters, played by actors who deserve better. Jason Schwartzman and Kristin Chenoweth waste our time in half-cooked roles. (Interestingly, Chenoweth, playing a mortal here, once earned a Tony nomination as the Good Witch Glinda in a Broadway production of Wicked. A regular on TV's The West Wing, the versatile Chenoweth also recently released a Christian album, As I Am.) Shirley MacLaine's vainglorious Iris is a feeble echo of Dianne Wiest's Bullets Over Broadway diva. Poor Steve Carrell, who became Hollywood's hottest laugh-getter when he stole the show in Ferrell's Anchorman, looks desperate in a doomed last-act appearance.
Ferrell and Kidman deliver the necessary fireworks when the inevitable, climactic confrontation arrives, and Ferrell gets what will become the film's most quoted punchline. But afterward, all that's left to do is tie the loose ends into standard fairy-tale knots. Isabel's search for true love ends up looking like another rash Beverly Hills romance, ticking like a time bomb, and the movie becomes something as frivolous and disposable as, well, an episode of Bewitched.
Today's Specials: Overstreet on Hiatus! And More...
I've been away for a couple of days, preparing for my presentation at Seattle Pacific University University's UR (University Relations) Staff Retreat.
The retreat was yesterday, and I had the incredible privilege of talking to about 75 SPU staff members about my history as a moviegoer, the development of Looking Closer; the changing dialogue within Christian communities on the subject of film, Christian liberty, and conscience; the different ways in which we watch and should watch movies; the different ways in which film manipulates our feelings about characters and ideas; the severe neglect in America of foreign and art films; how to watch an art film; etc.
We watched clips from various films, and then enjoyed Kryzysztof Kieslowski's Bleu in its entirety. The discussion afterward was revelatory. It was the most encouraging event I've had the privilege to participate in. The group was attentive and really engaged with the clips and the movie. What a difference from 10 years ago, where talking to a similar group of Christians about movies was like starting a bar brawl.
And now, folks, I need a break from the Internet.
And, it just so happens that Anne and I will be participating in a week-long writer's workshop next week, as well as enjoying visits with family members and meeting up with my agent and the publishers who have determined to change our lives. So it'll be a week full of activity and creativity.
I'll dive back into blogging during the second week of August. And, I may discover an opportunity here or there during the workshop to post an update, but I'm not sure that'll be possible.
Until then, here are today's specials (most of them coming from Coming Soon):
- Check out this very fine article identifying the problem with today's "Christian fiction."
- The trailer for Julianne Moore's next film. (Once again, she's a period-piece housewife. This stereotyping makes me very, very sad. Moore's so talented and so versatile. Remember Lebowski? And this trailer gives me the creeps, with the way it toes the line of belittling the dignity of housewives. I'm worried about what this film is going to try to "say.")
- What's down the hatch? Lost is coming back!
- For those of you still sticking with ABC's Alias, Sidney Bristow is pregnant! What bothers me about this report is the idea that, since Bristow's pregnant, she needs a sexy new apprentice in order to keep the show "sexy." What... just because Bristow's pregnant immediately disqualifies her from the category of "attractive"? Jeeez.
Specials: Leary on Dynamite; Brothers Quay + Gilliam; V for Vendetta; The Island
Today's specials:
- Twitch scoops an intriguing collaboration between The Brothers Quay and Terry Gilliam. Wow. Sounds promising indeed. Go here for news and stills.
- The trailer for Natalie Portman's new film with the makers of The Matrix: V for Vendetta.
- What did I say about The Island being built out of parts stolen from other movies?
Too Bad a Tsunami Didn't Destroy "The Island"
"We're about to fall 70 stories!" "Don't worry. We'll walk away from it."I would use the word "obscene" to describe Michael Bay's The Island...
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for the way that its story is made up almost entirely of ideas stolen from other, far better science fiction movies;
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for the way that it operates in a hysterical, high-speed, senses-battering mode in order to hold your attention and distract you from the astonishingly huge gaps in logic;
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for the head-spinning coincidences;
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for the way it insults our intelligence by labeling almost every piece of furniture in this futuristic film with LARGE CAPITAL LETTERS so that we know exactly what it is (like "CONTAMINATION DOOR"), and so we know exactly what kind of destruction will take place if someone pushes the wrong button or messes with it (which is pretty much a guarantee that someone WILL mess with it);
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for the way the characters speak to each other in a language of the PAINFULLY OBVIOUS so that we don't for a moment have to think for ourselves;
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for the way it wastes the time and talent of so many great actors (Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johannson, Sean Bean, Djimon Hounsou, Steve Buscemi);
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for the variety of ways in which it sensationalizes and entertains us with various forms of torture, maiming, injuring, poisoning, and desecrating live human characters;
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for its portrayal of authority -- ANY authority, from cops to the cafeteria lady -- as evil and oppressive and disposable; and for how it identifies the heroes as people who will lie, cheat, and steal in order to rebel against any authority but themselves (thus, it's a movie aimed to appeal to the sympathies of a six-year old);
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and most of all, for the amount of money that must have been spent in order to mount such an outrageously empty, derivative, ridiculous film. (Think of how many smaller, meaningful, worthwhile movies could have been made with just the amount of money the various sponsors contributed in order to have their logos onscreen... logos that have curiously remained EXACTLY THE SAME even though this is supposed to happen in the distant future: MSN, Johnny Rockets, Calvin Klein, Nokia...)
