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Reviews
Dexter: Run (2012)
A Minotaur runs through his labyrinth, but finds out he's a mouse in Dexter's social laboratory
Working through the highs and lows we have come to expect for Dexter's flavour of game: exhilaration when they smile in the face of impudence, validation of their efforts when fate helps them beat the system and an unhumoured tantrum when they realise might is alright, until a bigger monster comes to drop the platinum rule. This episode checks all those boxes and throws in a great opponent: juiced to the gills, broly, looks like he could shift a ton of battle ropes, a beef bus.
The season six finale saw the farce of Dexter and Deb's relationship finally, thankfully, shattered after five seasons of denial. In this episode, Deb's turmoil over the consequences of her inaction forces Dexter to ruminate on the price Rita paid for his inaction and the possibility of further unpaid debts. Deb's acceptance of Dexter's brand of humanity and Dexter's departure from adolescent familiarity while still coddling his screaming Dark Passenger is a return to purpose that hasn't been seen since the end of season one. Oh, Brian!
Unfortunately, it's starting to look like these bridges were built for scorn to drive this season's hellfire over and it doesn't taste like Sunday School Mythology. I feel like I'm waking up in the right place, but I don't know how I got here.
p.s. Harry should have materialised to tell you he told you so.
The Sixth Sense (1999)
Wow! What a picture.
There were so many pleasing things to concentrate on in this film. Let me see if I can recall a few.
First off, that adorable child. What a remarkable job, casting that lead. He was what - only ten or so? Remarkable. And we weren't let down by the rest of the cast either. His mother was just fantastic; I don't think I've empathised with a single mother like that before. Bruce Willis, playing the child psychiatrist, really had his work cut out acting next to her, but boy did he pull it off. He really deserved that award. Good job.
But credit where credit's due, without the top notch script I doubt even this cast could have pulled it off. When seriously original works like this one get green-lit you know that some people still care about bringing depth -- that only an engaging drama/thriller can -- back to our cinemas. I missed the boat on that one, but it certainly did well in my living room.
Dramas can always be measured by the dizzying heights of their joy and the plunging depths of their despair. This rolling masterpiece went so far, so fast, it brought me into a state of spatial disorientation. It will hold you on the edge of your seat until gradually you shuffle back into a comfortable position. Periodically, it will make your hair stand on end until you tug it flat in bunches, wide-eyed with anticipation. There are enough sad moments too, but I won't spoil the surprise.
None of this would have been possible without the groundbreaking soundtrack: it really tied the room together. Whenever I felt the uncertainty of a solitary tear the strength of sorrowful strings would fill our eyes to bursting. Gradually the brass would begin to climb... where was I being taken, how far, did anyone know, were they coming too? A sudden, sharp parp would bring us a foot not only out of our chairs, but our skins too. LOL
Now you've reached my twist ending, where I can reveal that I actually felt the complete opposite of what I've written. The same catatonic slight-handedness you can expect from following this devoid centerline for two hours. Those who saw through my laboured ruse, give yourself a pat on the back and think about how you spoiled absolutely the greatest comment of all time for yourselves.
In the Loop (2009)
Bridget Jones: In the Loop
I first saw 'Bridget Jones: In the Loop' in the SSU -- that's the Socialist Student's Union for those of you up against the wall any day now -- and I have to say the atmosphere was vibrantly eclectic.
Before the feature our head Comrade took to his podium, a stylish hammer and sickle chiseled from a single block of granite by one-of-US from somewhere wonderfully partisan -- these places all sound the same. As they should! But I digress. Let me assure you that the feature did NOT fall limp after that rousing address. Over half of us could identify with Bridget, who is now in a few respects male. Nothing wrong with that, we are all individuals after all and collectively I think most of us would still like to be her. Though, her hair: bourgeois mot juste.
We join Bridget as she is embarking on a career path WE, the conscious public, dream of. Civil Service: the power to evoke change in the echoing halls of lording knights from the cosy chambers under the people's Palace of Westminster. To feel the wind gathering beneath our pamphlets and gently wagging our pitched slogans. To rake those who once charged US with sabres with near-minded snippets dragging epithets, towing party-lines.
But I digress. The topic of this comedy -- that's satirical farce to those of us in Sven's pRoligt book club -- is the all-fronted mong-ery of the Tories -- who've been in power too long -- and the detached lackeys who once suckled their half-quarters and dreamt of being equal. Here is the proof we've been after that these war-dogs not only planned the slaughter of our babies and those quaint funnies, but through their institutionalised nepotism, bumbled their way into deals with b.y.o. contractors. We all know the ending comrades; high-heeled facists strutting into the arena with their pompous words, failing to maintain the infrastructure, bound by stupidity, limited by a lack of knowledge.
