Posted on August 1, 2015
I talked previously about how much better the remake of Dredd was than the original Judge Dredd so I thought I’d swing back around and point out how that’s not normally the case. Let me just drop some samples on you:
The Fog, The Hitcher, Arthur, A Nightmare on Elm Street, The Stepfather, Red Dawn, The Karate Kid, Robocop, Friday 13th…
The list goes on and on and in every case, the result is the same: If you saw the original first, then you probably found the remake to be either unnecessary, a gross distortion, or so bad that it went back in time and destroyed your childhood and now you’re a serial killer.
If you saw the remake first then your response was most likely: Meh?
One of the best examples of how remaking an iconic 1980’s movie is playing to lose comes from the ill-advised (in a scientific capacity, at least) 2012 version of Total Recall.
In a stunning bit of expose’ journalism, I’ve managed to get my hands on the studio executive’s remake list. Apparently, this is used by all studio executives when remaking a classic film (which would explain a lot):
1. Was the original fun? If so, the remake should be dour and humorless.
2. Did the original have a larger than life personality for the starring role? If so, promise Colin Farrell a bottle of whiskey to mope around in front of the cameras for two hours.
3. Is there any science involved? If so, don’t even bother to ask a 5th grader if your idea to travel through the planet’s molten core makes any sense at all.
4. Use a pallet that’s mostly teal and gray.
The best remake ever, I think, is Dawn of the Dead. The first ten minutes of that movie is right up there with Saving Private Ryan and Pitch Black for pure intensity and it somehow manages to preserve the message of the original while tightening up Romero’s notoriously loose film-making style.
But in the end, we go to the movies to see something new, to have our minds opened or blown or, at the very least, to see someone try to do those things. The very best you can hope for with a remake is that they managed to say something new about something someone else already said.
I like it when a title tells me everything I can expect to see in the movie. For instance, if the title has the word “Transformers” in it, I know that the movie will have some kind of robots who grow emotionally from an intense emotional experience.
But sometimes the title, like an over achieving trailer, can give you so much information it spoils the movie. For instance, that famous whodunit, “The Butler Did It”.
In the case of Sexy, Evil Genius, the title tells you what to expect but not anything about where you’re going to get it or how it’s going to be delivered. Instead, you are treated to 91 minutes of five people talking in a bar.
That came out wrong. Because this is not a boring movie and you won’t really see anything in it coming your way until it’s too late. Let me start over:
Five people walk into a bar and only one of them knows why they’re there. For the first part of the story, three of them recount fondly remembered events they shared with the person who has called them there. Gradually, as they delve into the details of their stories, they begin to realize this person might just be dangerously insane.
Sexy Evil Genius has the look of a play that has been turned into a movie by adding some flashbacks (this isn’t the case, it was written for the screen), but don’t let that dissuade you from watching it.
The title doesn’t just describe the central character of the story. It also describes the movie itself and everyone involved.
As a nerd who likes nerdy things, one who grew up specifically reading Avengers comic books, I was surprised to find I had no desire to go see Avengers: Age of Ultron. And this is really striking a nerve for me because I was forced to sit through all those cheesy special effects in the crappy super hero shows and movies of the 70s and 80s simply yearning for the day when they could take what was in my imagination and put it up there on the screen.
It took a major brand name director to get me back into the theater for a superhero romp. Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man in 2002 was a revelation. It was exactly what I had been picturing in my head all those years ago when I had my nose buried in Marvel comics. It was fun. It was funny. It was heroic and tragic. It was everything a Marvel Comic Book should be.
I wasn’t all that fond of Batman Begins but The Dark Knight literally changed the way I looked at the standard way of telling the hero’s journey. That had more to do with Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker, but still, that is a powerful movie.
Then came Iron Man with Robert Downy Jr’s spot on take on the insouciance of Tony Stark and, later, Captain America which was nearly perfectly square, something required of Steve Rogers’ character.
The first Avengers movie was loud. The second Captain America movie was tiresome. All the Iron Man sequels were repetitious. The Man of Steel was just bad. The glut was upon us and the strange, fringe things that we had loved for their strangeness and fringeness now became a part of the dull, machined, franchised pablum of corporate entertainment.
