REVIEW: Redline

I've been on something of an anime kick as of late (getting up to speed on both Konosuba and My Hero Academia in less than a week), so it felt appropriate to finally tick off a film that's been sitting in my backlog for a good couple of years now; 2009's Redline. I normally tend to avoid summarizing movies as "X crossed with Y", but I simply can't help myself in the case of Redline. This is Speed Racer crossed with Wacky Races in the style of Mad Max: Fury Road, but in space. It's a film every bit as absurd as that description, more than making up for what it lacks in plot with some of the most stunningly engaging animation I've ever seen.

Set in the far reaches of space, the film follows "Sweet" JP (Takuya Kimura), a rockabilly racer with a checkered past whose driving skills are nearly as impressive as his pompadour. When JP finds himself voted in as a participant in the titular Redline race (a highly anticipated annual event using traditional motors only), he can't help but say no, even though the race is set to be held on the aptly-named Roboworld, a planet populated entirely by cyborg zealots. The president of Roboworld (Kōsei Hirota) is staunchly against hosting the Redline on his planet, as he fears the broadcast of the race could reveal a number of illegal military operations (which would undoubtedly violate a great number of treaties); as such, he has pledged to terminate any and all racers he finds on his planet. As if that wasn't enough, JP is oblivious to the treachery of his longtime partner, Frisbee (Tadanobu Asano), a mechanic who's gotten in deep with the mob. Not only does he need to win the Redline, he has to survive, all while pursuing the heart of fellow racer, Sonoshee McLaren (Yû Aoi). It's a romance/drama/action/sci-fi extravaganza and I honestly had so so much fun with it.

I tend to use the term "feast for the eyes" regrettably often whenever it comes to discussing animated films, and Redline is definitely no slouch when it comes to visuals. I love everything about the way this movie looks, feels, and moves. The character designs are imaginative and endearing, never getting too silly or outlandish so as to distract from the action. Along with JP and Sonoshee, we have a dirty-cop gorilla man (chasing after the other participants for speeding, naturally), a pair of bounty hunters that definitely aren't parodies of Batman and Robin, and a well-mannered robot who literally is his own car (among others). It feels trite to say something like "this film is bursting at the seams with pure imagination", as if something as abstract and subjective as imagination could be measured, but I really can't think of a better way to express myself here. It's an animated feature that most definitely leaves a big impression. There are obvious influences from existing works (see the initial Speed Racer/Wacky Races/Mad Max comparison), but it's got its own distinct identity as well. The designs of everything from the racers to their vehicles to the various planets themselves are just so vivid and creative; it's one of those films like Wizards or Fantastic Planet, where I just want to completely immerse myself in the art direction and design.

With such fantastic designs, it should go without saying that the animation here is also top-knotch. I don't know if I've ever uttered, "wew, that looked expensive" at an animated film as often as I did with Redline. According to my rudimentary research, the film was in production for some seven years, and took over 100,000 individual drawings to complete; rest assured, the final project looks it. I especially loved the fish-eye effect used to convey mind-blistering speeds (a winning combo when paired with JP's towering hairdo). If you're into psychadelic visuals like those found in FLCL or Yellow Submarine, you'd be doing yourself a disservice not to add Redline to your "must watch" list.

If I have any real criticism, it simply has to do with the plot. Redline is by no means a complex or thematically-heavy movie; there's a race, our main character wants to win said race, said main character drives really really fast. That's about it. It's most definitely more about the visuals here than it is the plot, which I honestly feel is somewhat forgivable, given the circumstances. The entire plot of Redline focuses in on this one race, and damned if it isn't one hell of a race. It doesn't attempt to be anything more than it is by spouting off pseudo-intellectualisms in an attempt to trick the viewer into thinking that there's anything close to a healthy balance between style and substance. This is a film that 110% knows what it is about, and I honestly respect that. The filmmakers knew that they were making a movie about really cool-looking cars that drive really quickly across stunningly-detailed alien planets, and that's exactly what we get. 

Even then, with how simple the plot is, I found myself surprisingly invested in the drama between JP and Frisbee; the film does slow down at points to give us some insight into their history together, allowing us time to breathe between the insanely engaging action beats. For as simplistic as the plot is, the character interactions are given a good amount of attention (at least moreso than one might expect with a project as visually-focused as this). The time we spend with our main cast isn't just a formality before we can get back to the fast cars and hellacious crashes. Rather than having the characters outright state what their motivations are, the audience is left to piece everything together from implicit details after the credits roll; some might call this lazy, I call it efficient. Both the film and the audience are on the same page, the movie's strongest suit is the manner in which it liberally doles out speed and adrenaline. Additional exposition would have just weighed everything down, so I appreciate the film's confidence in its audience to figure out why certain characters act the way that they do without spoon-feeding it to us, getting in the way of the main event in the process.

I don't really have much else to say about Redline. It's an awesome little flick. If you're a fan of animation (or anime specifically), consider this mandatory viewing; the same goes for those of you who are into cars. It's not an overly-complicated movie, it's just an all-around good time. The plot isn't much to write home about, but Redline more than makes up for its lack of subtextual depth with its positively stunning animation and art direction; watch it on a big screen with a good sound system and all the lights turned off, it'll blow you away.

