Showing posts with label 3D. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 3D. Show all posts

Wednesday, 8 July 2015

Which of These 22 Decisions From the Makers of Terminator: Genisys Was the Worst Decision?


1. The spelling of the title.

2. Thinking it is endearing/appropriate to turn everything into a punchline.

3. Letting Arnold Schwarzenegger continue phoning it in.

4. Hiring Jason Clarke but giving him no direction.

5. Hiring Jai Courtney.

6. Wasting Matt Smith.

7. Wasting Byung-hun Lee.

8. Sampling the song ‘Bad Boys’ over a mugshot montage.

9. Thinking that helicopters can do that.

10. Thinking that school buses can do that.

11. Featuring an affectless I-can-load-bullets-faster-than-you pissing contest scene.

12. Endowing the villain with inconsistent powers and motives.

13. Making Terminators essentially unthreatening in any guise.

14. Filming everything like an NBC TV show.

15. Attempting a lame critique of contemporary techno-culture.

16. Having the characters bicker like children. Constantly.

17. Aping a Marvel film (also, see above).

18. Aping a Resident Evil film.

19. Ruining all interesting twists with horrendous marketing.

20. Resembling bad fan fiction.

21.Treating the iconic star of the franchise like a 1970s sitcom character.

22. Progressing beyond the first production meeting.

Monday, 15 June 2015

22 Things I Learned from Jurassic World



1. Genetic engineering is a noble pursuit.

2. All nannies are British.

3. All teenagers make sexually charged eye contact with one another.

4. Brilliant geneticists dress like Steve Jobs.

5. Being in the Navy prepares you for being a dinosaur-whisperer.

6. Chris Pratt smells.

7. Women with high-powered jobs are no good at dating, child-rearing, or their high-powered jobs.

8. Island-owning billionaires will do and say whatever the plot requires of them at any particular moment.

9. Jurassic World patrons don’t mind their phones getting splashed.

10. Jurassic World patrons are very protective of their margaritas.

11 Jurassic World patrons are happy to wait patiently on the docks while all manner of devastating craziness goes on around them.

12. …No wait – genetic engineering is diabolical and misguided.

13. At the end of the jungle there’s always a waterfall.

14. Children are brilliant car mechanics, and cars abandoned for years will run fine with a little TLC.

15. The US military thinks sending raptors to hunt terrorists is a good idea.

16. Pterodactyls unexpectedly freed from captivity will use their newfound independence to violently peck at helicopter pilots and tourists.

17. Don’t send a heavily armed containment team to do Chris Pratt’s job.

18. …Ok, so some genetic engineering for grossly commercialised purposes is groovy, but it’s crossing the line to go full Frankensplice, or to get the military involved. But if it's being benignly used to sell T-shirts and giant cokes to teenagers, then go for it.

19. 'How fast have you clocked the T-Rex?'
'You know how fast a grown woman can run in three-inch heels? Just a little shy of that.'

20. Even velociraptors can pull a Han Solo.

21. Three deus ex machinas is three deus ex machinas too many.

22. Four Jurassic Park movies is three Jurassic Park movies too many.




Thursday, 11 June 2015

22 Things I Learned from San Andreas




1. There’s always a lower ledge.

2. It’s okay for black guys to make racial jokes.

3. If Dwayne Johnson says your shoe is untied, you better damn well believe your shoe is untied.

4. Ex-wives always trade up in these kinds of movies (see also 2012, War of the Worlds).

5. CalTech is brought to you by Apple and Pepsi.

6. Dwayne Johnson is brought to you by Dodge.

7. This movie is (oddly) brought to you by the San Francisco tourist board.

8. Kylie Minogue makes a stellar stone-cold bitch (shame her situational awareness is hopeless).

9. Televisions will still work after multiple earthquakes measuring well above 9 the Richter scale.

10. Ditto cell phone towers, but only for a short time.

11. Long takes are meaningless in an era of bluescreened digital imagery.

12. $100m blockbusters still can’t photoshop family photos for toffee.

