The Hollywood Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse
As a post-apocalypse aficionado, I make it my duty to withstand a periodic trip to a mainstream, Loews-style theater, the kind that plays commercials on its 100 foot screens at volume levels comparable to an armada of jet skis for 30 minutes before the previews, in search of the elusive, ultimate end-of-the-world blockbuster film. Generally I tend toward the talky, angsty independent type of movie, in which no semiautomatics appear, and no animals talk with digitized lips, but the chink in my armor is this matter of the apocalypse.
To really do the end of days justice, I am thinking you probably need a few million in your production budget, at least. Now Wes Anderson is great and everything, and who can ever get enough of sullen, post-comedic Bill Murray cameos and mannered 60's British pop? Not me. But when it comes to aerial shots of panicked quarantine victims being denied access to the last boat off Manhattan Island, bring on the cheeseball directors and their Land Rovers of cash.
Each time I gamble another handful of hours on a new EOTW experience, I always naively hope that this time, the parties involved in its creation will finally locate some actual screen writers and graphic designers to hammer out the details. Because for the love of god, if you can't find someone to write a compelling story without mile-wide holes in the plot, and you can't find a couple of graphic design clowns from a technical college who can't seem to manage to make lions not look like Monchichis from Second Life with ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS in your budget, then my friend, you are a the living definition of an idiot.
Which brings us to Big Willie Style, tearing down the florid, decaying streets of New York in a Matchbox car, hunting digital pronghorns with a semiautomatic while product-placement billboards for Yahoo and Loews Theaters scroll by. Unlike legions of ironically undiscriminating movie critics, I am strangely unmoved by the unpeopled streets of cinema's most clichéd major city as Big Willy wanders around, practicing his tee shot and bonding with mannequins to show us how crazy he's getting, what with this burden of being earth's last remaining benevolent military scientist with six pack abs. Oddly, no signs of the 1.5 million corpses that you would expect to see littering the country's most populous urban area in the recent shadow of a sudden epidemic appear anywhere onscreen.
And yet these are trivial, forgivable matters when stacked against my old cinematic nemesis, oh yes. The digiwolves.
They are back, my friend.
To really do the end of days justice, I am thinking you probably need a few million in your production budget, at least. Now Wes Anderson is great and everything, and who can ever get enough of sullen, post-comedic Bill Murray cameos and mannered 60's British pop? Not me. But when it comes to aerial shots of panicked quarantine victims being denied access to the last boat off Manhattan Island, bring on the cheeseball directors and their Land Rovers of cash.
Each time I gamble another handful of hours on a new EOTW experience, I always naively hope that this time, the parties involved in its creation will finally locate some actual screen writers and graphic designers to hammer out the details. Because for the love of god, if you can't find someone to write a compelling story without mile-wide holes in the plot, and you can't find a couple of graphic design clowns from a technical college who can't seem to manage to make lions not look like Monchichis from Second Life with ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS in your budget, then my friend, you are a the living definition of an idiot.
Which brings us to Big Willie Style, tearing down the florid, decaying streets of New York in a Matchbox car, hunting digital pronghorns with a semiautomatic while product-placement billboards for Yahoo and Loews Theaters scroll by. Unlike legions of ironically undiscriminating movie critics, I am strangely unmoved by the unpeopled streets of cinema's most clichéd major city as Big Willy wanders around, practicing his tee shot and bonding with mannequins to show us how crazy he's getting, what with this burden of being earth's last remaining benevolent military scientist with six pack abs. Oddly, no signs of the 1.5 million corpses that you would expect to see littering the country's most populous urban area in the recent shadow of a sudden epidemic appear anywhere onscreen.
And yet these are trivial, forgivable matters when stacked against my old cinematic nemesis, oh yes. The digiwolves.
They are back, my friend.
posted by Strikethru at
10:35 PM
1 Comments:
It is definitely one of the suckier movies I have ever seen in my life. Bad acting, bad writing, bad pixels on the vampzombies and digiwolves. A movie like that should be able to give a person nightmares, but sadly, I will only be able to laugh when i think about this one.
Please, save your money and your time and go see juno instead if you want to be entertained (and bonus: no digiwolves).
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