Hollywood Sellouts

Uwe Boll is going to make Schindler's List look like House Party 2!

2010-09-10T01:33:00.001-04:00

Subtlety. Nuance. Talent.

These are all qualities indisputably absent from German piece-of-shit, Uwe Boll. To call him a filmmaker is an insult to filmmakers; he’s more like a natural disaster with access to a camera. Not only is the man responsible for multiple films in imdb’s Bottom 100 films of all-time, but he has single-handedly put the videogame adaptation back another generation or so.

Not that every game needs to be adapted into film (Dungeon Siege, really?) but for every decent property trying to get off the ground – like Halo – it has to contend with the fact that Boll has made the genre a laughing stock, and financially worthless.

Yet, I was content to Boll continue to destroy the careers of B-List actors and hope that the law of diminishing returns would eventually lead him to boxing Internet critics as a full-time career. Y’know, there are only so many mid-level videogame franchises someone can destroy, and I was pretty sure that well had run dry with Postal. It was just a matter of time until he became just another footnote in the textbook for Shitty Filmmaking 101.

Boy, was I was wrong.

I saw the teaser trailer for Auschwitz (which is tasteless, a bit disturbing and not safe for work) a few days ago, but I didn’t know how to put my thoughts into words until this morning. Blind typing in a rage never makes for a good blog post.

[I should preface all my criticism by admitting that I am a non-practicing member of the tribe. I eat pork, I don’t keep kosher, I’ve never had a Bar Mitzvah, and the only full-on Jewish female I would ever sleep with is Sarah Silverman. And, as you can gauge from my post history, I’m not particularly sensitive about film content.]

The teaser was obviously done on purpose, and Boll’s motives are completely transparent – he wants publicity. And he wants it now. Controversy generates clicks, and clicks generate attention. I am sure he is just ecstatic that he has resurrected his good name from the bowels of the Internet in one fell swoop.

My main criticism of the teaser boils down to this: Uwe Boll is just a piece of shit.

To those that enjoy his filmography in a so-bad-it’s-good way, Boll’s aggressive persistence that he is making great art seems likable in a cutesy, modern day Ed Wood kind of way. Except I know Ed Wood, and Uwe Boll is no Ed Wood.

Ed Wood really did think he was making great entertainment. He was naive and determined and incompetent, but he had moxy. Whereas Boll is fully aware that he is making toxic heaps of shit printed on celluloid, engineered from the ground-up to lose money and fill his bank account by taking advantage of some generous tax laws.

Anyone that pays money to see his flicks is a sucker, the victim of a well-accomplished scam artist. The dog-and-pony show that accompanies each production is just for Boll’s enjoyment. He’s nothing more than a circus act, and his ridiculous, Golden Palace-sponsored boxing match against Internet bloggers was proof of that.

Which is why it infuriates me that he is attempting to tackle the Holocaust with any kind of self-proclaimed sincerity.

I’m sorry, you don’t spend the better part of a decade churning out pure, undiluted shit on film and then tell me with a straight face that you are attempting to make an artsy, historical period piece. I’m supposed to somehow believe the person behind BloodRayne is not going to take an epic shit on one of the greatest human tragedies of the past century?

C’mon, what do I look like, someone that bought a ticket to see Alone in the Dark?

The fact that Boll has the audacity to put his smug face in the goddamn teaser trailer is strike one through three for me. I can only imagine that anyone involved in this project is only doing so as a form of self-flagellation, because at this point, Boll’s presumptuousness is just painful - giving the man film gear is a license to kill brain cells.

(… Just hyperlinking to his stuff hurts my head.)

Look, anyone that knows me on a professional level will attest to the fact that I’m all for brave filmmaking and that I adore over-the-top, campy material, neither of which can be affiliated with Boll. And if he wanted to ruin his career with shitty videogame adaptations, that’s all fine and dandy, but let’s not shit on the grave of eight million dead Jews with some god-awful cinema.

So, Dr. Boll, if you’re reading this – and you are the type of person that would, given your penchant for Google searching your own name – I have something to say directly to you:

Fuck off.

That's-a spicy a meatball!

2010-09-07T23:34:00.001-04:00

[Editor’s Note: Today’s blog post comes with a Parental Advisory warning on account of all the gory hyperlinking.]

After consuming a scrumptious plate of scrapple – which, oddly enough, looks and tastes like something you might see in a Lucio Fulci film – I finally decided to write down my thoughts on last weekend’s film du jour, Demons, which had been stirring in my mind for the past several days.

Now, I’m no virgin to the Italian greats of horror – I know my Fulci from my Mario Bava, I have a special section on my microSD card for Goblin soundtracks, and consider me giddy at the fact that it looks like Darren Aranofsky is channeling Dario Argento with Black Swan, if not ripping him off wholesale.

But, faithful readers, I was unprepared for how awesome Demons is, which is like Satan’s love letter to the cineplex (and ‘80s pop culture), as imagined by Argento and Mario Bava’s son, Lamberto. It encapsulates everything I love about Italian horror – the violence, the lighting, the atmosphere, everything.

The idea is simple - kids go into movie theater, but kids do not come out. Well, they do, but by the time the last two survivors literally climb their way out of the AMC 7 Circle of Hell, the world has been overrun by demons. And just when you think you might have been granted a reprieve from dread and despair, Bava and Argento toss a figurative Eff You to the audience as the credits roll.

(Suckers!)

It was earlier this year when I finally watched Mario Bava’s Black Sunday, as part of a lengthy research effort. What struck me then (and now), is that a lot of Italian horror sensibilities - namely the emphasis of style over logic and use of surreal imagery - seem to trace their way back to Lamberto’s father as a shared reference point.

For a lot of Americans, the Italian horror legacy is simply not in their wheel house; too gory to enjoy, too mean-spirited to tolerate and too misogynistic for our politically correct tastes. What gets lost in our particular Judeo-Christian translation of Italian horror is that Fulci, Argento, Bava, etc. have no interest in dealing with realism.

The Italians, in my humble opinion, are simply the best at making nightmares with feature-length running times. Y’know, the ones where you wake up in the middle of being eaten alive or trapped with no way out. Where the abrupt and unsettling nature of such jarring ethereal escapes permeate the rest of your thoughts for days.

Our recollection of how such events begin and end are hazy, but we always seem to remember the graphic imagery in vivid detail. The overwhelming sense of dread is so potent that it creates a lingering effect that rattles us long after the nightmare has ended.

Tell me that doesn’t sound like a good, ‘ole Italian horror flick?