Members of the UUP are reminded that tickets are on sale for next week's monologue by group leader Green, where he will discuss how THEY would have behaved, were they US.
But I'm a Cheerleader (1999)
This movie might change your life...
Digging this movie out of the bargain bucket was like prising the lid off a mottled honey jar only to find the finest, most succulent nectar inside. I rediscovered so many feelings I'd suppressed since I first experienced this, in the theatre. I did feel slightly guilty, watching this sort of picture with my partner; feeling my emotion blossom, much like it did back back in those less inhibited days. But, by the end of the movie I was certain sharing this experience was the most precious thing I could've done. The similarities to my own life experiences were painted high, for all to see. Feelings of nausea every time I had to watch two Heteroes kiss. Uneasiness around the male members of the cast. The delight I'd feel watching a group of cheerleaders bouncing around. Warm gooey feelings every time those beautiful young women celebrated their loveliness with a delicate on-screen embrace. The electricity of smooth, smooth, soft, wet kisses. It was too much. Still euphoric from seeing my life flash before my eyes in this dreamy fashion, I seized the moment and informed the wife that I might be a gay lesbian.
I'd always dreaded telling her my dark secret, but I was amazed at how easy it was to come clean. I almost felt cheated by her light hearted laughter. Of relief, joy? Wait, did she think I was joking? I told her this face was serious. She only laughed harder. Far more serious than the poker face I might wear on a Friday night to fool the guys into thinking I was one of them. She was near hysterics. Only one course of action could remedy this situation. She was starting to upset me. Just a little. I felt strong and emboldened as I wobbled over to the window, heaved it open, took a fresh breath and aired my secret to the neighbours, "I'M a LESBIAN! AND I'M PROUD!"
There were some adjustments at first, but I can honestly say our relationship is stronger than ever. There's a lot more to being a lesbian than I ever dreamt. It may seem silly, but I can NOT recommend this movie enough. You might be living a lie without even knowing it.
Transporter 2 (2005)
crayon actioneering
I was created, yet I am nothing.
I tell a story, yet I have no substance, continuity or suspense.
Within my domain even sounds are visual.
'What am I?'
'Tramsforter 2,' chirps the annoyingly quirky kid.
'Bingo! You lose!'
I'll start by saying it's a good thing driver doesn't appear anywhere in the title, because driving is only a third of what Frank Martin does. He's a pilot who doesn't need an aeroplane. He's an acrobat in a graviton suit. He's a martial artist with an overactive imagination. He's even a driver in a vehicle without wheels.
Starting to sound like an entertaining B Movie, right? Well, no. You won't find any 'I tried my best, but I guess I just suck' here. It's like someone hand picked the members of Team Fail. A Cinematographer trying to emulate Technicolour; a minimalist special effects troupe, led by an eccentric who never considered life outside his bouncy castle; a truant script girl; a plot jerked along by a piece of toilet paper, snared to King Kong's shoe; and an overactive product placement supervisor.
So what is the story? A well-manicured, ugly South American is hired by some of his countrymen, who are outraged that the Law is eating into their profits. They hatch a brilliant plan involving a Soviet expatriate Biochemist, a green biological warfare agent, a purple antidote, a mercenary, a gun toting lingerie model and the ruling body of the Drug Enforcement Administration. So some bureaucrat gets his coffee poisoned? No. The public are poisoned and the DEA is held to ransom, while a mother-load of cocaine is pushed over the border? Nope.
It's hard to tell if the plot is supposed to remain a mystery until half-way, or if it's just delivered poorly, so I'll reveal it carefully, without any pointers as to the obvious outcome.
POSSIBLE SPOILER POSSIBLE SPOILER POSSIBLE SPOILER POSSIBLE SPOILER
The son of a DEA big shot is kidnapped against the best efforts of his school-run driver Mr. Martin, infected with a virus and then bizarrely returned without any of the millions of ransom money being taken. The kid infects his father, mother, driver and half the Miami police department with this highly contagious airborne pathogen. The ugly South American transfuses himself in about ten minutes with what appears to be the only half litre of antidote in existence and tries really hard not to go to the bathroom.
Seems to me an extremely convoluted delivery method and a ridiculous insurance policy, but then I'm not a French screenwriter.