REVIEW: Fantastic Planet

As I've gotten older, I've developed a growing fascination with outsider animation. Don't get me wrong, I still greatly enjoy the annual fare from Disney and Pixar, but there's something special about the outlandish, surreal, and decidedly more adult-oriented animated films of the 70's and 80's; something that was definitely lost around the time of the Disney Renaissance. With Disney cornering the market on squeaky-clean family fun, there existed a clear niche for animation that explored themes and ideas that the House of Mouse wouldn't dare touch; a niche that was soundly filled by filmmakers like Ralph Bakshi and Don Bluth. It was imagination unrestricted by the limits of the MPAA, and it pains me to see such fantastic examples of creative expression dragged down by the most braindead form of praise art can possibly recieve; "woah, they must have been on drugs to think of this!" Whenever anyone says this, it essentially means that they have such a limited imagination that the only conceivable way a human could create anything even the slightest bit innovative or out of the ordinary is by way of a hefty dose of psychedelics. Which, to clarify, doesn't mean that drug-use didn't influence some of these films (especially considering the era they were born from). But the fact of the matter is that movies like today's film, Fantastic Planet, have far more to offer than just some trippy visuals. Behind all the surreal imagery and whacked-out animation lies subtext, and it's this vital facet of storytelling that elevates films like Fantastic Planet above simply being the cinematic equivalent of a lava lamp.

An adaptation of the 1957 French novel, Oms en série, the film takes place in the distant future, on the far-away alien world of Ygam. Long after wiping out their own civilizations on Earth, humans were brought to Ygam by the Draags, an advanced race of blue giants. On Ygam, humans (known as Oms, a play on the French word "homme") are regarded as little more than common vermin; while a good number of Draags have domesticated Oms they keep as pets, there are also roaming colonies of savage Oms who are routinely exterminated (not unlike rats or mice). The film follows one Om in particular, Terr (voiced by Barry Bostwick in the English dub); orphaned as a baby, he finds himself adopted by the daughter of a Draag diplomat, eventually escaping and joining a wild colony of Oms with the intent of ending the oppression of his species once and for all.

The most immediately striking aspect of the entire movie (and the detail which lead me to eventually watch it) is the art design, care of painter/writer Roland Topor. Given the setting and themes of the story, it's immensely important that Topor was able to create a world that looks truly and honestly alien in nature; none of the creatures on Ygam even remotely resemble anything on Earth, and the eerie landscapes help foster an atmosphere of unfamiliarity and foreboding. It all really adds to the situation the Oms find themselves in; you're able to get a powerful sense of how far humanity has fallen and how separated they are from the civilization we know today (even if their base instincts and motivations remain more or less the same, but more on that later). Admittedly, there are moments here and there where the design falters and aspects of the Draag civilization end up looking as though they're simply meant to appear strange for strange's sake; this isn't a film like Treasure Planet where every single aspect of the film's visuals are designed with the idea that it must serve some sort of in-universe purpose. Then again, one must think of the artist's intent when judging aspects like this; world-building isn't exactly meant to be the main takeaway of Fantastic Planet. The subtext is meant to be the primary focus here, and in that area it very much succeeds (but again, more on that later).

My only other gripe with the design of this film is the limited animation. Whereas films like Yellow Submarine give the impression of a watercolor painting brought to life, Fantastic Planet feels much more akin to the work of Terry Gilliam (who, coincidentally, would release his animated short, The Miracle of Flight, just a year later). While Topor's designs are hauntingly beautiful, the animation at play simply doesn't do them justice; everything moves in a very stilted, deliberate manner and character movements tend to lack any and all sense of weight. I also wasn't overly fond of the soundtrack (care of French jazz pianist, Alain Goraguer); while some praise the psychedelic atmosphere the score brings to mind, I found that it just didn't work for me. This is a thoughtful, surreal experience filled with haunting visuals and themes drenched in existential dread. It feels like exactly the sort of concept that would be best complimented by an equally eerie orchestral or prog-rock score, only to be undercut by a dated and altogether unfitting collection of funky beats and wah-wah guitars. This is a score that would have worked perfectly in just about any other film, but just feels wrong here. Then again, it could also be argued that the ill-fitting music and limited animation only serve to enhance the existing atmosphere of unfamiliarity and unease, so these are aesthetic details that (much like the all-important subtext) are free to be left up to the viewer's individual interpretation.

As I mentioned before, inspired visuals can only support so much. While it's very much true that film is a visual medium, it is the way that movies are able to combine all manner of sensory expression that sets film aside from other artistic outlets. When a film ignores any of the tools provided, focusing purely on visuals and ignoring its story (or vise-versa), it is doing itself a disservice. In the case of Fantastic Planet, you come for the tripped-out visuals, but stay for the thought-provoking subtext. The film raises a number of intriguing (and, depending on your perspective, uncomfortable) questions about the nature of life and sentience. What makes the life of one being inherently more valuable than another? By what standard do we judge if a living thing is sentient, or civilized, or even alive? There's obviously a clear "how would you like it?" aspect regarding man's relationship with the natural world, but in truth there's so much more here to unpack and explore. It's very easy to feel inherent sympathy for the Oms, the same way it's very easy to feel a deep resentment towards the Draags. We want to side with the downtrodden and oppressed humans over the beady-eyed, emotionless aliens, despite the fact that the Draags are us. They adhere to their own, odd social rituals and exert callous control over the natural world without a care, simply because they've deemed themselves the most advanced race and that gives them the right to do as they please. 