Americans make horror films where characters are punished for violating an ideal set of principles: don’t drink, don’t engage in pre-marital sex, don’t do drugs, don’t be in the wrong place at the wrong time, etc. The protagonist’s mortality is usually tied to their morality, and there is often a sense of hope – no matter how bleak – somewhere near the end. We are driven to resolve situations, even the scary ones, and survive.

In contrast, the Italians conjure up surreal, and graphic imagery that seems to insinuate that anything that could go wrong, will go wrong – and then some. There is no rhyme and reason to the terrible situations characters find themselves in, because – shocker! – there is nothing realistic about them.

The best part about the absence of morality from Italian horror is that being an upstanding citizen doesn’t really help your odds, nor does being a complete tool make you a shoe-in to get knocked off first. Heck, one of my favorite characters from Demons, Tony the Pimp, doesn’t meet his maker until half a dozen or so have already been brutally murdered. And he’s a pimp!

(Editor’s Note: Wouldn’t Tony the Pimp be an awesome cereal box mascot?)

Yes, the Italians end up sacrificing linear logic (and some restraint), but the sooner you stop trying to fit a round peg into a square hole, the sooner you end up coming to the conclusion that these guys are just in the business of filming our nightmares – the graphic violence is entirely separated from realism (unlike our own, fucked-up brand of filmmaking).

And in that respect, Demons is very much Bava and Argento’s visual confirmation of that. It’s violent and gory and ugly and mean and grim, but then, so are my dreams.

The beginning of the end of the beginning

2010-09-07T13:21:00.000-04:00

And then there was silence.

If you had been wondering – all two of you – where I had been hiding this past summer, rest your troubled minds with the knowledge that my life has been a series of planes, trains and automobiles. A cross-country trip, an Oceanside vacation and a 107-page screenplay have stripped my weary body of most of its free time. Blogging, it seems, is one of a handful of activities that fell to the wayside.

Coincidentally, my pal, confidant and producing partner, Mike Knowlan, has abandoned his inferior, but oddly enjoyable blog. Could this lull in activity from both prolific bloggers be connected? If Scott Pilgrim is released in theaters, and nobody is around to see it, did it even really exist?

(Sorry, Edgar. Still love y’ah.)

It’s hard to describe the summer of two-thousand and ten, an enjoyable creative and spiritual odyssey for myself, without delving into details. But details are scarce in this business and readers shall receive none. Instead, you shall receive a synopsis:

I flirted with romance, I conquered the road, I got some behind-the-camera experience, I ran on the beach, I lost a small person in body weight, I saw Christopher Nolan run a clinic on how to direct a blockbuster, I finished a book, I bought two CDs, I reconnected with nostalgia, and most importantly, I finally completed the first draft of my feature-length screenplay.

Now the important work begins.

I must turn a waffling, mediocre first draft into something fun. Something - as the Hollywood lingo goes - “electric”. Something that my brother would pay good money to see, and my mother (a woman who asked me to write a romantic-comedy starring that “lovable” Zac Ephron instead) would avoid like the plague.

For once in my non-existent writing career, I feel relatively confident about a project. Not necessarily because of the people involved (or in spite of them), but rather because the material is flexible and capable – two prerequisites when dealing with an unknown property with absolutely no capital.

Ideas are brewing. Previous etchings are being erased. And October, the birthing ground for most of my creative ideas, is just around the corner. And who knows, maybe some blog posts will be written.

Shots fired, Mr. Knowlan.

Groovy.

2010-09-02T23:37:00.001-04:00

Before we start, let’s get the bias out of the way. Yes, this blog’s most awesomely-designed banner is ~~blatantly stolen~~ loosely based off the greatest screen character of all-time, Ashley J. Williams. And, yes, the antics of Sam Raimi’s beloved anti-hero are a big inspiration for most of my creative work. And, okay, yes, I have a very deep and nostalgic connection to Raimi’s directorial debut, which I happened to see for the first time on a Halloween night in my formative pre-pubescent years.

So – fine! – I might be a “little” bit biased when discussing Raimi’s filmography, but I’m most certainly qualified to write about it.

… Which is why I think it’s a travesty that Raimi’s The Evil Dead is rarely cited as some of the auteur’s best work, or even the second-best entry in the much ballyhooed Evil Dead trilogy. And while I will concede that The Evil Dead is not the best installment of the Raimi’s holy trinity, let there be no debate – it is the only legitimate horror film out of the three. Period.

Raimi has never been a big fan of straight horror (although he’s always been more than happy to fleece its fanbase), which explains why Evil Dead II and Army of Darkness are more like slapstick, comical companion pieces rather than direct sequels to his low-budget, 1981 debut. They’re funny and bizarre and ridiculous, but neither sequel genuinely tries to engage the audience with actual tension.

That is simply not the case with The Evil Dead.

It is a mean, grueling exercise in pain and absolute dread. Before every indie horror film cashed-in on the phrase “this film does for [enter setting here] what Jaws did for water…”, The Evil Dead did just that for the cabin. From the moment Raimi’s yellow, 1973 Delta 88 Oldsmobile pulls up to the wooded weekend retreat, the director begins to perversely twist commonly associated perceptions of camping (total freedom, peace and quiet!) into overwhelming feelings of isolation and inescapable doom.

Raimi continues to fuel this sense of horror with tree rape, ankle stabbings and limb-chopping until its rousing climax. It is just great stuff.

Yet, whether due to dated production values or a complete lack of quotable Bruce Campbell one-liners, The Evil Dead has never received the kind of love from fans that its later sequels have been overwhelmed with. And it certainly was no surprise that Evil Dead II and Army of Darkness were the first two entries to be released on the Blu-ray format, overshadowing the original that started it all yet again.

But genre purists and Raimi-philes should take note, because while it has taken its sweet time to arrive, The Evil Dead is the best Blu-ray of the three – by far.

Untarnished by the artificial sharpening and total complacency that hampered the transfers of its step-siblings, The Evil Dead arrives on the format boasting perhaps the best image quality that could possibly be afforded to a film shot on 16mm. And for kicks, the disc offers up a matted, “enhanced” 1.85:1-framed version of the film which, despite the fact that the film was shot in 1.33:1, Raimi has signed off on.

(Translation: no sidebars for high definition pundits.)

There is inherent graininess, something that the most powerful computer farm in the world could not scrub the cheap film stock completely of, and a light veneer that gives the film a soft look. But whereas earlier transfers presented a fuzzy, if not Vaseline-quality to the image, the Blu-ray is very clean and very detailed. The colors pop; the saturated transfer makes the most of the film’s seasonal setting. You will believe that a $350,000-budget film can be beautiful. Mostly.