I'd advise everyone to avoid this and watch the original instead. To those people who are now chanting, "Suspend your belief," I say, okay, I've got a great investment opportunity for you. You give me your cake, I'll eat it, and then all you have to do is give it time to mature. Trust me. It's going to pay off!
Coffee and Cigarettes (2003)
Masterful character study. Hard to criticise effectively.
I start off by noting that this was not nearly as gratifying as its influence, Port and Cigars. Though masterful in its own light and very difficult to criticise effectively, it's always important to spotlight chronology as THE base element of ALL things.
It's a solid character study. A lot of the interactions are complex, stuttering and uncomfortable. Edgy enough that you'll have to pay attention to draw any actual meanings out of the experience. Others are whimsical to the point of comic relief. What Tarantino wants to do, but can't, because he's a cinematographer and not a writer.
Though the conversations are loosely connected -- by minute references or the oft-repeated surgeon general's warning -- the film flows smoothly from scene to scene. None of the well known names disrupt the blend and yet the spread is wide enough to grant a few glowing crests and assign a couple of dragging troughs to everyone. It's hard not to be pulled into the settings; you forget you're watching a film until that rude vignette knocks you out of your seat and forces you to resettle. The times that you do find yourself lapsing out, there are always interesting props or perspectives to focus on. The alternative, skipping scenes, on the DVD, will, I think, detract from the viewing experience and it's not the sort of film you could watch too often either; predictability, like the title, will kill.
A Ticket to Tomahawk (1950)
Maybe you wouldn't be so loose footed if I gave you a permanent limp!
This film is more a stage show full of gypsies than a western full of cowboys, though the latter do get a chance to live up to their titles. Somehow, while breaking down the barriers of the frontier, the passengers aboard the first iron horse this far west, manage to bring all the jolly luxuries of civilisation with them. And though they're on a mission to secure a rail subsidy for a route thought so dangerous the first passenger would have to be hoodwinked, they aren't even remotely dampened. Along the way you'll be able to enjoy: a colourful music hall show, complete with dancing girls and a mechanised theatrical organ; a Chinese laundry service that always over starches your boldly coloured shirts; and the same tired card tricks you thought you left behind in the last town. The real focus however, is the romance between the tom-boy Sheriff's deputy, Kit, and the world-wise adventurer, Johnny Behind-the-Deuces, who's always playing his trick cards in futile attempts to impress. With her limited knowledge of the fairer sex, her heart flitters over these innocent advances and sticks to the conniving spanner-in-the-works instead.
Trundling off the edge of the rails, it's customary that adventurers should have to swat away a few pests. Even with the frequent appearances of loud-mouthed schemers, we know that with little effort: Natives will be placated, saboteurs routed and bureaucrats negotiated into lifting their contractual trade barriers.
(minor gimmicky spoiler)
The ending is quite odd, and is summed up with a great line: maybe you wouldn't be so loose footed if I gave you a permanent limp. To drive this point home, Kit surprises Johnny by pulling five tricks out of her sleeve -- all daughters to boot -- and gets him a job on the rails to trick his insatiable wanderlust. The ending's a compromise on both fronts; probably just as many women are infuriated by her choice, to give up being a gun slinging deputy and take her rightful (said with a sneer) place at home, raising the kids. It leaves you with an unsettled feeling, that a year down the line, things won't be quite so pleasant in Tomahawk.
Black Hawk Down (2001)
A surprisingly honest account of command incompetence and a group of insurgents who had a dream.
Welcome to sunny Somalia. This commonwealth friendly has just reached boiling point. The two sides using the freshly downed star chopper the fans have nicknamed the Black Hawk - just signed for a whopping one-thousand million times the labour costs of the Nike trainers on his feet - in what has become, essentially, a game of capture the flag. In a show of strong determination, the underdogs ignore the fancy wrappings and focus on the soft and juicy centre. There'll be no swooping crossfire in the box, today. They've got possession of the ball. Things are looking very grim.
The international team launch a brave rodent offensive, only to be impeded by fifty scores of energised defenders. Another chopping striker is viciously slammed into the turf. With an eye on the clock, the management assesses the risks of putting more men on the field. Benched substitutes, seeking veneration, slink under the stewards and hop onto the field. There are no referees in sight.
This injection of testosterone certainly evens the field and brightens the outlook. Bad bodies fly from windows and rooftops as the home-team's arsenal is shelled from ineffectually picking off cans with their Soviet, Cold-War peashooters to desperately rushing the hail with modest Paleolithic cudgels.