And then came Guardians of the Galaxy to remind us how much fun these stories could be.
Different, new, helmed by a comedic actor, it went to all the places franchise sequels don’t go. I saw it four times and just talking about it makes me want to break out the disk and watch it again right now.
Ant-Man is this year’s Guardians. It’s the anti-Voltron. It’s fun — hell, at times it’s actually nutty — and it’s different and it still manages to be exciting. Oh, and Michael freakin’ Douglas is in it which adds a tremendous amount of gravity.
Paul Rudd is charming and, even though he exited the process before filming began, the script has Edgar Wright’s clever prints all over it. The special effects work that shows Scott in his shrunken state, especially when he’s running with the ants, is amazing and Corey Stoll’s bad guy is suitably over the top.
Plus, the whole thing is driven by daddy issues. Priceless.
Go see it.
It’s too bad Adam Sandler got his hands on the Pixels property. His group is so lazy their movies are the cinematic equivalent of a shart.
Most of the time the book is better than the movie for the simple reason that a novel can transmit way more information than a movie. Sometimes, as in the case of David Lynch’s Dune and Kubrick’s The Shining, it comes out in a weird sort of tie where the movie is not really a film version of the book but is its own thing, instead, that was inspired by the book.
Movies have a tendency to compress the material and jettison things like subplots and character development — and sometimes whole characters — to spend more time on car chases and those glossy closeups of cleavage so important to cinematic vision.
But sometimes — just every now and then — the movie is actually better than the book. Blade Runner and The Big Sleep are two of the most famous examples. In both cases, the movies addressed some critical failing of the book that actually improved the original story.
Philip K. Dick, though beloved and revered by many science fiction fans, was always more of an idea man than a writer. Way back in the 1970s he came up with all the big ideas that dominate the world we are actually living in today.
Whether it’s Androids (what happens to human identity when the difference between us and the machines we make is barely perceptible?) or Minority Report (just because we can predict the future, should we intercede in it?) or Second Variety (when machines get smart enough to improve themselves, what will they need us for?), he found it far easier to communicate the idea than to embed it in a quality story.
I know, I know: Torches and pitchforks.
But if you really go back and read Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, you’ll see that Dick had a sloppy, seat of the pants way of going about story telling. There’s even a bizarre interlude in Androids where Deckard is arrested for being a replicant and taken to a police station. It turns out that it’s a fake police station staffed entirely by replicants, which makes no sense at all in the world of the book.
Also, the replicants in the story aren’t tortured by their limited life spans, they’re just psychopaths who hate humans. Rachel tries to kill Deckard, then seduces him and then tries to kill him again. Let’s just say that the empathic difference between humans and replicants in the story (Androids is actually a long story, not a book) doesn’t require a Voight Kampff test.
The love story between Deckard and Rachel in the movie is what gives the movie its heart and the coming to terms with mortality that Roy Batty goes through gives it its soul. Neither of these things is in the story Dick wrote.
Onward to The Big Sleep.
If my fairy godmother popped into my office just now and offered me the ability to write like anyone from history, it would come down to a tough choice between Hemingway and Raymond Chandler. I mean, I would choose Stephen King’s storytelling ability if given that choice, but if it came down to pure style, it would be Ernie or Ray.
The problem is neither one of those men understood women for shit and Chandler may have actively hated them. His stories are so misogynistic that you have to keep telling yourself that he’s a product of his times and the alcohol was really getting to him by then and so on just to get through some of his books.
The fact that I saw the movie version of The Big Sleep before I read the book really drives home the difference. Again, it’s the missing love story and the sociopathic woman that the movie fixes for the book. The romance between Marlowe and Vivian Rutledge, hard edged as it is, in the movie is a damn sight better than their empty, angry relationship in the book.
TL;DR Summary: One of the best science fiction movies in recent memory. Up there with Fury Road and Interstellar.