Even more impressive is the lossless 5.1 DTS audio track, polished clean and totally overhauled for release. Earlier DVD releases suffered from some muffled dialogue and poor sound mixes, but everything is separated and given a lot more clarity for the Blu-ray release. Considering the film’s technical limitations, this is the best the film will likely ever sound.

A brand-new audio commentary with Raimi, Campbell and producer Robert Tapert top off the release, and Anchor Bay has included a bonus disc of standard-definition content – much of it recycled from earlier releases (although a snippet of new stuff). The commentary is very congenial and informal, and explains the genesis of the project for fans and aspiring filmmakers alike. It also marks the first time that Raimi and Campbell have sat down to record an audio commentary track for the film together.

Altogether, it’s the total package, and a great high-definition release of the most underrated Evil Dead flick of the bunch.

So what I’m trying to say is: buy it.

The topic of Easter thoughts and lowered expectations

2010-04-05T13:25:00.000-04:00

It is on this day, when zombie Jesus rose from his grave thousands of years ago to devour peeps and Cadbury eggs, that I have decided to update my blog in his undead memory. I mean, you have to hand it to the guy who was able to milk two separate religions for holiday meals within one week. Passover and Easter? Why not hit up Muslims after Ramadan for the hat trick?

Yet, putting my mockery of all major religions aside, it’s been kind of a hectic week for me. While I’ve been slowly editing and gutting my current screenplay, I did manage to log in some considerable hours at the cineplex and in my recliner. So what better way to spend your Easter Sunday than trying to stave off the inevitable sugar crash by reading my barely coherent critical analysis?

Answer: none.

(Some might argue in favor of watching Opening Day instead, but alas, just Mets fans.)

Surprisingly enough, the first film on my personal docket last week was Roman Polanski’s The Ghost Writer, which just also happens to be the beleaguered director’s best film in ages - an admirable feat considering the film was allegedly edited in his jail cell. Eat your heart out, Andy Dufresne.

I admit that I went in with completely muted expectations and walked out pretty blown away; Robert Harris’ adaptation of his own novel, “The Ghost”, is simply the best script Polanski has handled in forty years. I’m not a fan of The Pianist, and as much as I enjoy spurts of The Ninth Gate, it’s a fatally flawed film. The Ghost Writer, however, is the most entertaining thriller Polanski has directed since The Tenant.

(Sorry, Frantic fans – all two of you.)

It’s with a strong script and noteworthy performances from Pierce Brosnan, Ewan McGregor and Tom Wilkinson (who is for my money, the best character actor working today) that Polanski is able to forge such a compelling film. The cinematography is ace, and the technical design is sound. If this is to be Polanski’s swan song, then he could not have picked a better one.

Everyone should walk down to their local arthouse theater (past the hipsters in queue for Greenberg), separate Polanski’s personal troubles from his immense talent as a filmmaker and give the film a shot.

Or how else is Roman Polanski expected to pay his bail?

… a few days later, I sat down to watch Dead Snow - which has been sitting in my Blu-ray player for an eternity - and was finally able to digest this Norwegian exercise in plagiarism. Dead Snow is, more or less, the Norwegian version of The Evil Dead, with Nazi zombies in lieu of trees that rape college coeds. And by that, I mean in place of trees that rape college coeds, not that the Nazi zombies also rape college coeds.

Though far from original, I have to give the Norwegians kudos on two things: it was wholly entertaining, and prominently features a portly cinema buff that quotes movie lines and is successfully seduced by the hottest female lead in the film. Apparently, I’d be a huge hit in Norway (Eurotrash, lock up your daughters!). I wish more rotund actors in America were given such an opportunity; my days spent moonlighting as Jonah Hill wouldn’t be so depressing.

(And here’s a saucy factoid: my Hollywood doppleganger is busy preparing for his first nude scene.)

Lastly, I was finally able to take a flyer on Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes, and was by and large, left with the same lingering feelings that followed me after I saw Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl for the first time. Sherlock Holmes, like Gore Verbinksi’s swashbuckling epic, is a film in which the whole exceeds the sum of its parts; both are manufactured, high concept blockbusters with middling scripts largely propelled by charismatic leads (Johnny Depp in ‘Pirates’, Robert Downey Jr. in ‘Holmes’).

While Sherlock Holmes doesn’t drag like the Disney flick, it absolutely reeks of studio interference. Elaborate and expensive action set pieces that make little sense logistically or thematically are inserted into the script merely to look, well, big and expensive. All of this is evident in a screenplay that lacks any semblance of confidence, making what was undoubtedly a long and tangled series of rewrites painfully obvious.

That said, the principals are great in their roles, the film is wonderfully gritty and there is a terrific setup for a sequel. If Brad Pitt is truly onboard as the mischievous Professor Moriarty, then Hollywood may have finally found an actor that is not completely overshadowed when paired with Robert Downey Jr. on the same screen.

So count me in for another go with the franchise, I’m just hoping the studio gives its scribes a little more creative flexibility than what was afforded the first time out.

(Hey Warner Bros., call me.)

… wrapping up with a blatant show of Internet hyperlinking, I just wanted to direct anyone still reading this lengthy excuse for a blog post to Mike Knowlan’s Film Flunkie ramblings about the wussy-fication of children’s entertainment – a noble cause that I’ve always been a champion for. Lame children’s programming is probably the gravest threat to our nation’s youth that we face today, and if we don’t stop it, this is the result.

One other bit of shameless Internet promotion; Internet vixen and book aficionado (as well my own personal arch nemesis), Lila, launched her very own and much more popular blog that debuts with the brutal evisceration of The Hills’ Lauren Conrad in text form. Sadly, her blog is exclusively about books, which as we all know, are always inferior to film.

Twitter followers know it’s not a weekday morning unless Lila and I are trading barbs as part of a bitter trans-Atlantic fued, now fueled by envy that she has a more vocal readership than yours truly (pick up the slack, guys!). I’m on Team Will; I think it’s time we took those book enthusiasts down a peg or two.

That’s it. I’m done. No more, folks. I got a chocolate rabbit to devour.

The magic is dead

2010-03-24T13:26:00.000-04:00

Much like how Jon Stewart created Conan O’Brien (ergo Jon Stewart created Mike Huckabee), I too can take credit for creating this morning’s Film Flunkie blog post – the new retirement home for unpaid commentary from one of Hollywood’s most liberal elite, executive producer Michael J. Knowlan.