13. When a real man fancies a new set of clothes he precision-crashes his helicopter in the menswear department.

14. Standardised shipping containers have a sense of poetic justice.

15. Skyscrapers are no substitute for a nuclear family.

16. The relentless spectacle of arbitrary mass death is in no way traumatic.

17. When the world trembles, get up against something sturdy.

18. When The Rock trembles, reach for the fast forward button.

19. 100,000 tonne freighters can sneak up on you.

20. Fifty foot chasms in the world can sneak up on you.

21. Happy endings can never sneak up on you.

22. This movie being a whole shaking mess of good fun sure snuck up on me.




Thursday, 30 June 2011

A View of Destruction, From a Chicago Penthouse: A Review of 'Transformers: Dark of the Moon'


“I think World War Two just started!” screams a character in Pearl Harbor, Michael Bay's Mission Accomplished take on world history. As historical revisionism it's a tad US-centric, if not wholly inaccurate. Never one to let a bad idea rest, and after re-tasking the Hoover Dam and the Pyramids of Giza in previous Transformers films, Bay now draws the Apollo programme, Sputnik and even Chernobyl into the swirling black hole whose event horizon is his own visualisation of World War Three. Only, you know, with giant robots.
Transformers:Dark of the Moon, as this third film will be called, worryingly comes out the same summer as Cars 2 and Hugh Jackman's Rock 'em Sock 'em Robot Bullshit, suggesting that any further Terminator films would be extraneous in our present era: the multinational conglomerate of Cyberdine Systems and GM Motors have already won this war. But before we can get to messing up the sheets/streets, we have the tedious business of peacetime to wade through (or, the Continuance of Boredom by Other Means) with screenwriter Ehren Kruger stickily holding our hands.
The economy is biting, and poor Sam Witwicky can't find work. His muscular frame may be busting out of his shirt, but he never gets to show it, and he's stuck in the worst kind of job-interview-montage that not even Shia LaBeouf's desperate, slightly confused mugging can save. Even his old comrade-in-arms Tyrese Gibson has quit the Air Force so he can supervise tow-tractors, a job the film considers so fitting for this sole black dramatic presence that he is forced to continue wearing his blue-collar overalls even during combat. Luckily, though, he proves useful later when it turns out he knows a bunch of guys living in motels with guns the size of Ikea floating shelves just waiting for a pick-up truck to take them to where the action is. Breathe in deep. Smell that? It's America.
Round up the old crew (except Megan Fox, she spoke out of turn, and women are just as replaceable as engine parts): the next stage of the war between Autobots and Decepticons is about to commence.
The unappealingly surly website Pajiba based their entire review of Transformers:Revenge of the Fallen around the size of Michael Bay's penis. It seems unfair to lay so much blame at Mr. Bay's door ("you can't direct!") while also thereby acknowledging the almost unparalleled dominance of his auteur signature. No-one – literally, not a soul – would cut from an extended prologue set during the space race featuring reconstructions of the moon landing, stock footage and digital recreations of Presidential addresses by Kennedy and Nixon, and the most glittering and pleasurable special effects work for some time to an unmotivated shot of (or rather, up) the bikini-clad ass of a lingerie model. In 3D.
So, while I give Michael Bay all due credit for being the most Michael Bayingest person in the universe, I still wish he'd tone it down a bit. With the Transformers franchise he has realised he is utterly bullet-proof, and he'll offer to take the audience out for dinner, but then keeps talking about how awesome it'll be later when he fucks us, but only later, after he's finished his hot wings, and maybe swung by Krispy Kreme, and closed a Mercedes product placement deal on his hands-free while fumbling down our pants. And finally, when we get fucked, we'll begrudgingly agree it was awesome. But until then we'll have to put up with tacky comic relief, urgently nonsensical plotting, and wild over-acting so pungent it made me gag. Indeed, of the two hours and thirty-four minutes to suffer through, there are only sixty or so of this film that bear thinking about.