I was not a fan of the comic book, in the sense that I didn’t even know it existed until the 1995 Sylvester Stallone movie, a film so awkward and embarrassing for everyone involved (including the audience) that it left a sour association with the whole franchise in my mind. So I was confused when I heard they were remaking it with Karl Urban and Lena Headey back in 2012.
Why am I talking about this in 2015, three years after it was released to a disappointing $13M domestic gross? Because it’s one of those movies that was punished for being a great remake of a terrible film. It’s also one of those movies, like Scott Pilgrim and Big Trouble In Little China, that people either get 100 percent or don’t get at all. And since I am in the former group, I have a tendency to break this one out every now and then watch it again.
Why is it so much better than the original? Choices.
Where Stallone chose to go over the top (funny, I just remembered he starred in a movie that was actually called “Over The Top”) with his portrayal of Judge Dredd, Urban wisely understands that even though he is the driver of all the action in the film, he’s not the protagonist. He’s a force of nature. So his choice to play Dredd as a less mechanized version of RoboCop is right on the money.
He also never takes off the helmet which is important because Dredd NEVER removes the helmet. Nerd rage over.
Likewise, Lena Headey realizes that even though she is the immovable object to Dredd’s irresistible force, she’s not the bad guy. Peach Trees is. Poverty is. The megablocks are. She and Dredd are just a pair of protons being forced together in the super furnace of a very bad situation. There’s no chance of victory for anybody. The only question is whether anyone will escape with their dignity in tact.
That’s where the indispensable and nearly unpronounceable Olivia Thirlby (seriously, try saying that name three times fast) comes into play. She’s the hopeful penitent who is on the journey at the heart of this picaresque.
And this is another decision (probably made by director Pete Travis) that helps the movie: being a mutant with psychic powers, Thirlby’s Judge Anderson cannot wear a helmet. This makes her the face of the protagonist forces just as Headey’s horribly scarred countenance is the face of the antagonist forces. These two women, going against one another as opposing forces orbiting in Dredd’s orbit are what drive the story to viewers’ hearts.
One final thing: the movie is shot with an over saturated color palette that implies an almost constant heat haze and the scenes depicting what it’s like to take the Slo-Mo drug are beyond beautiful and certainly more beautiful than you expect in an action movie.
In theory, I love the Wachowski brand of film making. When I’m watching their movies, I can actually visualize the two of them in a room together, hands framing imaginary shots, amping each other up over this or that set piece. Their style is so visual that you almost want to watch their movies with the sound turned off.
But that’s also true of Michael Bay movies. They’re essentially a series of loud, brash set pieces strung together by laughable exposition and truly clumsy dialogue housed in a plot so full of holes it almost ceases to exist.
Just being able to put together a truly amazing visual experience doesn’t make you a filmmaker. It makes you a cinematographer. A filmmaker is a storyteller who uses film as their medium.
Bound and The Matrix are two of the best stories ever told on film. So how did the siblings who wrote those scripts get to the Matrix sequels, Speed Racer and, now, Jupiter Ascending?
The beauty of this movie is undeniable. The colors, the design, the special effects, the over the top action sequences are all superior to almost any other science fiction film in recent history. Mila Kunis, it goes without saying, is a treasure. Channing Tatum is… muscular.
The problem is that it’s all in service of a story we’ve heard told a thousand times in exactly these words. And when the story is not equal to its window dressing , it starts to look a little bit like putting on a full blown Italian opera just so your ten-year-old niece can sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star at center stage.
It would be interesting to see what they could do if they let someone else write the story. It would have to be better than this noisy, chaotic retread however beautiful the eye candy.
I didn’t understand the book and I don’t get Pynchon (The Crying of Lot 49 was like one long drag of fingernails across a blackboard for me in college) and I’m not particularly fond of director Paul Thomas Anderson (I haven’t found a single other one of his overlong, overwrought movies to be a valuable use of my time) so my love for this movie can only be described as completely inexplicable.
I do think Joaquin Phoenix is a great actor and he’s great in this film. Everyone, even the usually irritating Martin Short, is great in this film. Don’t get me wrong, the story doesn’t make a whole lot of sense but I don’t think it makes less sense than the source material. It just packages that same incoherence in a mixture of humor and nostalgia that allows someone who is exactly my age and has exactly my background to truly enjoy the time they spend with it.