The claxon sounds and it's clear that the favourites have shaken this arena to its foundations. The streets are silent; home fans hang their heads in defeat as their departed heroes rest their heads on their feet. The wind picks up weak sobbing, but hey, there's someone celebrating somewhere! The away team's heroic play is rewarded with a trip back to civilisation. Even the five or six international casualties will be carried on high, down their home streets, tonight. Their patriotic efforts fondly remembered in the years to come. Even by those who must be kicking themselves that they weren't here to taste this victory for themselves.
Derailed (2002)
An abomination stitched together by gormless dissectors.
It's been said that this mimics Under Siege 2 -- which it does -- but really, taking a closer look, it resembles mutagenetic substrate you'd expect after a series of rejected splicings of the aforementioned, a few James Bond throw-away cuttings and seventies disaster flick, the Casandra Crossing. The masses of material in these titles would seem to be enough to make for some interesting padding, and yet the dissectors have picked the most formulaic pieces. The resulting plot, setting, characters and their motives are all making their second, no maybe seventh, no possibly eleventh trip into our ready bulging eyes.
There are a few shreds of original writing, which I like to think the director was cursing, but I'm not sure if that's perhaps asking a little much of those involved:
( SPOILERS! )
At one point Damme escapes his tooled up enemy on a motocross bike, using a passing train as an extra lane. They haven't bothered to simulate hops between carriages, which are the only things preventing a very satisfying face plant. The greatest overlook has to be the speed he'd have to be going on this pitted treadmill, travelling at seventy miles an hour, to outrun men running full speed down the other, which is travelling seventy in the opposite direction. The pursuing henchman agrees with me, "There's no f___ing way!"
Just before stealth fighters -- *cough* sorry -- helicopter gunships are ordered to eliminate a bridge and stop the runaway train, the locomotive is uncoupled and the train stops dead: presumably to allow the gunships to get a proper lock. The missiles are fired and strike precisely after the carriages have unexplainedly regained their momentum and are now inches from the ravine. Naturally this sets every single carriage tumbling into a fiery grave, except the last. Allowing for an infuriating escape.
Afterwards we see the passengers recovering from their deadly viral infection in quarantine. Thankfully there's a cure for Smallpox which seems to be lots and lots of oxygen. We are then treated to the twist. After revealing who's responsible for the ridiculous plot, V.D. yanks the hood off his nemesis' protective suit -- very much like those meddling kids in Scooby Doo -- before he's arrested and escorted out of the tent. But wait, doesn't that breach the quarantine?
( END OF SPOILERS! )
The laughable sound and post-production dubbing suggests the sound engineer was deeply troubled by what he was handed. Contracts already signed, perhaps he did the only thing he could think to do and took a few light-hearted liberties to paddle the crew into calmer waters. A few examples: The all too familiar creaky gate is used three times in the space of ten minutes and thrice more in the next twenty. Our old friend, the toyed tie-fighter makes an appearance as does a 'Hee Yah!' that sounds like a transfer from a Bruce Lee film. Eyerollers that certainly reinforce the title's seriousness.
---
This is likely the most stupid film I've seen in a long time. I will even go as far as to say, this does not deserve to go to video. I'm a fan of low budget and B flicks, but I can not recommend this to anyone as it's just a complete disaster. If you're a Van Damme fan, you'll agree, he's done much better films than this.
Robin Hood (2006)
The BBC do seem to be tossing coins out of their bountiful treasure pot quite frivolously.
It's fortunate they weren't able to toss another forty thousand onto the bonfire before these tapes were recovered.
I can only surmise this crudely plastered together detritus of the beloved children's tale was designed to grandstand upcoming talent. How hard it must have been for the scores of good actors we have today, who had to work feverishly to merit the praise they received. I'm being slightly unfair; it was the tycoons who let their profiteering erode the ideal of producing something of substance. I expect official reviews will be worthy of being described as exercises in sycophantic laudery and revenue spin-mastery. As far as I'm concerned any positives attributed to this production can amount to little more than saying it was something to watch while my poorly spent time passed.
Death of a President (2006)
Dip into the archive's mystery pot.
Anyone who's not seen this, don't feel pressured by the supposed controversy. The whole thing is as entertaining as being steam-rolled into your armchair by a Lee Harvey Oswald documentary. Why the harebrained duo, Range and Finch, picked this subject is obvious when you scan the hair-triggered rags and the inflamed threads on this board.