Mike Knowlan is someone I have endured as a friend since his final days at the New York Film Academy, back when his only dream was to be the next Brett Ratner. I was something like a mentor to the poor kid; I basically taught him everything he knows. Prior to meeting me, Knowlan’s only acquaintance was Carl Johnson – Hollywood’s most prodigious production assistant. He was on a fast track to nowhere before I shaped him into the power-hungry egomaniac he is today.

And this is how he repays me? Is it not enough that this vile taskmaster verbally whips me into submission to do his bidding for The Projectionist, but now he must also steal my thunder in the blogosphere as well?

Well then, I’ll just have to bring a ‘lil bit of the lightning.

Mike actually spends the better part of the morning talking about Legend, a film that he admits (and rightfully so) that nobody really likes. The gist of his argument is that Ridley Scott and his production staff accomplished a slick-looking visual effect shot using nothing more than a fishing rod and a light bulb; a feat which would undoubtedly be computer generated if produced today.

This discussion actually stems from a phone conversation the two of us had about a week or so ago (I forget when, we honestly chat like teenage girls every other day) when I aped a talking point from Ain’t It Cool News of all places – back when the juvenile media outlet posted a new trailer for the rather unnecessary A Nightmare on Elm Street remake.

Quint complained that he hated seeing some of the shot-for-shot stuff, because it highlights the disparity in production techniques. For example, the scene where Freddy starts to come out from the bedroom wall; in 1984, this was accomplished with some paint and a nylon sheet, but nowadays, it’s painfully cheesy-looking CG.

TWENTY SIX YEARS LATER, SPECIAL EFFECTS HAVE SOMEHOW GOTTEN WORSE.

I find it mind boggling that a director or producer would voluntarily opt for the visual effect shot that is not only less believable, but more expensive. I just refuse to believe that even with today’s union rates, that it is somehow more efficient and cheaper to digitally recreate the same scene on a render farm rather than let some stage hand jury rig a similar setup to the one they used in 1984.

If it’s good enough for Wes Craven, it should be good enough for whatever overrated music video director Michael Bay found to direct this piece of garbage.

But when I spoke to Mike over the phone about this very subject, it dawned on me that maybe it wasn’t just a case of a director or producer foolishly picking digital effects over practical effects, but rather that the art of creative problem solving is all but dead. That the knowledgebase for young filmmakers just isn’t there anymore.

Let me backtrack a little bit.

For me, the film that awoken the itch was Jaws. I remember being about six or seven-years-old, popping in the VHS and being so blown away that I immediately put it in the tape rewinder (remember those?) and watched it again – back to back. My mind was at a loss to explain everything, but I had to know how they made the movie.

So I went to the library (remember those?).

At that age, I loved magic. I had maybe two or three magic kits, including a magic hat with trick doors and all kinds of neat tools of the trade. At the same time, I was being groomed on a steady film diet of Hitchcock and Spielberg. It was at the library that those worlds began to collide.

I remember picking up a book – perhaps Movie Magic – and reading how Hitchcock would pull off all these clever shots. Directors back then, and even in Spielberg’s heyday, couldn’t rely on computer imagery to get the job done, so they often had to come up with optical illusions and practical effects to get the desired effect. They also had to be cheap. Some of the techniques that early directors developed were astounding; these guys weren’t just making movies, they were making illusions.

That’s when I realized that directors weren’t just filmmakers – they were magicians. It was a stunning revelation.

And like magicians, their circle was a closed one and their craft was passed down from generation to generation. Entrance was limited and with the industry’s Darwinian approach, few could survive. Still, what an exciting world.

Then came the digital convergence.

Now filmmakers’ visions are only bound by computer processing speeds and money, but it’s come at a great loss. That apprenticeship that used to shape a raw director into a great one is no longer required; all you need is a student loan for a film school of choice and a decent handheld. Nobody bothers to learn anything but the fundamentals, because everything else can be done in post.

Post-production is where a film is made nowadays, not on the set anymore. It’s kind of a sad state of affairs, but these young guys honestly don’t know any better.

So there you go, Mike Knowlan not only steals my thunder, but also my theories on contemporary film production – all without the courtesy of a reach around. Chivalry is truly dead.

So while I was gone...

2010-03-23T13:31:00.000-04:00

I take a hiatus for a few weeks and the whole world turned upside. America got watered down socialist health care. Cory Haim died. The Nationals released their starting right fielder just weeks before Opening Day. The Human Torch was cast as Captain America. Tiger Woods announced his return to golf. Kansas broke everyone’s bracket. Rob Cohen is going to remake The Monster Squad.

And perhaps the most startling of all – Frances McDormand and John Malkovich signed up for Michael Bay’s next Transformers sequel.

It’ll take me a day or two to refocus my energies into a coherent blog post, but let me ask this: why would anyone willingly sign up for another Transformers sequel? I don’t think the actual Transformers want to be in another Transformers sequel. The last one tested the limits of time and space, as well as set the bar for thinly veiled computer generated racism.

Tomorrow I promise a blog post full of drama and intrigue, but today I’m running on fumes, so I will leave you with this little tidbit - I’m now in two fantasy baseball leagues. Does this constitute some kind of disorder?

The lineups are almost identical, and I’ll be heavily relying on quality years from Matt Wieters, Adam Jones, Brian Matusz, Neyjer Morgan, Scott Kazmir and Max Scherzer. Yes, there are a lot of “homer” picks in there (what can I say, I’m a Nationals fan that was raised on the Orioles), but I think they’re all relatively safe “homer” picks.

I mean, at least I didn’t draft Elijah Dukes.

Wolfman has nards.

2010-03-05T13:33:00.000-05:00

I’m beginning the victory lap around my newly christened Blu-ray copy of The Monster Squad, and it occurred to me how criminally underrated Fred Dekker is – despite the cult following he has accrued over the years. His name rarely pops up in the discussion of the best genre directors from the ‘80s, and that’s a shame.

Yes, the man directed RoboCop 3 – which single-handedly killed both his career and the RoboCop franchise – but he also wrote and directed Night of the Creeps and the absurdly entertaining 1986 horror-comedy, House. Combined with his work on Tales from the Crypt, Dekker should be heralded instead of forgotten.

The Monster Squad is the culmination of Dekker’s work on both Night of the Creeps and House, blending dark humor and fantasy with the macabre – serviced by a sharp script courtesy of himself and another underrated Hollywood gem, Shane Black. The thing I always appreciated about Dekker’s filmography is how lean his films are, and The Monster Squad is no exception. There are no lulls in a Dekker flick; he fires on all cylinders, caution be damned.