There's an obvious environmentalist tilt to the whole thing, but it never feels so cut-and-dry, so narrow in scope. One could also easily view the conflict between the Oms and the Draags (in which one species, deemed inferior by those with more power and technology, is systematically exterminated) as an allegory for genocide and racism. The Draags don't think much of the Oms until the Oms become educated and organized; then the downtrodden and oppressed suddenly become a legitimate threat to their oppressors, and only then is peace and equality considered to be an option. Personally, I took the film as a metaphor for how humanity is often manipulated into destroying itself by any number of higher powers (be it competing governments, religions, or what have you); the Draags often make their domesticated Oms fight for each other's amusement, inspiring internal conflict and squabbling among the oppressed, preventing actual progress from being made towards freedom, enlightenment, and prosperity. Whatever your personal interpretation, they all feel equally valid. Not in a half-baked, lazy kind of way, as though the filmmakers didn't put enough thought into what they actually wanted to say with this film, but rather in a sense that denotes extreme care taken on the part of the filmmakers to ensure that the underlying messages could be conveyed to any number of perspectives. The fact that this film is open to so many interpretations could easily come off as needlessly vague in theory; in practice, however, it feels like anything but, and it's this kind of potential for exploration that represents what I consider to be Fantastic Planet's true worth as a film.

In terms of entertainment, I'm not 100% certain I'd recommend Fantastic Planet to just anyone. While I definitely took a lot away from it, I wouldn't exactly call this an "entertaining" movie; despite being just over an hour long, it's quite slow-paced and very dense from a conceptual standpoint. It's not the kind of thing I see myself ever throwing on to unwind after a long day at the office. That said, as a film, I consider this to be mandatory viewing, especially if you consider yourself a fan of animation. The art direction is worth the investment alone and the underlying themes and messages are sure to stick with you well after the credits finish rolling. This is the kind of movie I can't help but recommend everyone watch at least once (although I'm sure repeat viewings will do nothing but enhance one's overall experience). If you feel as though you're in the proper mindset for something in this wheelhouse, you'd be hard pressed to go wrong with giving Fantastic Planet a watch.

REVIEW: The Cloverfield Paradox

I've said it before and I'll say it again; Netflix really will greenlight just about anything. True as that is, they can almost be forgiven for pulling the trigger on The Cloverfield Paradox, the latest entry in J.J. Abrams' Cloververse. After 10 Cloverfield Lane (my personal favorite film of 2016), a sci-fi horror anthology series seemed like a sure thing. With J.J. Abrams' considerable funds and studio clout being used to thrust smaller directors with new and original ideas into the spotlight, I found myself incredibly excited to see what would come out of this fresh take on the rapidly-aging "cinematic universe" gimmick. I remember being so excited during the Superbowl last Sunday; the next Cloverfield movie is already finished, and I can watch it right after the game. Even if you're not particularly a fan of these movies, it's impossible to deny how well J.J. Abrams and company understand the ins and outs of stunt marketing. Unfortunately, I'd later discover that stunt marketing is about all that The Cloverfield Paradox gets right as I took in what might be the first major disappointment of 2018.

The setting of The Cloverfield Paradox is something of a paradox in and of itself. It takes place in the year 2028; the world is caught in the grip of an energy crisis and war looms over the horizon. Orbiting around Earth is the aptly-named Cloverfield Space Station, manned by a team of scientists tasked with successfully activating a particle accelerator that could provide free, unlimited energy for the entire planet. And herein lies the first problem; we aren't certain if this is the same universe as the original Cloverfield or if it's a totally separate timeline (as was the case with 10 Cloverfield Lane). If this is the same timeline as the original Cloverfield, then the canon narrative is left with more retcons, plot holes, and timeline disparities than the Star Wars prequels and OT Special Editions combined. However, if this is it's own original universe, then the film is exposed for being a shallow cash-grab, incorporating existing elements from the first Cloverfield movie for marketability's sake and nothing more. As I said, it's a paradox (where neither outcome particularly works in the film's favor). I don't want to say much more regarding the plot, as the story is easily the most interesting and engaging aspect of this entire mess. 

This is a movie where the plot is driven moreso by the novel concept rather than the characters. The situation that the crew of the Cloverfield Station have been placed in is a frightening and fascinating one; imagine floating through the emptiness of space, only to look out the window to discover that planet Earth has disappeared. It reminds me a lot of Event Horizon in this regard, but done in a much more interesting, coherent way. The station  doesn't just turn into a haunted mansion, there's a steady rhythm of mystery and gradual payoff that keeps the viewer invested until the final act. However, the film also suffers from many of the same pitfalls that befell Event Horizon, namely paper-thin characters and tonal inconsistency.

The only actor really pulling their weight is Gugu Mbatha-Raw as our main character, Ava Hamilton. She gets all of the characterization and backstory, while everyone else gets basically nothing. There was one point in the story where I was certain her arc was going to take a sudden dark turn, only for things to play out in a much more conventional way. In fairness, I can't really hold that against the film; Gugu Mbatha-Raw gives a really solid performance whereas everyone else is passable at best, and while her character arc is nothing revolutionary, at least it's something. She's the only person we see with some kind of backstory and emotional stake in the events of the plot (aside from Elizabeth Debicki's character, but she hardly gets enough screentime to make it worthwhile).

The Cloverfield Paradox also commits the cardinal sin of utterly wasting Daniel Brühl. He's proven in films like Inglorious Basterds and Captain America: Civil War that he's capable of giving an intense, impactful performance (even when confined to a mere supporting role), but here he's given absolutely nothing to do. His character is the German guy, and that's it. There's a moment early on where the Russian crew member (played by Askel Hennie) accuses Brühl's character of sabotaging the particle accelerator; they've been trying to get it working for the past two years, and Germany is on the verge of taking military action against Russia. The implication here being that Brühl's character may be a German operative planted in the Cloverfield Station in order to ensure Germany has justification to invade Russia. It's a really fascinating idea with a lot of potential for engaging character drama, only to be dropped within minutes and never referenced again (except for a brief fake-out scene during the second act, which is similarly brushed aside without any fuss or muss).