To explain my low rating. It earned the slothenly four during a long slip from a decent five when it failed to convince me that its creation was justified. Put simply, this was perhaps the most disrespectful tirade against a political figure I have ever seen; they flushed thousands of Franklins down the toilet and this bobbed up? There was no message beyond the flimsily appended, "Patriot ACT, wah wah wah... Patriot ACT, wail cry wail!"
Pathetically shallow.
Or was it? If you put on your special investigation specs and look closely there's a veiled finger pointing at Cheney. Could he have been the second gunman at the Sheraton? Was his motive for the assassination piggy-backing into office? He had demonstrated a keen ability for the murder method earlier in the year and numerous trips to the table would have furnished him with almost as much aortic experience as his crack team of cardiovascular surgeons. All that's left is opportunity. How convenient then that he doesn't show his face until the President is already critical, and then only to try to derail the investigation and cover up his misdeeds.
Very suspicious. Thought provoking! One thumb and a pointer finger up!
World of Warcraft (2005)
Total Immersion Virtual Reality
Sit back and let the screen dissolve the walls from your peripheral. Your vision will brighten to levels you've never experienced before. You have entered Blizzard's latest creation, real_life_+_2! You'll be so amazed by the sheer stupidity that engulfs you that you'll soon forget the everyday imbeciles knocking at your door and gladly spend any time you have and a bit more, engaging in mind-numbing activities.
This virtual collective follows cycles much like those in the three-D. Press your puffy eyes to the screen and the similarities will become clear. Turning on, you already took the necessary first step and abandoned any hope of completing the critical task you scheduled for today. What? You say it wasn't on purpose, you meant to, but you just couldn't move? Now you're getting it. Here's a delicious nutritious binary-encoded reward to promote and strengthen insalubrious root growth. Open up young sedent, quaff some more.
Begin your day as you would any other; the early bird catches the worm. In this case you'll find the far-eastern red-bellied gold gobbler already hard at work. I see you've jumped ahead and introduced yourself to this rare specimen. This action is unadvised, the brief friendship you might strike up will be one you might share with an intestinal parasite. Besides, even if this wasn't a migrant fleeing exploitation in an economic underclass far-far-away and he could understand you, his beak would still be too full of precious metals to answer. In this burden-less collective that accepts button mapping and a few levels of situational logic as hard work, it's best to observe this wonderous beast from afar and voice your disapproval for the support of casuals.
Now, if you cup your ear and lean into the wind, you might hear faint moans of dejection wafting over the hills. They're not cries for help, rather they belong to the social reject that even in a game filled with ambition-less impulse-driven machines finds himself banished to a far off land, picking mushrooms for an imaginary tea party. Not to be confused with the frenzied pitter-patter of obsessive compulsives hastening to treat every last quest as an order and leave no stone unturned; they're altogether quieter in their eagerness and as a result much less burdensome.
All that time wasted already. While you were busy ogling, the day moved into its busiest stage. Watch for the first indicator, society dropping off their mollycoddled mental degenerates at the cyber crèche. Now you'll be able to listen to them gibber incessantly for attention. If you're really lucky the seaside cutouts might treat you to a rippling montage of lingering homo-erotic poses. Flexing their inworldly spoils at an audience too pavlovian to invoke the illiterate jeers you'd expect them to fear from years of playground abuse.
The roaring river becomes a deluge as the bitter workforce returns to the nest with unwanted retellings of humorous stories they were told over an icy water cone. Having deftly lane-hopped their way out of gridlock to squeeze a few more hours out of the day, it's time for them to sit back in the comfort of their own home and enjoy a reenactment of the rush hour traffic they just escaped. Recreated electronically with an exaggerated cast of inconsiderate pedestrians and suicidal cyclists. At this point frustration drives every killing zone into ugly competition and every city becomes a swarming mass of pixels, slowing everything to a slow chug. Tardiness is next to ungodliness and should you fall into this group and fail to escape from the roads of mayhem, collect your punishment, more queueing.
Gradually bedtimes calm the world and sweet quiet drifts across the lands. The inebriated -- those you'd expect to find under a bridge wrestling over a half empty bottle of windowlene -- have managed to claw their way online. Students, mentalists, compensation settlers and the unemployed play out their staggered cycles here, tipping the scales precariously against sleep's favour. Eventually, after hours of scouring the lands forbidden during daylight, they'll pass out and eager chirping will fill the air once again.
Now, what are you doing tomorrow?.. I can hazard a guess.
Poirot: The Mystery of the Spanish Chest (1991)
Agatha spoons another horror from the stock of nightmares.