When I was growing up you were either a Goonies kid or a Monster Squad kid. I was the latter, and I think time has been on my side. I had a chance to see an original 35mm print of The Goonies in theaters a couple of years ago (with Corey Feldman, no less!), and I found it rather difficult to enjoy with the benefit of fresh eyes. So much of the film is dated that it feels more like a time capsule than a living piece of art.

Whereas The Monster Squad is so unrestrained, fueled by Dekker and Black’s unabashedly over-the-top script, that the film escapes being labeled as dated pop-trash. It stands proudly on its own two feet; not a product of a particular decade, but of a filmmaker that many have forgotten. The fact that fans have received Blu-ray releases of both The Monster Squad and Night of the Creeps is a credit to Dekker’s work, because it’s certainly not due to mainstream demand.

Still, if there is a director worthy of mainstream adoration, it’s Fred Dekker. I’m proud to call the man an influence on my non-existent writing career, and I can only hope to have a fraction of the short-lived success he achieved during my impressionable youth. Hats off to you, Fred.

*The Monster Squad is on sale for $9.99 on Blu-ray over at Amazon, you’d be crazy not to pick up at that price! Tell ‘em crazy Will sent you!

We call it the "Gitmo special"...

2010-03-04T13:32:00.000-05:00

In a brief bit of news that you can lose, former Infinity Ward co-founders Jason West and Vincent Zampella filed a lawsuit against Activision today, and well, let's just say it's a doozy.

Check out this bit, where West and Zampella allege that Bobby Kotick and his legal goons were doing their best impression of Dick Cheney:

Tim Rogers: It's not funny anymore

2010-03-04T13:19:00.000-05:00

I was actually going to stay mum today, that is until I saw the latest Internet assault against my precious bandwidth in the form of Tim Rogers’ verbal diarrhea for Kotaku. For anyone who doesn’t have their fingers firmly on the pulse of Internet society, Rogers is regarded as something of a wunderkind amongst video game “journalists” - despite the fact that he might be the most widely unread writer on the planet.

(Second to me, of course.)

Rogers fascination with himself and his ridiculous prose is not new, however. In fact, Rogers’ work made him a finalist for SomethingAwful’s five worst video game reviews of the year – all the way back in 2005. It is mind boggling to try and understand the success behind his lengthy career as an industry writer, especially since he seems to cater to no one but himself.

And if you think this is just a case of professional jealousy: get a load of this.

But, really - who has actually read a Tim Rogers article? Why would you read a Tim Rogers article? After careful statistical analysis, the only reasons I could come up with as to why are the following:

You are Tim Rogers.
You are Tim Rogers’ mother.
You are dating Tim Rogers, and he wants to show you how “famous” he is.
You are Tim Rogers’ father, forced by your wife to read your son’s work, which reads like a desperate plea to prove himself to daddy.
You are an enemy combatant imprisoned in Gitmo, being forced to read Tim Rogers articles in lieu of waterboarding.

This latest piece of Rogers’ patented drivel focuses on Japanese culture, which as a fan of Mr. Baseball – I know all about. He complains about the relatively non-existent smoking culture, company parties, alcohol, food menus with items containing meat and how his nerd hobbies have deteriorated over time (this is called nostalgia, Tim). For this, he is willing to throw an entire country under the proverbial bus – and our patience for 10,000-word articles along with it.

The thing is, I don’t think Tim Rogers even lives in Japan. I think he lives in another reality; one where not only Tim thinks his opinion matters, but one where people actually read his articles.

We don’t, Tim. It’s not funny anymore.

Everything I know about Japan, I learned from Mr. Baseball

2010-03-03T13:34:00.000-05:00

Look, I don’t presume to be an expert about Japan; most of my knowledge of the island country stems from Mr. Baseball, an early ‘90s romantic-comedy starring Tom Selleck and his mustache. And quite frankly, as with all historically accurate Hollywood productions, that should be enough.

So imagine my surprise when one of my “gaijin” friends called this cultural Rosetta stone into question, berating me for basing my presumptions of Japan off a movie written by one of the guys who also wrote Junior (arguably the greatest Arnold Schwarzenegger film of all-time). Blasphemy! How can one dismiss the fact that Mr. Baseball also stars Dennis Haysbert, a paragon of honesty and integrity; I know this, because he sells car insurance.

What’s next? My preconceptions of Africa as based on Coming to America are wildly out of line with reality? My perception of Aborigines and the Australian outback is skewed by Crocodile Dundee - and its sequel? That all Japanese handymen are, in fact, not karate masters – as The Karate Kid led me to believe?

My entire perception of reality, as based on any number of similar movies from both the ‘80s and early ‘90s, is unraveling before my eyes.

… It does make you think, though.

An entire generation – my generation – was predisposed to globalization before it even really began. Growing up, we were introduced to other cultures through comical fish-out-of-water stories; films that positively portrayed other cultures as the running time wore on.

Hysterical cross-cultural mishaps aside, these films had an underlining premise that Western civilization and other cultures had a lot to learn from one another. Americans would often trade crass American attitude and individualism for the other culture’s work ethic and sense of honor. A reoccurring theme developed; Americans were often too laid back, all other cultures were too uptight. Through cultural understanding, we met somewhere in the middle.

Prior to this wave of cinema, almost all non-Western civilizations were portrayed negatively; with antagonists often hailing from a mysterious and/or uncivilized country that clashed with our own Anglo-Saxon ideals. One of the earliest supervillains was Dr. Fu Manchu, who created a stereotype so ingrained in the American psyche that it took decades of cultural awareness to erase.

But then something changed. The economic winds began to blow another direction. Capitalism was about to go global.

It’s tough to say whether or not the wave of cross-cultural cinema in the ‘80s and ‘90s borders on propaganda; whether Hollywood - and the interested economic parties of America by proxy - were actively trying to prepare us for the inevitable. Or perhaps the studio system sensed the changing tide, and was intent on creating product that would appeal beyond its shores to an international audience. Nowadays, overseas box-office revenue can be more lucrative than a studio’s domestic haul depending on the film.

That wasn’t always the case twenty years ago.

The odd thing is, with the proliferation of the Internet and the global community so dependent on one another for commerce, that particular sub-genre of cinema is all but dead. Kids don’t find cross-cultural films nearly as amusing anymore; they are apt to learn about other cultures from an endless stream of Internet and cable media at the disposal of their fingertips. The air of mystery and danger that used to hang over other cultures has been dissipated by YouTube and Wikipedia.