Without any acknowledgement of dramatic timing, but rather just because the movie is over half-done and the majority of the budget has just been released to him, Bay slips Dark of the Moon into his unique and delirious third-act mode, injudicious narrative ellipses making you feel like you're playing a computer game with someone who keeps skipping those boring bits that explain plot and motivation: why are those soldiers there? What are those base-jumpers doing? How did those robots get taken hostage? Never mind – open fire! There's even a Doom-style RPG moment.
The motivation for Battle: Chicago is non-existent. Gotta lay waste to something, and with all the collapsing skyscrapers it would be little inappropriate to choose New York. In LA, back in 1988, John McClane jumped off the roof of a skyscraper as it blew up behind him, which was exciting. But for this franchise, Witwicky and the gang have to nearly fall out of a collapsing skyscraper, jump out the top, slide down the angled glass walls, shoot their way back in, evade a deadly robot, then fall out the building again as it's torn apart from the inside-out by a mechanical version of one of those worms from Dune. And that's but a small section of the fun that's had on the shore of Lake Michigan.
It's all there in the poster: a giant robot war machine, a Victoria's Secret model, city-wide devastation, and you, right in the middle of it. This beautiful emplacement is even augmented in the film with slow-motion that is genuinely sublime, in an Immanuel-Kant-bludgeoned-by-Jerry-Bruckheimer kind of way. The verisimilitude of some of these effects, finely detailed even when near-frozen in contorted and impossible scenarios – all bathed in a bright crunchy sunshine that seems to envelop you as well (this is perhaps the first 3D film to get the light balance right) – should short-circuit the logic centre of any brain over the age of twelve. The fact that it's all totally meaningless only adds to the rational spectator's exhilarated malaise.
The bad guys, after all, are called Decepticons, which doesn't really give them the opportunity to be bastions of goodwill. That said, for all their dignity and largesse, anything the Autobots said or did mostly blew past me like the lush instrumentals of Steve Jablonsky's absurd score. Those dastardly Decepticons, meanwhile, proved they were both more culturally sensitive and civic minded than their opponents by not only decamping to Chicago in the first place but setting fire to that city's awful Navy Pier. That they treat Patrick Dempsey with contempt takes them up yet another notch. (Did Jon Hamm say no to the role?). Meanwhile, Optimus Prime is still blabbing on about faith, not to mention frequently demonstrating that his top speed when in truck form is slower than his walking speed as a robot, which surely defeats the point of him ever being in truck form.
Quite accurately viewed by the press as the nadir of the contemporary summer blockbuster (from the positions of both resigned appreciation and resigned condemnation), Dark of the Moon is something to behold. For long stretches it jumps around yapping annoyingly like a chihuahua. The smashing and crashing is fun, but not a patch on the extended Rio bust-up of this year's earlier Fast Five. Hell, even Hasbro's other property G.I. Joe managed to outdo Bay at times with its frenetic imagination-on-the-run CGI deployment. But then there are times here when Bay hits his stride, and the slow-motion tumbles and crumbles are like $220m advertisements for themselves. It's like the guiltiest pleasures of Inception, but bigger and without all that talking. And since this film will make an extraordinary amount of money, you'd do well to get used to it. We're all Bay's bitches now.