That said, the hands-down weakest element in this entire cast is Chris O'Dowd as Mundy, the comic-relief Irish engineer. Look, I love The IT Crowd as much as the average person (considering the continent I'm on, likely more than the average person). And I totally get where they were coming from with this character; in films like this, it can help to introduce a little levity so the audience doesn't get burned out on tension. Even films like Alien (which Paradox takes obvious influence from in a number of areas) had moments of comedic banter to help endear the doomed crew to the audience. I get it. But O'Dowd just feels completely out-of-place in this movie, cracking jokes and one-liners at the most horrendously inappropriate of times. Again, I understand levity, but one doesn't typically pull out a wacky quip immediately after watching one of their friends and co-workers convulse to death, vomiting up blood and earthworms as they go. The rest of the characters weren't fleshed out in the slightest, but they at least generally acted like human beings might act when met a horrific or distressing circumstance. The material given to O'Dowd actively drags the rest of the movie down and completely kills what could have been a really solid sense of atmosphere.

The paper-thin characters are nothing, however, to this film's true fatal flaw. Like with 10 Cloverfield Lane, this was not originally a Cloverfield movie. Rather, it was to be a standalone film titled God Particle; it wasn't until part-way through production that J.J. Abrams decided it should be a sequel to the original Cloverfield, adding additional scenes during filming to tie the two stories closer together. Which brings us to our B-story, where we follow Hamilton's husband, Michael (Roger Davies) on Earth where (presumably, it's never 100% confirmed) the events of the first Cloverfield film are taking place. This side-plot is the death-knell for this movie; whenever it shows up, it distracts from the main plot, adding nothing substantial beyond a series of potential plot holes. The only purpose it serves is to justify billing this half-decent sci-fi film as a Cloverfield movie. 

It's worth noting that a similar thing happened with 10 Cloverfield Lane (originally a spec-script known as Cellar), but it's also worth noting that 10 Cloverfield Lane wasn't a direct continuation of the Cloverfield story. It took place in a totally different universe, and while some were naturally disappointed not to get any further context on the mysteries established in the first movie, it managed to stand on its own as a well-made film. The Cloverfield name was slapped on for marquee value, but the overall plot and script were more or less unchanged. Compare this to The Cloverfield Paradox where (prepare for the most obvious spoiler of all time) the iconic Cloverfield monster does make an on-screen appearance. Now normally I might write this off as a creative choice; the filmmakers laying the groundwork for more films to come. But we know explicitly why this thing was put in the movie. We know that J.J. Abrams and director Julius Onah didn't plan for this to be a Cloverfield movie when they started filming. Which brings me to a major problem I've noticed with a lot of Abram's recent work.

Looking at Star Wars: The Force Awakens and now this, it's clear that J.J. Abrams doesn't think long-term when it comes to plotting out his stories. The Force Awakens seemed ripe with set-up for future films, but after The Last Jedi came out, we learned that that wasn't the case at all. Abrams simply wrote a bunch of unanswered questions and passed the buck to Rian Johnson, assuming it would all work out. It's a storytelling technique Abrams refers to as "the mystery box"; while I can appreciate the intentions behind wanting to preserve a sense of wonder and mystery to surprise the audience, there's a fine line between creating engaging mysteries and simply making things up as you go. And that's not to say that filmmakers can't create something great by accident; we only remember Jaws as a masterpiece of suspense because Steven Spielberg couldn't get the mechanical shark to work. He didn't intend to shoot the film the way he did, the end product is simply the result of a filmmaker having to creatively work around a technical problem on-set. 

With The Cloverfield Paradox, I'm reminded of the Halloween franchise; originally intended to be an anthology of horror films (each telling a different story set on Halloween), the series turned back to relying on the established characters and story of the first two films after Halloween 3 had people wondering where Michael Meyers was. It's the same exact situation here, but with the Cloverfield monster. As the film ended, I was left thinking less about the actual plot and characters and more about how this could possibly fit into the existing canon of the first film (if it even does at all). Shoehorning in all these elements from Cloverfield comes off as nothing more than a cheap and transparent marketing gimmick; I know I likely wouldn't have given this a chance, had it not been called The Cloverfield Paradox. I don't like to admit it, but it's true. They got me, hook, line, and sinker. The film pretends like it's going to explain the origins of the Cloverfield monster in order to distract from the weaker elements of the main plot, but in doing so only serves to introduce the most flagrant flaws of the entire film. They soundly shot themselves in the foot on this one and the end result is downright embarrassing.

The Cloverfield Paradox is not a good film. Granted, it's not terrible, but it's certainly not good. The only reason I'm not angrier about it is that I didn't pay money to see this in a theater; Abrams and company made the right decision in unloading this on Netflix. I feel like most people lower their expectations for anything labeled a "Netflix Original", and while the reviews for The Cloverfield Paradox are hardly glowing as is, I guarantee the response would have been downright brutal had it actually gone to cinemas. This works out great for J.J. and pals, covering up their lazy storytelling with a soundly lowered-bar, but the real victim here is Netflix. They've worked so hard in recent years to establish themselves as the next big entertainment outlet, only to constantly put their energy behind projects like this. Granted, there are gems on there if you're willing to look, but constantly giving top billing to its more mediocre fare like The Cloverfield Paradox is what keeps people from taking Netflix seriously as a legitimate media empire. It's why "Netflix original movie" has all the punch and legitimacy of "made-for-TV movie". There was a time when everyone assumed Netflix was ahead of the curve, taking risks with their content and thinking outside the box. But now, much like with J.J. Abrams, it's clear that they're just throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks. Which is fine, until things just stop sticking. If you're a fan of the Cloverfield series thus far, there's a good chance you've already watched The Cloverfield Paradox. If you're just tuning in, this is without a doubt the weakest entry in the series. As far as horror/sci-fi films go, you could certainly do worse, but you could also objectively do better. My advice? Just watch 10 Cloverfield Lane. If you've already seen it, watch it again. You'll get more out of it than I did with this.