The flipside is that foreign cinema doesn’t seem as, y’know, foreign. We’ve become so culturally aware, and with the far corners assimilating into Western civilization, the only cultural barrier nowadays is language - and that’s what subtitles are for. The result is that foreign cinema has gone mainstream, and other countries are able to rival Hollywood productions on their own turf.

Except Bollywood, their stuff still looks terrible. Except this action sequence, which I would like to nominate for an Oscar – it is legitimately amazing.

… So back to the original topic: maybe I’m not an expert on Japan, but at least I don’t believe the country is inhabited by mechanized robots and girls that are actually attracted to nerds. Now that is unbelievable.

Until tomorrow, folks.

Tuesday is the worst of all God's days.

2010-03-02T13:36:00.000-05:00

I am a firm believer that Tuesday - not Monday, as popular opinion would have it - is the worst of all the weekdays. Why? Well for starters, it’s just one day removed from the start of the work week and so very far away from the start of the weekend. Even worse, you can usually coast on a Monday, but a certain degree of production is expected by Tuesday. Like when that vile despot, Michael J. Knowlan, threatens to pillage my home and destroy my very way of life unless a predetermined amount of pages are written and on his desk by sundown.

(But for M. Bison… it was Tuesday.)

Yet, today also marks the release day of Battlefield: Bad Company 2, DICE’s sequel to the popular console shooter. While the lesser known of all the various military shoot-‘em-ups, I’d contend that the cast of DICE’s Bad Company is the most talented of the bunch. The story is pure comic book nonsense, but propped up by a squad of likable and – more importantly – memorable characters. The Modern Warfare series can’t even say that.

Speaking of ironic timing, things are looking gloomy for all my fellow “Dudebros” out there. Late last night, G4 broke the story that Activision sacked at least one studio head (if not both) from Infinity Ward – the developer responsible for the Call of Duty series.

After both studio heads went missing, Activision promptly sent “bouncer-type” goons to protect their intellectual property and lock down the entire office. President and CCO, Jason West, confirmed his departure from Activision via Facebook and LinkedIn, but the rest of the circumstances remain a complete mystery. I mean, how do you honestly fire the creative people responsible for one of the best-selling videogames of all-time?

Likely it was due to a creative dispute; Activision wanted Infinity Ward to pump out Modern Warfare sequels until the programmers’ arms fell off, and Infinity Ward had other plans. It makes me thank the heavens that the studio system is not structured in such a way that it can force creative types to churn out derivative products and sequels completely against their will (usually), and often forces a studio into leveraging brand strength against quality instead – only to see diminishing box-office returns.

Now, I must end this rambling stream of thoughts, for villainous taskmaster Michael J. Knowlan is sending “bouncer-type” goons to my house to secure my intellectual property – that is unless you guys can summon up to 250 fans on The Projectionist Facebook page.

Hop to it, kids.

I hate Will Smith's kid

2010-02-24T13:37:00.000-05:00

"YEAH, I'M PRETTY AWESOME."

At the risk of endangering any kind of Hollywood career, I'll come out and say it - I hate Will Smith's kid.

Look, I'm sure he's a nice kid (I wouldn't want to piss off his mom) who is both polite and charming, but he has that same arrogance and smugness found in his father - with an added sense of entitlement. All three traits are on full display in the latest trailer for The Karate Kid remake.

And here's the deal, I can suffer With Smith's cocky and smug attitude because he earned that right by paying his dues. Smith endured years of situation comedy, garbage roles and other legs of the Hollywood gauntlet in his quest to become the largest African-American draw at the box-office.

Good for him.

That doesn't mean I have to put up with it from his son, though. His son didn't earn anything. He's a celebrity kid, dropped into feature films and lead roles only by relation to his far more talented father. I can't stand that.

It's entirely different situation than say, Colin Hanks - who still is trying to make a name in Hollywood with and without his father's assistance. Colin Hanks had to endure television work and small parts for years before his breakout role in Orange County.

Or Bryce Dallas Howard, who has carefully built her career throughout the years, working from supporting roles to the leading lady she is today. Also, anyone that has Clint Howard in their gene pool should be lauded for rising above genetic adversity.

The point is, while both are offspring of famous Hollywood power brokers, neither cashed in on the brand strength of their surnames for leading roles at the onset of their respective careers. Neither were parading around music videos for their parents' films when they were five. And neither carry around the sense of entitlement that Will Smith's kid does.

Pay your dues, kid. Then come talk to me.

Predict how angry tonight's episode of Lost will make me

2010-02-23T13:38:00.000-05:00

My many faces of rage.

I pretty much hate Lost at this point.

It's painfully obvious that the writers had no clue what they were doing at the onset of the show, which has transitioned from a mystery/adventure about strangers stranded on a uncharted island to some kind of Carnivale-esque battle of good and evil, but set in the tropics.

All the promotional material from ABC says, "The Time for Questions is Over!" Really, ABC? I must have missed the episode where the Bad Robot staff answered all the questions. Oh wait, they didn't - because the writers are jerks.

In fact, the show is no longer even discreet about its flippant attitude towards the fans. After sending an episode to the airwaves that was nothing but parallel universe Kate driving parallel universe Claire around for an hour (like some kind of cosmic version of Driving Miss Daisy), showrunner Damon Lindelof had the audacity to tell upset fans via Twitter to watch NCIS to see what "filler" really is.

Really, Lindelof? Your defense for the show comes down to a kindergarten-level response of, "Hey, well, at least it's not as bad as this show."

I feel we have reached a point where it has become clear that the finale will not be satisfying whatsoever. This show is lumbering towards a painful, contrived ending where a bunch of mentally exhausted staff monkeys race to cobble something together. It's like trying to finish your project for the Science Fair the night before it's due.

In the mean time, the writing staff seems content to waste precious time focusing on episodes where literally nothing happens. Maybe they're buying time? Who knows. But when you have an entire episode that pretty much consists of the following exchange:

"HE IS INFECTED."

"INFECTED WITH WHAT?"

"I CAN'T EXPLAIN, GIVE HIM THIS MEDICINE."

"WHAT'S IN THE MEDICINE?"

"I CAN'T EXPLAIN, JUST TRUST ME."

... I know you are pretty much dicking with me.

I say, why stop there? If Lindelof really doesn't care about the fans - go all the way! Lead up to some riveting climax, promising to answer all of the show's lingering questions, and then cut to a live camera feed of the entire Lost production staff farting at the audience.

Somehow, I feel that's more respectful than the drivel they're currently feeding us.