Tuesday, 1 March 2011

22 Things I Learned From 'Drive Angry 3D'


1. Satanic cults have a high rate of attrition.

2. Hard asses take their coffee black, with lots of sugar.

3. No one caresses a handbrake like Amber Heard.

4. The US mid-west has been abandoned by all rational people and colonised by laconic, diner-visiting demons (see also Legion, which I can only assume is better, if only because it’s four minutes shorter).

5. Calling a slightly overweight person “fat” is a funny enough joke to sustain five minutes of screen time.

6. Real men ask for a shotgun the same way the rest of us order an espresso.

7. The sheet at the back of the garage always conceals an immaculate classic American car.

8. Hell has a poorly protected armoury (which is running low on stock – three bullets?!), and a disintegrating drawbridge of some kind.  No, really.

9. Louisiana police captains have a very relaxed dress code (and poor taste in t-shirts).

10. There’s always an old friend that lives nearby.

11. There’s always a flirty waitress (or several).

12. Never trust the FBI.

13. Women don’t bruise.

14. Nicolas Cage seems to be interested in little else these days than a self-directed retroactive career assassination.

15. David Morse has given up on life, or at the very least on cinema. (You’re not the only one, David, you’re not the only one).

16. If this film was aiming for the vibe of an apocalyptic Johnny Cash ditty then it failed, and only succeeded in making me wish it were as brief and succinct as an apocalyptic Johnny Cash ditty.

17. That this was written, edited, and directed by the same person indicates that that person should seek help.

18. A perverse, slightly intriguing performance by William Fichtner as a diabolical bounty hunter can look like a stunning exercise of comic genius when surrounded by utter, utter dreck.

19. Drive Angry 3D.  The three Ds are driving, demons, and despondency.

20. When even Nicolas Cage looks bored, you know you’re close to witnessing the very atomic structure of boredom.

21. Grindhouse this ain’t.  Shucks, this wasn’t even Machete.

22. Hell is another Nicolas Cage film.

Saturday, 18 December 2010

The Techno-Narcissist Imperative: A Review of ‘Tron: Legacy’


Is there an alternative? It seems not. The system as it stands is irrefutable, and while changes for good or ill may occur within it, the logic and the coordinates of life will remain the same. When Sam Flynn (outcast, motorcyclist, millionaire) plunges into the world of The Grid, he appears in a replica of the real world. A monolithic tetris-shape of a craft hovers above and illuminates him, just like an LA police chopper did ten minutes ago. As the board of the company he is ostensibly in charge of have supplanted his authority for nefarious purposes, so the world of The Grid has been taken over by a megalomaniacal dictator. Welcome to the world of Tron: Legacy, a world quite similar to any you’ve ever seen.
It is this similarity which makes this new $200 million Disney Blockbuster so fascinating. Sam is the son of Kevin Flynn, who pulled the same trick in the original Tron of 1982, but is now stuck in the digital world thanks to the actions of the aforementioned dictator: an exact copy of himself but without human compassion, or the capacity to age, named Clu. Sam, after suffering gladiatorial combat in an arena of awesome size and malleability, teams up with his father, and together they do what all good action heroes do, and try to overthrow the status quo while also improving their own lot into the bargain.
The film offers refreshingly direct expression of the ideological structures which underpin almost every piece of cinema of its ilk. The Oedipal trajectory is as usual reconfigured to limit the importance and agency of the female/mother, while stressing the choice between good and bad fathers, here explicit in the confrontation between two versions of the older Flynn. Both played by Jeff Bridges, the villainous Clu is made to look as Bridges did when he was in his late twenties, with special effects that (as in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button) don’t quite convince. But this is entirely appropriate – as the character of Clu is a digital copy from a human base, so the representation of him in the film is underscored by an everpresent digital artificiality. He is both more and less than human. All cinema relies on estrangement of a kind – acknowledged but overcome by what has been termed the “willing suspension of disbelief” – but here this rupture between our space and the existence of that viewed has a digital light shone brightly upon it, allowing what is on one very approachable level a Jules Verne adventure tale to also be a full-bloodied and vigorous examination of the tactics of allegory.