REVIEW: Alien Covenant

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

REVIEW: Alien (2003 Director's Cut)

Film, being an art form, is largely a subjective medium. Different movies appeal to different people with different tastes. The vast majority of things I write about here is entirely opinion-based, built off of my own thoughts and personal experiences. However, there are some instances where a film's quality can be measured on an objective scale (for better or for worse). Ridley Scott's 1979 film, Alien, is one such movie, in that it is unquestionably an objective masterpiece, seamlessly blending the genres of horror and sci-fi. The late 70's saw something of a revival for sci-fi movies; the novelty of space travel had worn off in the years since man walked on the moon and most science fiction was regarded as childish and cornball. Much like the titular creature in Alien, the genre was primed for rapid and radical evolution. Star Wars brought the concept of space adventures back into the public eye, re-framing classic story elements in a fantastical and imaginative world. Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey presented a view of a future that could very well happen, albeit in a far-out, shiny, and sterile fashion. Out of all the films of this sci-fi resurgence, Alien was the first to approach the concept of futuristic space travel as something not only mundane, but as something we might want to reconsider altogether.

The plot is as classic and straightforward as can be, incorporating age-old haunted house tropes in a new and fascinating locale. The crew of the space-freighter Nostromo is awakened from hyper-sleep after the ship's computer picks up a distress signal. As per company guidelines, the crew is required to investigate, touching down on a barren, primordial planet. An away-team is assembled to explore the source of the signal, a massive and foreboding derelict space craft. Once the crew is back on the ship, they discover that a hostile alien creature has stowed away on the Nostromo, skulking through its claustrophobic corridors and picking people off one by one. It's essentially a slasher in space, but to simply describe it as just that and nothing more would be a gross oversimplification, ignoring just why this film works as well as it does.

The most immediately striking element is the set design, care of Michael Seymour. The Nostromo is an industrialized maze, filled with tight hallways, dangling wires, and deceptive shadows. It's the perfect hiding place for a biomechanical creepy-crawly like the Xenomorph, in that we never know what could be lurking around each corner (or in the walls, or in the ceiling, or in the vents, or, well, anywhere for that matter). By contrast, the derelict ship (designed alongside the creature by the brilliant H.R. Giger) takes inspiration from Gothic architecture, boasting high, vaulted ceilings and intricate details. We spend the first part of the film getting acquainted with the cramped, manmade halls of the Nostromo; by the time we enter the derelict, the change in scenery is so radical that we immediately know something isn't quite right. The film revolves around a fear of the unknown and exhibits a tremendous talent for subverting audience expectations.

Alien is very much a slow burn; it isn't until a good half hour in that anything even remotely out of the ordinary happens. This sense of routine, of making space travel into something totally mundane, plays a big part in just what makes the movie work. The Nostromo isn't an intrepid starship in search of adventure and discovery, so much as it is the outer space equivalent of a big rig, hauling freight from one destination to another. The crew isn't a gang of strange and exotic spacemen; instead, they're simply a bunch of blue-collar working joes. The first time we meet them, they've just woken up from stasis and are making small talk over the breakfast table, discussing their pay and the quality of the coffee, cigarettes in hand. The film goes a long way to sell the audience on its premise by making the world feel both believable and organic. In doing so, the premise becomes that much more real, a vital component of any effective horror movie. 

The film is also masterfully adept in manipulating an audience's expectations. I've said before that a well-crafted horror film will find a way to "train" the viewer to respond subconsciously to specific cues, only to subvert those expectations when delivering the scare. For example, there's a scene early on in the second act in which Ripley (Sigourney Weaver), Parker (Yaphet Kotto), and Brett (Harry Dean Stanton) are looking for the newborn alien. The tension builds and builds as they open up a locker, only to find Ripley's cat, Jones, instead (in what is possibly the movie's only totally pedestrian jumpscare). Soon after, Brett wanders off to find the cat, only to come across the newly-grown alien instead. By now, a subconscious pattern has been established; looking for the alien means that they'll find the cat, looking for the cat means that they'll find the alien. Which is why, near the end of the film, we fully expect Ripley to run into the alien when she hears a noise she assumes to be her cat. Instead, the noise actually was the cat this time; cut to the alien menacing Parker and Lambert (Veronica Cartwright) instead.

For this particular Review, I decided to revisit the 2003 Director's Cut of the film, seeing as how I usually just default to the 1979 theatrical version. For all the praise I could heap upon this film, there's just very little that hasn't been said before; entire books have been written on why Alien is one of the greatest films ever made. That said, I find the Director's Cut to be quite intriguing in its own right (even if I still prefer the original version that released some 38 years ago). The changes are largely superficial and, for the most part, totally inconsequential. A few shots are added, some are removed, but there are only a handful of changes that drastically affect the picture itself. There's a shot that Ridley Scott decided to add back in that I sincerely wish remained in the theatrical version, in which we see the creature hanging from the rafters just moments before it attacks Brett. I'm a huge fan of the multiple "hiding in plain sight" moments in this movie, and this shot completely took me by surprise; the effect is chilling. There's also a strong moment where we see Lambert attack Ripley for not opening the airlock; while it helps feed the tension of the scene, it's understandable why it was cut, as it tends to draw attention away from the recently-facehugged Kane (John Hurt).