As I recall this episode it pulls shivers up my spine. The episodes in the television adaptation of Poirot were a bit hit-and-miss, but the particularly brutal murder method in this episode found solid anchor in my brain and still lies tethered thirteen years later. It's so memorable that the mere mention of the series or a even just a glance at another episode brings back this horrid mish mash of Nyctophobia, Claustrophobia and ghoulish ocular trauma.
Imagine yourself trapped inside a trunk -- though matchbox coffin might be more apt. You know the lid isn't locked in place. You could leave if you really wanted, but to escape would reveal yourself to a room that would find you so socially abhorrent that you can just about ignore the nagging compulsion. Light intrudes through a keyhole and those cramps in your constricted limbs, begging for the closest release, persuade you to peer into the glaring stream. As your eye adjusts at a distance that allows unobstructed survey of the room, a long thin object blocks your vision; it punctures your cornea, pushes swiftly through your retina and follows the optic nerve deep into your brain. Here you will remain, undiscovered until the morning, in what you correctly identified as your coffin.
Johnny Mnemonic (1995)
"If Keanu's brain was a computer, how much information do you think it could hold?"
What started with a salesman wickedly musing over a manhattan shared with the stranger to his right is here recognised and thoroughly explored. The frivolous or uneducated reply -- one-hundred and sixty Gigabytes -- brings into question why more of that ample brain power hasn't been put to better use in the cine-classics predating this one. Fortunately, this time, Pinocchio is intentionally typecast as someone whose mind is elsewhere.
There's only one description big enough for this production and that's purposefully capitalised, "Truly Abysmal". Serious writers get turned off the motion picture industry for a fraction of this cruelty. It took Gibson three years in a bottle -- I'm not alleging alcoholism, just that he drifted for a while, aiming his glass bow at rocky coastlines, more than once -- to regain some courage and return to the screen. Admittedly with similar results, but comparatively unnoticed. A tattered but hardened man, he refused to be driven far and resurfaced sometime later on the boob-tube. If only the director had been that fortunate.
Enough about consequences though. The basic story for those of you blissfully unaware involves the adventures of a dimwitted scarecrow who trades the majority of his already limited cranial padding for one-hundred and sixty million million eights of ones and zeroes. The idea being that transporting digital information inside your head is more secure than carrying it around on your person. Unfortunately, or maybe by good fortune, everyone seems to know where the information is hidden and they're all taking turns with the walnut crackers.
Now you're thinking this sounds good. Sadly, it could have been, but this anomaly swallowed any effort or cash incentive thrown at it. Appearances by Takeshi Kitano, Dolph Lundgren, Henry Rollins, Ice-T and even a cybernetically enhanced talking dolphin all failed to save the day. You WILL cry if you purchase viewing rights to this monster. Even if you protect your coffers from the swindlers and manage to sneak a peek, you WILL cry.
Peter Pan (2003)
It IS possible to confront social taboos whilst appeasing the censors.
It's a mite rare to find age restrictions in the mainstream that include the intended demographic. The real life issues dealt with over this one hundred and sixty-nine feet flash by like a red warning light to any budding miscreants that might be watching.
- -
The tale begins in the bedroom of our young leading lady, Wendy, who discovers a prowler tripping over her furniture. Ignoring the sage advice of her youth's guardians she feels compelled to investigate how this degenerate fell between the cracks of common decency. She listens intently to his incoherent ramblings of shadows and their hidden threat and before he's finished she's sharing needles and has been introduced to the wonders of 'fairy dust'. In an addled state she agrees to elope with this panhandling vagabond to a far off country; one that all parents have told their kids to never ever visit.
Peter and Wendy settle down in this forbidden paradise and the young couple start to raise their six strapping young sons. Still feeling light-headed; she accepts them as her own and tumbles into premature motherhood. Throughout the film there are indications there's something not quite right as the little monkeys don't seem be developing properly. A situation not helped by their father's indifference to their bunking off school to trade acts of bravado with a group of deviants led by a creepy anorak calling himself Hook.
Hook, a stalwart progressionist, disproves of Peter's idle conservative ways. He also has his eyes on the vulnerable Wendy and aims to loose the loser's grip on her. In a moment of weakness Peter has second thoughts about giving up his Bachelor lifestyle and sends his spawn into the woods to gather some weeds and reeds to build an outhouse for their mother to live in. Spying his chance, Hook deftly swings manacles over the sleeping girl's wrists and puts her to work on his slave ship -- performing various chores and housekeeping tasks. A situation Wendy describes as being, "Totally unfair!" Further squealing that it's an attempt at, "Completely ruining my life!" Peter hides his joy behind a guise of indifference and quickly slips into mellow unconsciousness to fully enjoy his ill-gotten peace and quiet.