The Grid functions as a paraspace in which Sam realises the importance of being an active participant in the world, and settles his issues with his father through his own realisation of himself as an improved version of Kevin Flynn: the ternary relattionship of two fathers and a son becomes a binary conflict between the false and true sons. Rather than simply deploying such psychological halls of mirrors, Tron: Legacy embraces the narcissism inherent in the entire exercise. As God makes man in his own image, Kevin Flynn makes Clu as a duplicate of himself; but the introduction into this closed system of the “Iso’s”, a form of life seemingly ontologically existent only The Grid, initiates a need to conceive of other forms of living, other individuals besides ourselves. Clu, tasked to make a perfect world, eliminates the Iso’s in a holocaustal purge. Thus activating a historical discourse of the history of mechanization (the timeline of which will lead to digitisation, globalization, Tronation), the film admits the culpability of privileged Western interventions “for the making of a better world” in the horrors of the twentieth century. The path which leads finally to spectacular Disney 3D vehicles visits on its way the wholesale slaughter of a scapegoated other. As the older Flynn advocates, in light of such horror, a logical response is to “remove oneself from the equation” – thus inaugurating the death of politics, the waning of affect, the end of history.
“Bio-digital jazz” a character calls the utopian potentials of enacting agency upon The Grid, but the film presents something more like bio-digital stadium rock, its gladiatorial battles evoking (as did the original 1982 film) the narrative of Spartacus, a film in which Christian righteousness is trampled by McCarthyism, and the individual within the system is manipulated, dominated, and commodified. The original Tron was a fascinating demonstration of the inexorably growing truth of this logic, as the individuals in the cyber-world were at the mercy of unknowable gods (users) and a systemic program only interested in furthering its own strength and scope with no regard to human individuality or even world governments, a synonym for the continuing domination of world capitalism even after the global crisis of 1973. In 1999 The Matrix offered something similar, but tendered a glimmer of hope in protagonist Neo’s messianism; the sequels shut down such an avenue of resistance by making Neo’s powers and actions predetermined encodings of the malevolent system itself. “It’s too bad she won’t live,” says a character of a bio-mechanical replication of humanity in 1982’s Blade Runner, “but then again who does?” No one, it seems, at least not by their own rules – in the original cut of this film our romantic heroes remove themselves from the equation by fleeing urban space, in the recut version they simply get into an elevator car, seemingly to be trapped there in a non-living limbo for all eternity, a more logical consequence to any strategy of resistance.
Science fiction is at its best when expressing this allegorical potential. Our world can be better understood through the transplanting of its elements and its struggles onto a future time. We may accuse such spectacle of ‘making-safe’ our anxieties, and the implication that our problems will continue to be problems hundreds, thousands of years into the future as a conservative justification for the inevitable failure of any radical political action. However, the strength of the Tron world is in the opening up of a space in our own time in which to express doubts about the very power of allegory itself. The Grid is a dream, an unreality without spatial coordinates or physical mass, manifesting the ubiquity and immateriality of the system in which we live.

The deployment of visual effects to this end stresses our reliance on such technology (this is the representational flipside to the same conditional coin brandished earlier this year by The Social Network), and does so without pretence: this is not ‘a whole new world’ as in Avatar, this is a world of our making, a world of overt CGI, a world of 2010 and all the baggage that comes with it (in a clear contrast to Inception, the rules of this world are not explained, they are shown or intuited by an audience, a further indication of the innate familiarity of this paraspace).
Thrillingly propulsive, but with a willingness to settle down from time to time, Tron: Legacy’s ability to entertain on a gut level outstrips most of what else was on offer this year. Daft Punk’s score deserves a considerable amount of credit for this, as do the personable performances of Jeff Bridges and Olivia Wilde. Some may find the film alienating, and it certainly is, but only so far as it should be. In its own commitment to removing itself from the equation, the film clears a space for both simple entertainment and genuine intellectual reflection amongst the exploding pixels and bass-filled soundtrack. Indeed, the power it has comes from the revelation that these conditions of spectacular overload can themselves be contributive to such contemplation.

Thursday, 15 April 2010

Release the Cacophony: A Review of ‘Clash of the Titans’

A gift to the creators of summer blockbuster taglines, “Titans Will Clash” screamed trailers and posters, which is (one hopes) as close as we’ll ever get to a movie being sold on the explicit promise that “Things Will Break” or “Stuff Will Boom”. It might be churlish to mock the lack of actual Titans within the mise-en-scene of the piece (there weren’t any in the 1981 quote-unquote original film, after all), but the fact that what we get in return is a bored-looking Ralph Fiennes and the far from titanic Sam Worthington has got to be cause for complaint.

Worthington (a man who has mastered the fine art not just of looking like he can swordfight when he in truth cannot but also that of looking like he might just be acting when he’s really not) plays demi-god Perseus, a kindly soul who lives with his family on a small boat and seems somewhat starved of opportunities to meet people. Thankfully for him, a brewing war between men and the gods soon overtakes his life, and before he knows it he’s joined a group of Argosian soldiers off on a dangerous quest to ensure their city isn’t destroyed by fabled sea monster The Kraken (one must always put the definite article first, like ‘The Situation’; as for pronunciation, kra-ken seems to be the accepted form, although some cast members add a frisson by calling it The Kruk-en, as though it were a bookcase from Ikea).