Taste is the fourth dimension

2010-02-22T13:41:00.000-05:00

It's Monday, and you know what the means - time to break out the 'ole pen and paper.

Just kidding, pens are for girls! Men use quills.

A lot of people have been asking me, "Hey, pseudo-Internet celebrity Will Federman, what have you been up to?"

Well, to my audience of one dude and four Google spiderbots - in addition to neglecting my blog and safely building up a healthy kill-to-death ratio in Modern Warfare 2, I've been lucky to be associated with what Internet hypeman Michael J. Knowlan refers to as "the most important piece of filmmaking since Birth of a Nation."

I just call it The Projectionist, because I'm not prone to flights of fancy and hyperbole. I will say, however, it's a pretty clever project that has been in the works for quite some time. Some of you have probably been redirected here from the Twitter page, but you should also note that Cole Kirwin, the titular projectionist, has found a home on Facebook and YouTube as well. And if there are other ways to bludgeon the Internet over the head in promotion, find solace in the fact that the mustache-twirling Knowlan will exploit those as well.

[Editor's Note: By this time you read this, Hollywood mogul Michael J. Knowlan has probably setup some kind of merchandise store for the project - selling Cole Kirwin Pez dispensers and The Projectionist: The Toilet Paper.]

Oddly enough, writing for The Projectionist has been one of the most difficult assignments of my non-existent career. For those completely in the dark (and shame on you!), The Projectionist is a fifteen-minute anthology series developed for the Internet. Each episode has a frame, and each story has to abide by a set of rules.

Now, when you write a feature or a sixty-minute episode, you are given almost too much time to establish your characters and create meaningful character arcs. I've seen more writers attempt to do too much than too little.

But fifteen minutes? That's nothing. Especially when you need three to four minutes to develop the bookends, as the projectionist himself requires - nay, demands! - a little screen time each episode. So to tell a complete and satisfying story in twelve minutes is tough; made even more demanding when the bar has been set by The Twilight Zone.

I remember last summer, taking the Surfliner from Oceanside to Los Angeles to meet with Knowlan and the other two producers of The Projectionist, when I had to take a brief reprieve from writing my Candy Land 2: The Race to Diabetes Mountain feature (part of my epic The Land of Candy Trilogy) to edit a specific episode I had written for The Projectionist.

Taste is the fourth dimension.

The rule of thumb is that a written page equals a minute of film, and I had over thirty pages in my rough draft for The Projectionist. Way too much. In comparison, Candy Land 2 was only at 80 pages!

(It is now since complete, and I am working on Candy Land 3: Gluten's Revenge.)

I can't tell you how frustrating it was to chop away at thirteen pages, hoping that the story would still be coherent by the end of the day. The lack of time also puts emphasis on casting, taking the control completely out of the writer's hands, because none of the featured actors will be able to waste a second of screen time. One simply does not have the extra ink to use on lines that read:

CHARACTER LOOKS OUT WINDOW INTROSPECTIVELY.

Sorry, no longing stares and emotional beats set to music from The OC here, because we're writing short form. Balderdash, I say! This is exactly the reason why I took the Candy Land gig! Michael Bay promised me that half the movie won't even have dialogue, and most of it will simply be random shots of Megan Fox bending under a car hood.

So, oddly enough, I probably spend more time on a Projectionist episode than a feature, because of the sheer amount patience required to pare down a script to agreed upon format. While my taskmasters demand a certain length, that doesn't mean I can get sloppy with character arcs or the overall narrative.

Short form is a cruel mistress.

And yet, The Projectionist is a lean, mean storytelling machine as a result. No filler, all killer. By not supporting it, you might be indirectly supporting terrorism. And who really wants to do that?

(Hint: not you.)

In the meanwhile, I'm going to stick to writing Candy Land 3. Because chicks dig the long form. 'till Tuesday, folks.

Bionic Commando should get the Oscar for greatest story ever

2010-02-22T13:39:00.000-05:00

Back when games separated the men from the boys.

It's that time of year again - that time where I begin to raid my backlog of Xbox Live Arcade titles to keep me occupied during the most arid season for video game releases. I'm not made of money y'know; that is until that evil despot, Michael J. Knowlan, finally relents and lets me market The Projectionist drink coasters and party favors.

Until then, I must wallow in $5 and $10 digital distribution titles.

One such title I've had sitting on my hard drive for the better part of two years is Bionic Commando: Rearmed, a gussied up port of the 1988 NES game with all the bells and whistles modern gamers have come to expect. Now this game kicks it old school; so much so that it summoned back an old, veteran gamer trait - incoherent streams of profanity and throwing your controller in fit of rage when faced with a revolving door of failure.

(I hit the grapple button, goddamit! Don't tell me I didn't!)

The truth is that I have gone soft in my old age; predisposed to context-sensitive buttons, difficulty sliders, hint buttons and the like. And Capcom has actually made the game easier, but this retooled remake is still more of a challenge than what I am accustomed to.

It will test your mettle, and the strength of the plastic composite your controller is made out of.

But that's not the best part - the best part is how incredibly awesome the story is. Basically, you play a dude with sunglasses and a grappling hook arm that is searching for a POW in enemy territory. Oh yeah, the enemies are basically Space Nazis, armed with lasers and robots. They're not called Nazis, but just look at that picture and tell me that's not what Nazi Germany would look like in 2039!

So you use your grappling hook arm and a small arsenal of weapons that includes goddamn bazooka to shoot the ever living crap out of all these damned Space Nazis. You fly on choppers and deflect lasers with your bionic arm. You swing over mines and electric wires and blast evil robots. You fight in caves and underwater and in space and on mountains and inside an enemy base.

How does this not sound like the greatest movie ever?

One of the bosses is a dwarf that tries to destroy you with a some kind of robot manufacturing line device. After you learn the pattern of his attack, you grapple up to the top and blast him in the face with a bazooka.

Yes, you heard me correctly - you get to blast a dwarf in the face with a bazooka.

And that's just touching the surface! There's romance and drama and comedy and dramedy! The ending is a big action set piece set on some kind flying fortress - culminating in a mano-y-mano battle on the roof against a giant mechanized helicopter piloted by some undead Nazi leader!

Some might say that this post is absolutely ridiculous, and that a game like Bionic Commando doesn't have the nuance or deft storytelling found in modern games. That a 1988 platforming title is thin on story and suffers from a total lack of character development.

Poppycock! I repeat: you get to shoot a dwarf in the face with a bazooka. And need I mention that you play a guy with a grappling hook for an arm? That alone makes it better than Avatar.

Someone get Sly on the phone. We need to make this movie.