Most notable of these changes is a moment during the climax, in which a fleeing Ripley discovers the cocooned bodies of Brett and Dallas (Tom Skerritt). This scene was originally cut because it completely killed the pace of Ripley's frantic escape, but its inclusion in Scott's personal Director's Cut of the movie says something interesting, I feel. In the scene, we see Dallas and Brett slowly turning into alien eggs; from a modern context, we can say that this somewhat clashes with the since-established mythos of the creature (since the sequel, Aliens, introduces the idea of an egg-laying Queen). Scott has often referred to Alien as his baby, and expressed his distaste that the series has gone on to be nothing more than cheap, action/horror schlock. The Director's Cut was released in 2003; by then, the Alien franchise had long since gone down the drain with critical flops like Alien 3 and Alien: Resurrection (not to mention, the utterly braindead Alien VS Predator was but one year away). By reinstating the cocoon scene in the Director's Cut, Scott is separating his vision from everything that came after it; there is no Queen Alien, there are no Colonial Marines, there is no Dog Alien or Predalien or anything of the sort beyond that which he himself created. Just as with Prometheus, the inclusion of this cut scene feels like an attempt by Ridley Scott to exert some degree of personal control over his creation that has long since gotten away from what he originally intended it to be. 

Alien is a bonafide classic, one of the greatest films ever made both in terms of horror and science fiction. Everything about it, from the subtle, sweeping camerawork, to the naturalistic performances, to the beautiful and horrfying art design and special effects work of artists such as H.R. Giger, Carlo Rambaldi, and Ron Cobb, is just an unending joy to take in. The Director's Cut, while just slightly inferior to the original theatrical version, offers a fascinating look at what could have been. We can see not only what was originally planned for the film, but what Ridley Scott might have done differently after nearly 30 years of gestation and rumination. No matter what way you shake it, the film is mandatory viewing for anyone who loves the art of cinema. If you somehow haven't seen this one yet, turn out all the lights and settle in for a gorgeous nightmare that remains unrivaled to this day.

REVIEW: Wizards

Cult classics are a tricky lot, especially when it comes to psychedelic cinema. There's always the chance that a film with a large following will simply fail to live up to the hype when viewed without the assistance of a bag of hallucinogens. All the same, there are times when one comes across an entry in this genre that amounts to more than just a trippy collection of pretty colors set to acid rock. 1977's Wizards is definitely responsible for blowing the minds of more than a few burnout college kids, I'm sure, but that's not to say that there isn't something worth exploring beneath the surface. One of the more tame creations of animation legend Ralph Bakshi (who proved that animation could be used for more than just cheery Disney children's films with such X-rated fare as Fritz the Cat and Heavy Traffic), Wizards paints an extraordinarily out-there portrait of a far-off, fantastical future over a subtextual exploration of morality and the power of propaganda.

The plot in this is a bit much to take in, but I'm going to do my best to sum it all up as succinctly as possible. In the future, the Earth is annihilated by nuclear weapons and terrorism, eradicating all life on the planet. However, over the next two million years, human life begins to re-emerge; those who populate the idyllic good lands regress into humanity's true ancestors, fantasy races of elves, dwarves, and fairies. In the heavily irradiated bad lands, humans devolve into hideous mutants, ogres, and goblins. After thousands of years of peace, two wizards are born; the good and kindly Avatar (Bob Holt) and his brother, the sinister mutant, Blackwolf (Steve Gravers). After many years, the two eventually do battle, with Avatar emerging victorious. His brother leaves for the dark lands of Scorch, vowing to return one day and reap his vengeance. If this sounds like the entire plot of the movie, I think it's worth noting that this is all mere backstory, established within the first five minutes. 

The incredibly dense prologue sets the tone for the adventure to follow, letting the viewer know that they're watching something that's about to get very strange very quickly. We then flash a few thousand years further into the future; Blackwolf is still consolidating his power and Avatar has grown old and somewhat cynical. The peaceful kingdom of Montagar has long since outlawed science and technology while Blackwolf  reigns as the ruler of Scorch, excavating ancient relics from a time before the nuclear holocaust. One such relic is an old film projector loaded with Nazi propaganda; using the ancient footage to motivate his dimwitted troops (and to traumatize his enemies), Blackwolf puts his plan into motion and declares war on the peaceful free states. It is up to Avatar, the fairy princess Elinore (Jesse Welles), the reprogrammed robot assassin Peace (David Proval), and the elfin spy Weehawk (Richard Romanus) to seek out and destroy the "dream machine", putting an end to Blackwolf's sinister machinations and preventing the second coming of the Third Reich.

I did say that this film went to some far-out places, didn't I? It would be very easy to simply brush this film off as hyper-stylized stoner fodder, packed to the brim with Tolkien-esque fantasy creatures and rotoscoped footage from World War 2 movies, but there's really a great deal more this has to offer just beneath the surface. To write Wizards off as "something cool to watch while high" (or even worse, with the old-as-time "woah, they must have been on drugs to come up with this!") is a tremendous disservice to the clear amount of deliberate thought and imagination Bakshi and company implemented when making this film. There's a reason the plot creates a false sense of build-up towards an anti-science moral, the same way there's a reason so much Nazi imagery is used throughout; Wizards is a puzzle, and it's up to the viewer to put the pieces together. Just about everything we're given serves some sort of a greater narrative purpose, even if it doesn't appear so at first glance.