The problems set in early, from the structural (if man’s worship/failure to worship the gods is what leads to their displeasure, why is there at no point any demonstration of what form such worship might take?) to the rational (immediately after you directly affront the gods a black vapour congeals itself in the middle of your throne room, manifesting itself into a giant face, and the first question you ask is “who are you?” … really?). There is a way to make a film like this, carefully balancing the grandiose absurdities with light humour and real human emotion – Joss Whedon has made a career out of such calculation.

‘Clash of the Titans’ has no interest in emotion, though, only in things going boom. At times this becomes borderline ingenious, as ancient ruins are re-tooled as battlegrounds, and Greek columns, pediments, friezes (and at one point, I swear, Tibetan statues) are torn asunder; classical culture, already twice shat on by a myth-disregarding film and a logic-disregarding remake, is thrice ground into dust.

Beyond the semiotic appeal of such dispiriting metaphors, what we are left with is a truly awful screenplay and no effort made to disguise it. Like a ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ film with the wit excised and the budget slashed, ‘Clash of the Titans’ insists on grandiloquence with its booming score, visceral editing, and heroic one-liners, but at root is just a bunch of lazy actors standing around on a surprisingly small set made out of black flint (always black flint: the production designer is so in love black flint he even makes a character out of it).

Big stars in it for the cash like Fiennes and Liam Neeson (who, with ‘The A-Team’ also on the horizon, has clearly decided it’s time to pay off the mortgage on his Miami beach-house) make no impression at all, and are not assisted by frankly stupid costuming and staging as Olympian-in-name-only deities. It’s left to Mads Mikkelson to steal what little show there is with his veteran soldier Draco, a man who seems just as confused by the placing of Worthington’s dull Perseus centre-stage as the audience is. Proclaiming himself a fisherman, not a fighter, Perseus demonstrates this by returning to camp in the middle of the woods with a mite of a fish, sourced from an unseen body of water, and clearly not enough to feed a single one of the seven or eight grown men he accompanies. “You are a fisherman!” exclaims a comrade, worryingly without sarcasm.

It’s worth praising, briefly, the presence of Gemma Arterton and Alexa Davalos, both women with far more magnetism and class than the Rachel Weisz’s and Kate Beckinsale’s of this world, even if the narrative continually positions them as either passively ineffectual or prostituted sacrifices/sex objects (none more so than in Arterton’s offensive final deus ex machina). I also feel compelled to mention the presence of Danny Huston as Poseidon, who is given one sole line of dialogue before wisely getting the hell out of dodge – is this last-minute re-editing, ridiculously over-starry casting, or just the actions of a confused casting director?

The best acting comes, surprisingly, from a terribly CGI’d Medusa, whose look of disappointment when she realises she cannot turn one of her victims into stone with her gaze is genuinely touching. Then the victim activates some sort of grenade in his heart (or something) and I lost interest again. Speaking of the special effects, there is alas too little space here to bemoan the worst animatronics on film for some time (the ferryman of the underworld deserves better), the ridiculous-looking stygian witches (who don’t even pass their one eye between them, which is the whole point) and the generally sub-par digital landscapes and creatures. As to the 3-D, greedily added in post-production to ride ‘Avatar’s dimensional wave, I took the advice of the reviewosphere and saw it in 2-D and so could not comment (I urge you to go me one better, and not see the film in any dimensions at all).

Maybe – just maybe – ‘Clash of the Titans’ gets a passing grade as a basic action picture. But it squanders the possibility of making an epic spectacle of Hesiod’s Theogony, failing on every level to capture even the most basic enticements of mythical narrative: there are none of the overlapping genealogies, dense soap-opera-like back-stories or pungently tragic trajectories that make even a glancing read of the Dummies Guide to Ancient Greek Myth an intriguing experience.