What Shutter Island should have looked like...

2010-02-21T13:42:00.000-05:00

I won't talk much about the film itself, because my theater experience with Shutter Island is reminiscent to The Sixth Sense (in that it can be easily spoiled by overzealous fans that can potentially ruin the whole film for those still in the dark), other than to say that it is awesome and that everyone should go see it.

Especially before you overhear some drunk idiot spoil the ending at a Denny's at 2 AM over a Grand Slam breakfast and a cup of burnt coffee two weeks from now (hey, it happens!).

That said, I can't help but think Marty Scorsese pulled a fast one on us. He made audiences pay to see a thriller carved from the 1950s (the setting of the actual film), utilizing camera work and sound cues long thought extinct to that era. It's probably why it has proven to be so divisive - but if I have any criticisms, it's that it didn't go far enough.

Yes, it is in color. Yes, it has Leonardo DiCaprio. Yes, it even has computer-generated special effects. But remove those elements, and you are looking at - and listening to - what sounds like a genre flick filmed in the 1950s. That's why I can't stop but think that Scorsese really intended the film to look like this:

How much more awesome would Shutter Island actually be had it been processed in black-and-white, and slapped with an artificial coat of print degradation? Probably too awesome for this blog, that's for sure! Or maybe even the galaxy!

I posed this question to friends and family, and the overwhelming response was that it would have been uncharted levels of awesome, but then nobody would pay to go see it. And I simply do not understand that.

Are we now at a point where even if we all agree that a monochrome cut of Shutter Island would have been so awesome that it could potentially create peace in the Middle East, nobody would go see it because of a physical aversion to black-and-white film? What, are people afraid they're going to get some kind of cancer unless they see a film in Technicolor?

If so, we need to reevaluate our standards as filmgoers, because Shutter Island could have been elevated from simply an awesome piece of entertainment to the greatest homage to an era of genre filmmaking long since forgotten ever made. And that would have been something truly special.

We were not meant for the Internet

2009-10-20T13:43:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, my hipster companion (no homo), Eric Rex (from the illustrious King of the Gigabitches blog), and I were guests on The Borecast - a podcast hosted by two old guys that touch on a little of everything from pop-culture.

As preeminent scholars in the field of shitty horror films, Eric and I were brought on to discuss movie picks for Halloween - which was about the only segment that went pretty well. As the show wore on, my audio levels became ridiculous, a culmination of trying to feel out the format and rising my pitch to interject into conversations.

It does not sound pretty.

To make matters worse, Eric conveniently lost almost all of his audio, resulting in an engineering nightmare for the show's co-host and leading producer, Kevin. And this is not the first time Eric has committed such an error.

Oh, the humanity.

Let the Wrong One In

2009-09-10T13:42:00.000-04:00

The gang over at the Borecast has thrown up a new podcast that reviews the Swedish vampire flick, Let the Right One In, in great detail. It's a pretty entertaining listen and hits on a lot of points that I think merit discussion, especially as the film works its way through the rental market and streaming Netflix.

I personally found it one of the best horror films of the decade, and easily the best vampire film in the past twenty years. Maybe the best since Coppola tackled Bram Stoker with a lavish, romantic stage production.

Where I differ from Doug, Kevin and Janet is Eli's relationship with Hakan - her familiar from the beginning of the film. The crew over there believes Hakan is what Oscar will inevitably be: a servant to Eli, who grows older as she never ages.

That's a pretty cynical American view, and certainly not the director's intention, nor is it something that most people outside of the States really pick up on.

I felt Hakan's murdering talents, or complete lack thereof, insinuate that he is pretty new to this operation. It seems pretty obvious that he has not done this type of work before, because he has the foresight of infant. Quite frankly, he sucks.

The director has gone on record that he felt Eli and Oscar have a happy ending together. As happy of an ending that a murdering, androgynous vampire and alienated, mentally unstable 12-year-old can possibly have, I guess.

So, why do Americans always feel the need to rain on the parade with unbridled cynicism?

We'll find out soon enough, when the remake finally hits theaters. And while helmed by the talented Matt Reeves, I look forward to the remake as much as I look forward to a root canal.

Head games

2009-08-25T13:44:00.000-04:00

Christopher Nolan rolled out a teaser for Inception yesterday, and it really went above and beyond to tell us absolutely nothing.

Awesome.

I'm not really a fan of the modern teaser, which has transformed from an announcement to pretty much a full-fledged trailer (see: Avatar). Within the past decade, we've become so saturated with production diaries, interviews, set photos and the like that it feels virtually impossible to remain unspoiled about any given production. Now you can't even rely on a teaser to pique your interest without telegraphing the entire plot.

So, thank you, Christopher Nolan, for keeping us in the dark. Inception is a total mystery to me, but that's how teasers are supposed to work! They're supposed to make you interested without divulging all the plot details.

It's unfortunate that in this day and age, with film production details at our fingertips, that the Internet is struggling to figure out what Inception is. Is it The Matrix? Is it Fight Club?

I guess you all are going to have to wait until July to find out.

Suckers.

Filmmaking is not like riding a bike

2009-08-21T13:45:00.000-04:00

... So, uh, Avatar. Uh, yeah.

Well, at least those floating islands looked kind of cool.

Avatar was one of those projects that made me awfully nervous, simply because of the hype that had accumulated to ridiculous levels. Folks championed the effects work being done by Digital Domain as revolutionary, whilst ignoring the fact that James Cameron has not directed a major motion picture in over ten years.

James Cameron is a talented guy, no doubt, but there isn't a lot of empirical data to suggest that a decade's worth of downtime between films is a good thing.

The totally underwhelming trailer to Avatar seems to echo that sentiment.

I'm not sure, save for a few, kool-aid drinking diehards, that anyone was really impressed. Let's not even get into the fact that the entire plot is telegraphed from the teaser trailer, and that it bears more than a striking resemblance to Pocohantas (now with space elves!).

There have been a few, solid arguments that the technology behind the film is revolutionary, and that may be true, but the end result looks inferior to stuff that ILM has pumping out for years (see: Davy Jones). The aliens themselves look like cartoons, and while that might be more of an art direction problem, it's a major problem nevertheless.

The human machinery also looks like recycled concept art from Aliens, Terminator and The Matrix. Seriously -- the film looks as if the Wachowski Bros. and Cameron went to lunch and swapped sketch books after playing Xbox.

If this feels awfully similar to anyone alive during 1999, let me know.

Hmph.

Very small.

2009-08-16T13:46:00.000-04:00

But that is how it always begins.