Inevitably supply lines run dry and Peter has to face up to his mistakes. He leaps to and sets off to save Wendy and his children from being plunged into the sea of inconsistency. After a brief bout of frenzied angst-fueled sparring, the determined youngster admits defeat and submits to time. Returning to the country he fled only weeks ago, he narrowly avoids the further shame of becoming a burden upon society by accepting his in-law's generous offer of a festering back room and regular monetary handouts. Here they live miserably-ever-after, dutifully raising their illegitimate gaggle for the remainder of their adolescence.
- -
Let that be a warning to you, you little blighters!
Crash and Burn (1990)
Kiss that Ozone layer goodbye and keep to the shade; the future's a harsh ultraviolet flooded wasteland.
Big Corp, Unicom, isn't content with controlling the national media and jumps at the chance to regulate all forms of communication. They'll do anything to keep post-apocalyptic rebel groups from linking up and forming a resistance movement. Not falling short of sending infiltration teams to cut down any dissenting bodies.
One of the few remaining bastions of free speech, an old industrial plant now housing a T.V station, weathers sand and heat to bring us quality Public Access programming. Unbeknownst to them, Unicom has sent a deadly package.
- - -
This B mech-thriller budgets well. The effects aren't spectacular, but the actors do their best to fill with some great characters. Monstrous mechanoid fans be warned though, the goliath depicted on the cover only appears twice, briefly. The antagonist wears altogether softer soles.
Domino (2005)
Too many liberties taken to coax a morally split audience to the screen.
Aledgedly based on the rebellion of Dominique Harvey, this pop flick is so blurred it questions which of the writers should have gotten the credit. Steve Barancik of "Last Seduction" fame pops in half-way to strap a feminist femme fatale to his bed, again. I pity gullible teenagers convinced this is a homily for budding women. Try to follow this roller-coaster ride of morality and you'll see the anti-hero briefly touch steely strength and confidence; plummet into whoredom; and swerve smack into hair-pulling tantrums which aren't far from stomping her feet and tearfully screaming, "Nobody loves me!" I actually felt sorry for the drug-addled sociopath being portrayed as on par with a nine year old girl. Why would someone so securely contained and self assured demean herself by throwing all that flesh around? She wouldn't. Why would a focused professional make such a dramatic departure from principles she had been preaching about five minutes ago to save a relatively unknown troublemaker's child? She wouldn't.
This production miscast on a massive scale and it showed. The lead was the equivalent to Calista Flockhart boarding the Nostromo to save the Earth from aliens. The keen and well established cinematographer was invited to slop formulaic plot; containing trace amounts of soggy substrate, once constituting a story; all over the screen.
Fie the Producers who released this cash glomming glam posthumously. I wouldn't be surprised if they perched their heels on the extinguished rebel's coffin, wiggled their toes in defiance, and beamed smiles at her while she spun furiously like a dynamo.
Skyggen (1998)
J.B, hacker extraordinaire, retires early and finds excitement sifting through records of medial security breaches.
As seems to be the norm, J.B finishes his daily regimen of exercise, leaves his programmed (alter) ego online to do his paid work and sets out to assist his friend/love intrigue Miauv with hers. Her private investigations conveniently peek in, through a camera lens, on one of J.B's colleagues at the moment he's sexed to death. The duo spring into action; but catching the killer proves difficult. An angry ice climber slows the foot chase before it begins and after a brief vehicular distraction the chase tries to return to foot. Here the brazen technophile shows her ineptitude by locking herself in her car, with an over-sized key fob, while the assassin saunters away. All seems lost, but subsequent analysis of the surveillance footage reveals someone well-known was behind the trigger of the murder weapon.
Forcefully summoned to an audience with his boss, Cyberworld domain overlord Stoiss, J.B discovers his other colleague has also met a similar end. Fingered for both of the deaths and the theft of a significant sum of credits from Stoiss' online account; robbed of his online ego and landed with a pair of knuckle-dragging goons and a time bomb pacemaker in place of a flat lined heart; J.B is sent forth into the moral wasteland to retrieve the money and clear his name before the mechanical hourglass runs dry.