As the gang enter Medusa’s lair to Perseus’ bark of “Let’s go kill that bitch” the movie suddenly reveals what it should have been: a sweary, cleavage-filled, lad-oriented adventure. Severed heads, illogical plotting, a fierce distrust of all things feminine – the ingredients are all there. Instead, like the gods who were fooled by Prometheus into accepting the bones and skin of sacrificed animals while men received all the meat, the audience is tricked into swallowing down a pile of unwanted and foul-stenching cast-offs.





Thursday, 17 December 2009

Should Have Sent A Poet: A Review of 'Avatar'


“It’s the biggest, the most spectacular, the most expensive, and it will reign supreme,” they said. And yet the crew of the H.M.S. Titanic barely had time to warm up the toasted sandwich makers before everything went aft side up. Big, brazen, bold, declarative: these things speak of folly, the debunked legacy of an infinitely scaled modernist perfection. Such monoliths tear through neighbourhoods, crush the individual, and perpetuate themselves at the altar of capitalist production. It is human nature to want to see them fail. So what to make of the most expensive film ever made?

‘Avatar’ cost a reported $500 million. Whether this fully takes into account the staggering marketing budget, the cost of creating new camera equipment and digital effects programs, or the tertiary expenses of kitting out half the cinemas of the Western world with projectors capable of coming within spitting distance of the reels, is all immaterial. Taking the figure as a given, the math works out as follows: ‘Avatar’, running at 162 minutes, costs $3 million per minute. Yet, in a world where David Schwimmer gets a cool mil every time he acts like a berk for twenty minutes, that isn’t all that staggering. So phrase it this way: my annual salary could buy me just over half a second of this film. A first class flight to Australia converts to less than a single frame. (And if the factoid that each of these frames involved no less than fifty-seven man-hours of work is accurate then the average wage of someone working on the production was $37 an hour.) Maybe the scariest part is that a Tom Cruise cannot be blamed for gobbling up forty or so million of it – whatever you may say about stars Sam Worthington and Zoe Saldana, ‘box office sure things’ would not be top of the list.

So what has all this been spent on? The film is screened, where available, in 3D, and was filmed using cameras designed by the writer, director, producer, and contributing editor James Cameron. Much of it takes place in what can only be an entirely digital environment; but unlike the glazed-over narco-scapes of Jar-Jar-period George Lucas, the world of ‘Avatar’ is competently, comprehensively and wholly realistically drawn. The result is something somewhat staggering to behold.

In the 2150s humanity has found a far-off planet with an incredibly valuable natural resource. Eager to mine as much of it as possible, a base is set-up on what is tellingly labelled Pandora, and the local inhabitants – blue humanoids called the Na’vi – are dealt with first diplomatically then combatively. Our guide is Jake Sully, a marine who by a strange turn of fate is called in to pilot “a remote-controlled avatar”, his consciousness downloaded into a Na’vi body with which he can explore the hostile climate of the planet and interact with the even more hostile inhabitants.

If an audience member were themselves hostile, they could criticise the film for being the dry run for a computer game. The environment of Pandora seems, on the surface, like what we have seen before, with its lush forests, cascading waterfalls, exotic creatures, floating islands and the like. But Cameron – an aficionado of deep-sea diving and the life forms that can be found there – has created a nearly-believable eco-system based on tropical climates, energy transference, and bioluminescence (although personally I could have done without the six legged horses). These images are so breathtaking as to edge towards indescribable. The fact that they start to feel almost pedestrian towards the end of the film is its own strange achievement.


When Aragon took to the fields before Minus Tirith to fight the good fight in ‘Return of the King’ he always seemed to bob on top of the ground below him, and his interaction with his foes was somewhat wobbly. No such criticisms here, the digital environment an integrated part of the world on display, rather than a show-stopping splurge as in the ridiculous ‘2012’. For all the “breakthroughs” and “bar-raisings” of the past fifteen years, Cameron has offered the first genuine revolution in the extensive use of CGI.