At first, it appears as though the film is going for the classic "nature trumps technology" theme we've seen so many times before. The villains all use WW2-era panzers and rifles while the barefoot forest creatures fight with swords and arrows. However, the film gradually subverts the audience's expectations, espousing the merits of pragmatism and compromise. The World War 2 parallels are plain to see; the downtrodden mutants are clearly in dire straits, forced to reside in an unforgiving hellscape where both the air and water are toxic. However, they end up rationalizing their misfortune as justification to adopt the ideals of the Nazi party, lashing out at those they deem as oppressors. Meanwhile, the peaceful fairy-folk have outlawed science and put all their faith in peace and harmony and happy feelings of oneness with nature. This essentially makes for a population of complacent layabouts who fall into disorganized shambles the second their leaders are compromised; when asked why they can't simply fight back and win, a fairy mother tells her child "because, they have weapons and technology. We just have love."

It seems to be a recurring theme in fantasy fiction that there is no greater force in the universe than generic feelings of love, but Wizards is having absolutely none of that. Make no mistake, love matters a great deal, but the film shows the importance of balance in both beliefs and morals. The good creatures place far too much reliance on love, peace, and harmony, and are thus wholly unprepared for the ruthless enemies that seek to do them harm. Meanwhile, the slovenly mutants are completely devoid of such emotions, and thus end up nothing more than dull cowards with no drive or conviction. This is where the power of propaganda comes in. The propaganda used by the villains is so overt, it's easy to miss that the "good" creatures make use of it as well, albeit through subtler means. It's fascinating how quickly one is able to accept something as egregious as outlawing science and technology as no big problem at first glance; perhaps it's because so much media exists warning us of the dangers of valuing technological progress over nature, but Wizards shows flat-out that both sides of the primary conflict are equally indoctrinated in their respective dogma. 

This is, again, where a sense of balance comes into play. The film pokes fun at the superstitions and rituals associated with organized religion, yet also levels with the audience, stating that a silly, complicated moral code is better than no morals at all. We see countless creatures slaughtered by superior firepower, despite their belief in love, magic, and the natural world. In the end, the side that claims victory doesn't win because of their superior morals, but because they are willing to bend and change as is necessary, without losing a sense of who they are. This is a story where the most powerful weapon is literally the use of propaganda; it can be used to inspire both hope and fear, to keep populations complacent or rally them to commit acts of violence. The film inspires the viewer to take a hard look at their own beliefs and ponder whether or not the viewer is just as indoctrinated as those they would call enemies. By painting morality as anything but gray, the nuances of a given conflict are buried and obscured, all in favor of saber-rattling and battle cries, ensuring that a peaceful resolution remains elusive to those who need it most.

While Wizards certainly offers a lot to think about, there are other aspects of the film that don't hold up quite as well. Ralph Bakshi is a legend of animation for a reason, yet while the character designs and backgrounds are sheer works of art, the animation quality tends to wildly fluctuate from good to bad and back again. The voice acting is also relatively hit-or-miss and the plot completely falls apart when viewed as anything other than a surrealist parable on the dangers of indoctrination. It's definitely a cult film for a reason, as I could very easily see someone not picking up what the film is putting down. Personally, I was somewhat lukewarm on it at first, yet I find myself loving and respecting this film more and more the more I think about it. While it's not for everyone, Wizards is most definitely a well-crafted, thoughtful, and thoroughly bizarre work of art that has earned its place of recognition in the annals of animation history.

REVIEW: Prometheus

It's a testament to the quality of both Alien and Aliens that we hold this franchise in such high-regard. These first two films rank among the best ever made, yet everything since has ranged from merely okay to pure garbage. Prometheus was a film that I (and I'm sure many other Alien fanatics) was greatly looking forward to. With Ridley Scott back in the director's chair and a viral marketing campaign that promised something more in-line with the original 1979 film, I was sure that this would be the film to restore this franchise to its former glory. As Noomi Rapace's Dr. Elizabeth Shaw says, "I was wrong. We were so wrong." Perhaps I'm being a tad harsh; the last and only time I watched Prometheus was back when it released in the summer of 2012. Like with Batman V Superman, I left the theater feeling as though the film was passable at worst (albeit a tad unsatisfying), only for that feeling of middling acceptance to quickly sour into outright contempt. The more I thought about it, the more elements of the plot and characters disintegrated before my eyes like so many buff, albino spacemen. However, as hard as it is to believe, that was just about half a decade ago. I decided to give Prometheus another chance, to see if it holds up better upon a second viewing. It does, though only slightly, and I'm still very much inclined to chalk this one up as yet another 'miss' for the Alien franchise.

Taking place well before Alien (and retconning those god-awful AVP movies out of series canon), the film follows the crew of the Prometheus, a research vessel commissioned by the eponymous Weyland Corporation. Archaeologists Elizabeth Shaw (Rapace) and Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green) have discovered star maps in several locations across the Earth, believing them to be directions to the origins of mankind's makers. Intent upon finding these so-called Engineers and uncovering the purpose of human life, the crew travels to a planet known as LV-223 (not to be confused with LV-426 from Alien and Aliens), only to find a massive pyramid filled to the brim with a strange, goopy alien pathogen. Instead of answering the questions posed by Alien (mainly regarding the origin of the iconic xenomorph), the film instead poses a host of new questions and chooses to answer exactly zero of them.

In some ways, this was a functionally flawed film from the get-go. Part of the appeal of Alien was the sense of mystery and uncertainty. We knew as much about the creature that terrorized the crew of the Nostromo as they did; the alien represents the unknown, and the unknown is always inherently terrifying. That is, until you attempt to explain it. Really, we don't need to know where the xenomorph came from. Any origin they could present would just feel unsatisfying compared to some thirty-plus years of speculation and conjecture. Luckily, however, the xenomorph gets to retain its mystique because it doesn't appear at all in this film. Instead, we're given an unsatisfying (and canonically dubious) explanation for the Space Jockeys (now called Engineers). Being that the xenomorph has existed in pop culture for so long, it's understandable why Ridley Scott chose to omit the creature from this entry in the series; people love the big chap, but we've had nearly four decades to look at the monster. Safe to say he's lost a bit of his initial shock and awe, so it's important to innovate and keep things fresh. Unfortunately, the film forgets that there's a difference between being mysterious and simply being ill-defined.