Yes, I would call the film obscene if it weren't so inadvertently funny.
My friends Danny, Wayne, and I laughed like we haven't laughed in a long time.
We especially laughed when, to escape the police, Ewan McGregor AND Scarlett Johansson jump on a flying motorcycle (the kind the bad guys use to chase down escapees, but that the cops never seem to have handy--they're still using present-day BlackHawk helicopters). It's clear that McGregor has never used this kind of cycle before, but he operates it like a pro, weaving in and out of various levels of airborne traffic, at high speed, dodging bad guy blasts, and then he SMASHES IT THROUGH ONE SIDE OF A SKYSCRAPER, DOWN A CORRIDOR WHERE HE HITS NO ONE, AND THEN OUT THE WINDOW ON THE OTHER SIDE... and somehow Scarlett Johansson doesn't let go. (Apparently, we're back to the days when smashing an aircraft through a skyscraper is good old-fashioned fun again instead of a troubling reminder of real terror.) THEN they end up stranded on a giant company logo, at the 70th floor level, on the outside of the tower. The logo is a big letter "R", so they have a nice space to cower in as the bad guys fly around and SHOOT THE LOGO OFF OF THE BUILDING (it's fastened there with cables, you see; easily separated from the building). Then the logo FALLS OFF THE BUILDING with them still holding onto it. Fortunately for them, the falling logo HITS THE BLACK HAWK HELICOPTER on the way down, destroying it (and, I can only assume, all of the officers inside), and then falling 70 stories to the ground.
Do McGregor and Johansson survive the fall? What do you think?
Are they able to go back to their existence without a big media row?
That's just five minutes of this relentlessly ridiculous film.
To make matters worse, the movie THINKS it has a serious story, and that it's dealing with serious issues.
These issues have been dealt with far, far better in the movies that The Island has pillaged: A.I. (Artificial Intelligence), Gattaca, Minority Report, A Clockwork Orange, and many more, above all ... THX 1138.
In the end, the movie has nothing more to offer than Soylent Green. We discover, early on, that McGregor and Johansson are just clones, "insurance policies" waiting to have their organs harvested for the benefit of their "originals." The originals believe they've invested millions into the development of tissue that is not part of a sentient creature; and thus they see no ethical problem. But the clone-making company learns that the organs just don't work unless they're developed within living, breathing human beings, so they create a covert society in the middle of a desert where the clones can obliviously grow these "resources" until the day they're told they've won a lottery, and they're carried away into the depths of this evil corporate fortress and euthanized so their organs can be extracted. The movie then runs on the impression that we will find this truly horrifying. In truth, you'll just sit their imagining Charlton Heston running around in a panic, shouting, "Your insurance policies are PEOPLE!!!"
There's a fleeting bit of fun to be had watching Ewan McGregor meet his "original" and fight himself. But that doesn't make up for the excruciating pain of watching this abominable waste of Scarlett Johansson, whose natural beauty is lost in these relentless, grotesque, Maxim-style glamour shots served up for the salivating neanderthals in the crowd.
Steve Buscemi and Johansson have worked together before, in a wonderful little movie called Ghost Wo
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d. They'll be more famous now, thanks to this, but they're sacrificing their integrity in the process.
Oh, did I mention the glass? Whenever anybody in the movie falls or runs or drives at a high speed, you can expect their path to be blocked by all manner of glass objects. One of them falls from a great height in the middle of a train station, and somehow lands behind a bar, crashing through a huge shelf-system made of glass and loaded with bottles of alcohol. So not only do we watch this character shot, but also falling, and then smashing through enough glass to put windows in a skyscraper.
I walked out of the theater feeling as if I'd just paid seven dollars to have someone shove my head through plate glass windows for two hours, except for the fact that I'd been laughing the whole time.
That can't be healthy.
Expect Michael Bay to be rewarded with a huge box office weekend.