That he links this revolution to the 3D format is particularly canny. ‘Avatar’ was my first 3D film, and indeed the first of its kind to offer the entire running time in three dimensions, rather than just selected, ‘Wizard of Oz’-esque moments. From the first scene of the marines being woken from hyper-sleep, medical technicians drifting across the frame and the corridor they’re all in seeming to extend out the back of the cinema screen, the audience is immersed in a way that could not previously be experienced. For all the knives shoved towards the camera and swooping through tree canopies it is the quiet moments in which people just sit in a room and chat that the format is most engaging, allowing you time to absorb what amounts to a wholly fresh cinematic experience.

This has always been one of Cameron’s strengths, from the groundbreaking T-1000 of ‘Terminator 2’ to the sinking titular ship of ‘Titanic’. It could be expected of such a man that his stories would be clinical devices for the delivery of his brand new toy, and indeed when scripting ‘The Terminator’ he made a list of the ten things the biggest grossing films ever made had in common (presumably including #3. The violent death of Bill Paxton and #7. Comedy Austrian accents). Yet the quasi-Proppian formalism such thinking breeds has led to narratives constructed with such care that they cannot fail to entertain, even as they wholeheartedly fail to surprise. Perhaps the vital ingredient amongst this almost ceremonial deployment of story elements is that of the feminine: from Sigourney Weaver’s amped up heroine in ‘Aliens’ to Jamie Lee Curtis tearing the sleeves off her dress in ‘True Lies’ (and all via Linda Hamilton’s conversion from 80s airhead to 90s Unabomber in the first two Terminators), women tend to have their say around James Cameron. Here it is the Na’vi Jake falls in love with, the hunter-warrior Neytiri, whose portrayal by Saldana is one of the hidden strengths of ‘Avatar’: expressive, gestural, and invested with a dignified emotionality, she is a brilliant counterpoint to the occasionally dim-witted and goofy Sully. Just as Ed Harris’ anguished screams when confronted with the corpse of his ex-wife in ‘The Abyss’ make up for much of the stilted nonsense in that film, so the gale-force drama on display here is considerably more convincing than the expositional necessities.


The most bluntly entertaining character in the film is inevitably the villainous Colonel Quaritch, a military man in the mould of Duvall’s surf-obsessive in ‘Apocalypse Now’ or Nick Nolte’s Homer-reading megalomaniac in ‘The Thin Red Line’. The role is oversized and ridiculous, but at the same time entirely believable. As played by Stephan Lang (in a second stand-out part of the year, after playing the man who shot Dillinger in Michael Mann’s ‘Public Enemies’), Quaritch is fearsomely single-minded and bullish individual unburdened by the cognitive dissonance that affects other Cameronian antagonists. Drinking from a metallic coffee cup he congratulates his brigade’s efforts at genocide by saying “the first round’s on me tonight.” The wider cast of human extras is also impressive, looking as they do like real people in real roles rather than central-casting professionals, or embarrassed day-players larking in front of a green screen.

There are qualms with some of the subtexts. The film encodes imperialism as a wholly white male pursuit, while the Na’vi are played entirely by Black and American-Indian actors, as though spirituality and Gaia-awareness were solely the privilege of the under-privileged, and Sully’s journey were not so much learning about another culture as shucking off the burden of white power and ‘going native’. Two of the converts to the needs of the Na’vi among the human classes are even conspicuously non-white. (Indeed, when considering the infinitesimal role of racial minorities in Cameron’s films a simplistic pattern evolves, and that is before one gets to the white-marines-against-black-aliens Vietnam allegory of ‘Aliens’.) There is also the disturbing lack of irony in the presentation of a movie that could only be created by a massive corporate entity like Twentieth Century Fox pedalling a message of eco-awareness and anti-imperialism.

As my viewing companion underplayed after the screening: “there’s certainly a lot there”. ‘Avatar’ may be a behemoth of spectacular construction which worships technology and by-the-numbers story-telling, but it is also a genuinely pioneering work of art. Whether it will usher in the new age of a new medium (if not a new message) we can only wait and see. For now, go see it, and let yourself be amazed.