In Alien, we're able to understand how the creature functions, even if we know very little about what it actually is. We can gather that it reproduces by implanting an embryo inside a host and that it's got pressurized molecular acid for blood. It's incredibly resilient but, like most animals, is averse to fire. There's just enough there that the xenomorph is still strange and terrifying, but coherent enough in concept that it remains conceivable. We aren't distracted by this fantastical creature skulking around a ship knocking off space truckers because it feels like something that could very well exist in the cold depths of space. That's precisely what makes it terrifying. 

Meanwhile, in Prometheus, we know all the wrong things about the Engineers. We know that they created human life, we know that their DNA is somehow a direct match to ours (despite them being an ancient race of alabaster giants), we know that they want to destroy us for whatever reason, and we know that they possess a sinister black goo that you certainly don't want to get near any mucus membranes. We don't know, on the other hand, what the black goo even does; as is, it basically functions in whichever way is most convenient for the plot. Sometimes it causes life to disintegrate, sometimes it causes rapid evolution, and sometimes it just turns people into zombies. While we assume the creature in Alien is just acting on animal instinct, the Engineers are clearly intelligent. So why don't they operate under any sense of logic? Why do they want to destroy Earth so badly? We have some sense of what the stakes are, but we don't know what motivates any of it. I was so busy trying to make sense of all the plot holes and oversights that I completely forgot to be emotionally invested.

I could spend a great deal of time picking apart the insane amount of plot holes in this movie (and I would, if a certain pair of hackfrauds hadn't perfectly summed everything up five years ago), so I'll instead pick apart the characters. Whereas Alien spent the entirety of its first act familiarizing us with a small crew of normal, everyday people, Prometheus instead opts for a comparatively larger cast of sci-fi cartoon characters. Logan-Mashall Green is completely unbelievable, playing the part of a doctor of archaeology with all the impulsiveness of a boorish frat-boy. He's completely unlikeable and I felt nothing but joy upon seeing him bite the dust. Rafe Spall's biologist character is a jittery coward for the entire film, up until the point he sees a phallic alien snake and decides to try and shake hands with it. Apparently there was a cut scene in which he encounters a decidedly non-hostile version of these creatures, establishing the idea that they pose no threat to him; why this scene was cut, I have no idea. We also get to watch Sean Harris comically smoke weed out of his space helmet while trapped in an ancient alien pyramid. This movie features the most appallingly incompetent excuses for scientists I think I've ever seen, and that's aside from the scene towards the end of the second act where Idris Elba explains the premise thus far to any audience members who might be having trouble keeping up.

That said, the film is not without its highlights. Noomi Rapace is totally believable in her role as Elizabeth Shaw (even if she's just a tad too spry immediately following a last-minute cesarean). The idea of a character struggling to hold onto their faith despite literally meeting their maker is leagues more fascinating than every other bit of sci-fi schlock the film throws our way. There's also Michael Fassbender as David the android, by far the best takeaway of the entire film. The theme of creations rebelling against their creators is about the only thing the film gets across well, and that's almost entirely thanks to Fassbender's incredible performance. He displays such a subtle turn from helpful and innocent to jealous and spiteful, completely commanding attention while on-screen. It's actually kind of stunning; few films display such an aptitude for wasting talent like this one does, yet I'd go as far as to say that David is right up there with Ripley as one of the best characters this franchise has ever produced. Fassbender earns every bit of praise he gets for this one, and he's one of the few things I'm certain will be good about Alien: Covenant.

Visually, this movie is stunning. The cinematography is gorgeous, the special effects are holding up nicely, and the reliance on practical sets and creatures is greatly appreciated. For as much as I gripe about the story and characters (care of Lost's Damon Lindeloff), I can't deny that this is a superbly good-looking film. Everything aesthetic, from the lighting to the score, is top-notch. I can even respect the film for daring to be as ambitious as it is; it goes to some truly far-out places, yet rarely scuffs the atmosphere that it builds. The first act is a strong preamble to a massive-yet-gorgeous letdown. With a better script, this really could have been a masterpiece to rival the first Alien. Instead, it will just have to join the long line of interesting films that were ruined during re-writes.

Prometheus is a film that I truly wish was as good as I wanted it to be. It sets lofty goals for itself and falls far from accomplishing them, as admirable as the attempt was. Unfortunately, there's just too many things wrong with the story being told on a fundamental level to save the film as a whole. Michael Fassbender is incredible and the visual direction is truly a sight to behold, but beyond that it's a disappointingly vague, shallow mess of a prequel. It may be somewhat unfair to compare it so vigorously to Alien, but I feel as though such comparisons are inevitable when both films are not only in the same franchise, but share the same director. There's so many cut corners and lazy plot holes here that were completely absent in Alien, so one has to wonder what changed in the interim. 

In the past, Ridley Scott has expressed frustration that Alien has become yet another blockbuster franchise, with schlocky sequels and a ride at Disney World. In many ways, Prometheus feels like an attempt by a director to reclaim an idea that has since gotten away from him; in the process of doing so, he ignores everything that made the original idea good, just for the sake of separating himself from the past that everyone knows and loves. I've seen the original draft of this film, back when Prometheus was known as Alien: Engineers. It certainly sounded like something better than what we got and it's unfortunate we'll never get to see it reach fruition. Hopefully he'll have more luck with Alien: Covenant.