And I can’t even argue with any passion that what I just said is actually true. The person with whom I first watched the movie is my age and has a similar background and his one word review was, “Hogwash.”
I’ve watched it several times since that first viewing, both sober and otherwise, and I still get a kick out of it. I think of it like a classic detective novel was looking the other way and someone dropped a hit of yellow sunshine into its bourbon.
For a fan of the franchise, especially one who saw the originals in the theater, the first half hour of this movie is worth the price of admission. Seeing shot for shot remakes of some of the opening scenes, being able to mouth the dialog along with the incidental characters, watching it all done in top-of-the-line, cutting edge tech actually brought a lump to my throat and made me, however temporarily, remember the magical feeling of going to the movie theater.
The trailers have spoiled most of the big reveals that would have made this a real blast so I don’t have to warn you about spoilers in this review because there was nothing left to spoil.
It’s a good conceit for a reboot. Much in the same way JJ Abrams threw away the old rule book with his Star Trek reboot by altering time, we very quickly discover that the past has been changed and Kyle Reese will not be saving a reluctant hero/mother-figure of the future. She even gets to say the famous line, “Come with me if you want to live.”
Question: Seeing as how they were able to create an Uncanny Valley version of a young Arnold for the opening fight scene, could they not have done the same with Bill Paxton’s ersatz punk?
After the fun, creative and thoroughly enjoyable opening half hour, the movie settles into the usual for Terminator movies. It runs and, half out of breath, drops exposition bombs all over the place as our heroes try to evade the cyborg-du-jour.
That’s a lot of fun, too, but mostly because of Arnold’s older, wiser performance as Pops. I don’t watch Game of Thrones (or at least I don’t yet) so I’m not familiar with Emilia Clarke’s work in that series, but I found her portrayal of Sarah Connor to be humorless and noninflected. That may just be me cementing myself nostalgically to Linda Hamilton’s performance but I was unable to make an emotional connection with her over the course of two hours.
Question: Why is Matt Smith in this movie? Was there a Dr. Who crossover I wasn’t informed about? That was the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw him standing in the background with a bunch of nameless Resistance characters. Even once his role in the movie was fully revealed I continued to wonder why they had chosen him. Had his character been cut mostly out of the movie?
More Questions: Who sent Pops back? Who targeted Sarah at age 9? Why can Reese see two timelines?
If you ask the producers, they will answer the same for every question: We’re setting up stuff for the sequel.
Pointedly leaving out information critical to understand the plot does not make for a fully realized story telling experience. Though it does explain the profoundly stupid happy ending they grafted onto it.
The way it’s supposed to work is like this: Wow, that was a really good movie and the story was complete and I feel like the team that produced it folded it up nicely like a great, big origami swan and handed it to me. Then, when the sequel comes out, you go, “Oh! Of course! That’s how they tie together!”
The original Terminator ends ominously with Linda Hamilton telling us that a storm is coming just as she heads out into the desert to prepare her son for Judgement Day. That ending closes that chapter of the story and we felt satisfied with it right up until we saw the trailers for Terminator 2. And that one ended with headlights traversing an unmarked road and a voice-over telling us that the future was unknown. Again, chapter closed, that part of the story complete.
With this film, you leave the theater with your head filled with questions. It’s like when a musician stops in the middle of a chord progression or someone knocks “Shave and a haircut…” on the door and then just leaves without completing it with “…two bits.”
That’s not a feeling of wanting more. That’s a feeling of frustration.
I’ve been watching the PBS series First Peoples lately. What I find most interesting about it is that studies of our DNA shows that modern humans interbred with the Denisovan and Neanderthal branches of the family tree.
The old story was that modern humans wiped out all our competitors through warfare but what science actually tells us is that we absorbed them, becoming better through the process of hybridization.
I like that. I like thinking that our capacity for warfare isn’t the only thing that has propelled us into the future, that our capability for welcoming and incorporating the stranger into our midst is just as important as our ability to defend ourselves.