Although our hero emanates an aura befitting a prime hacker, he makes no attempt to deny his overdependance on scripted tools. While he complains bitterly about being unable to complete the job unassisted, Miauv wakes and sets off to save him. Ultimately, despair triumphs and it's down to J.B's hasty scheming to untangle the crossed players and restore stability to the world and its digital sub-unit. Log on to a finale of double-crosses and real-to-life metered out justice.
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Overall enjoyable. One of the least disappointing cyberpunk themed flicks I've come across. Nothing too far-out plotwise, some good acting to contrast with bad. Visually conservative with some locations, probably due to budget constraints, but not in an overly apparent or off-putting way. The computer environment effects are a little dated, but in my opinion they're still stylish in their own way.
I found little sense in other comments comparing this to Blade Runner or the Matrix. Apart from a futuristic backdrop I can't see anything to suggest any script cloning has taken place.
Shootfighter: Fight to the Death (1993)
Follow the trail of breadcrumbs out of the ring and sooner or later you'll sink into the bloody sand beneath it.
A quarter million grand prize waiting at the top of the shadowy podium pits hungry combatants with diverse fighting styles against one another. Some fighters more aware of the extent of the changes to the rules than others.
Enter two fleet footed late twenties with a rad taste for cheesy ambient music and chest thumping teenage dialogue. Frustrated with the pace of the official ladder these restless slow-bloomers watch a promotional shootfighting video and quickly decide to take time out of their busy chick wooing schedule to head for Mexico.
After less than glowing results in the first leg, the two disagree when it comes to upping the stakes to move into the next round. They go their separate ways, rebellious drifter taking straight arrow's place training for the Karate Regionals while he adopts his own training regime to ready himself for the shootfighting finals.
The finals unveil the brutality in a flurry of heated death matches and without an exit his buddy has to return to fight by his side. Foolhardy deal making tests the limits of their friendship and ultimately presses their trainer and shootfighting master into the match he refused the exiled leader of the underground Mexican ring all those years ago.
Class of 1999 (1990)
High school insurgency
High security academic institution, Kenedy High, nestled in a laxly enforced exclusion zone is spiralling out of control. There's no mention of the shadowy figures financing the well armed coup, but be assured even the police are powerless to interfere.
Enter a myriad of security contractors who vie for a slice of the market. Armed checkpoints confiscate weapons and patrols rattle their batons through the halls between classes. Inevitably the system fails to prevent further dissent and a military contractor is given carte blanche to kick the usurpers back in line.
While the students refuse to cooperate with their state-sanctioned programming, reprogrammed cyborgs are dispatched to dish out governor approved authoritarian feedback. An over-abundance of hijinks, however, leads to shorted out circuits and fuzzy operational parameters and before you can yell, "SARGE!", the Nam'esquire trio have flashed back to their original purpose programming. From this point on guerrilla tactics are the name of the game, polarising the student body to the point where they can be picked off unnoticed, one by one.
Can the confused Kenedians unite in time to fight off their trigger-happy overlords or will the school be rid of moped-riding gun-slinging rebels for good? Will the sponsored civil war lead back to a productive era of teacher student harmony? Tune in to find out.
The Mechanik (2005)
Dolph goes quail hunting
His family killed dead by the Mafia in a drug deal gone bad, Dolph returns to Russia from a stateside sabbatical to finish the job he failed six years earlier. With the added goal of rescuing a pimped Americenne as moral ammunition.
The acting leaves you expecting a sudden plot twist where it's revealed you were duped and you are watching a cheap porno. While the whole time you're wondering what kind of sicko gives a bunch of Russian kids guns and tells them to watch Dolph's back. Naturally they pass the Mechanik's pop sweep test, but as time passes and bullets bounce through him into his comrades it's apparent they won't last the journey.
Fortunately for progression's sake the Mafioso had the sense to read the script the night before. While the good guys favour plenty of pit stops to slow their escape in a clapped-out van the bad guys take a laid-back approach arriving comfortably in stylish executive saloons. Interrogating discarded support actors until the general direction of the next set is revealed.
The showdown redefines the term 'tactical weapons' with bullet-strider Dolph picking an over and under shotgun to irritate the opposition into submission while his rag-tag troupe make every attempt to get themselves shot. In a moment of climactic tension the drop off driver reverses a front-wheel drive into a shallow ditch and is righteously executed for his lack of skills. Giddy from the acquisition of a suitcase full of dollars the boss trips headfirst into hostage soup. Dolph fishes him out only to put him back with both barrels.
Thankfully, after a brief tear-jerking mother daughter reunion you can switch off, go to sleep and repress all that trauma.