Mr. Bug Goes to Town ★★★

    "Mr. Bug Goes to Town" (also known as "Hoppity Goes to Town") is a 1941 technicolor animated classic that certainly never stood a chance--as far as financial success is concerned--considering the triumph of Walt Disney's "Dumbo," released two months prior, and due to its untimely release, December 5th, being two days before the horrific attack on Pearl Harbor. (I assume the nation's desire to see talking and singing insects brimming with optimism subsided once those events began to play out.)

    Regardless of this sequence of so-called misfortune, "Mr. Bug" does provide an upbeat tale of buoyant proportions, accompanied by a handful of musical numbers and a plethora of quirky comical inclinations that surely give rise to a unique style all of its own. We are transported to Bugville, a small and quaint civilization that seems to rest right under our very noses, and become familiar with several of the town's occupants; there are Mr. Bumble and his vivacious daughter Honey, Mrs. Ladybug and her two children, Buzz the adolescent and inquisitive Bee scout, and a snail, aptly named Jeepers Creepers, who constantly harasses the civilians with an air of pessimism and phrases such as, "I told you so."

 
    And who could forget the charming yet bumbling Hoppity, a cheery grasshopper who everyone claims to be the savior of all the town's mishaps, but who essentially is nothing more than a love stricken goofball, whose sole ambition is to win the hand of Honey, the only bachelorette in town. We watch as the locals satisfy their sweet tooths at the resident Honey Shop and while they entertain themselves with theater shows, which rest under the nearest sewer grate, all while surviving the impending destruction caused by the surrounding litter of the "human ones." (There's empty match boxes and cigar butts, pens and pencils, and even larger objects such as a mirror and woman's purse scattered throughout our little insects' environment.)

    The characters, although rather bland and one-dimensional, are instilled with this sense of delicate humanness, as their facial features come to mimic those found in everyday life. (Honey genuinely seems quite beautiful, which only adds to her allure.) Our conflict--other than the above mentioned ruination caused by humans--comes in the form of C. Bagley Beetle, a rich and successful old timer who also pines for the attention of our lovely leading lady, and his two henchmen: Swat the fly and Smack the mosquito. From here, the picture humbly relies on numerous stretches of situational irony, as our antagonists ineffectively attempt to derail the plans of Hoppity and as the inhabitants of this frail community unsuccessfully strive to find a new home, far from the reaches of humanity's negative effects. (We also watch as Hoppity struggles to maintain his dignity, as his failings come fast and often.)

    "Mr. Bug Goes to Town" will always be characterized by its lack of success at the box-office and by its simplistic aim to delight the eyes and ears of children, when adult themes are clearly just a scene or two away from being in the spotlight. There is a hint toward the loss of innocence, as our naive insect counterparts must come face-to-face with the harsh reality of man's decadence; not to mention a social statement (this is in reference to the blatant contamination caused by humanity's recklessness and its impact on nature) that is just pining to rear its virtuous head, as the last line in the film alludes to man's inferiorness in the grand scheme of things. (We learn that it all comes down to perception.) Nonetheless, "Mr. Bug" sticks to adolescent intrigue, even though there was never much patience for such productions during this time period. It is a film truly haunted by its missed opportunities.  

Jurassic Park III ★★1/2

    "Jurassic Park III" is a prime example of a constituent to a franchise that desperately attempts to recapture the magic and wonder of the previous installments, yet ultimately leaving one dire aspect of filmmaking unaccounted for: inventiveness. Case in point: Our plot--which theoretically becomes the only element of any value--merely consists of Alan Grant (Sam Neill), a central protagonist in the first film, and his journey to Isla Sorna (also known as site B) with his esteemed colleague, Billy, and several other characters that would never be able to conjure memorability even if they had tried.

    I mean, the picture is what is is. Its intention is clearly to sweep us away from our mundane existences for ninety minutes to indulge in an escapist type atmosphere, which just so happens to include several large carnivorous dinosaurs and enough mind-numbing action to make anyone pine for intellectual stimulation afterward. With all of that being said, however, it is this rather banal storyline and several less than stellar performances that essentially contribute to a film that is not only routine in its primitive design, but quite dull. (Neill seems to be just going through the motions and this lethargic behavior seems to rub off on the rest of the cast throughout.)

    In any case, it is not so much as to what the final product delivers here, but what the picture lacks in its pre-production. The absence of Steven Spielberg's brilliance (as his role becomes that of executive producer instead of renown director) and Michael Crichton's writing could not be more evident; if anything, "Jurassic Park III" should be designated as nothing more than an extension of previously developed creativity, as even the score of John Williams becomes susceptible to this showing of sheer vapidity. (The original score to "Jurassic Park" is present, yet modified to an extent so that it can be viewed as revitalized instead of what it really is--one of the several examples of re-packaging.) In fact, the only contribution worthy of the title "original" would be that of Jack Horner, the resident paleontologist turned human reference book, who authorizes the franchise's correctness.

    What strikes me the most about this film, however, is its slight transition from traditional animatronic dinosaurs to those created by way of computer graphic imaging. There are a number of new additions to the roster of prehistoric actors (most notably that of the Spinosaurus, the largest meat-eater to ever grace the Earth, and the Pteranodon), and sure there are plenty of instances where the rather wonderful animatronic creatures make an appearance, yet their usage seems to have been diminished when compared to the film's predecessors.

    Of course, this minor conversion will inevitably come into context with any future "Jurassic Park" endeavors (simply because that is where the special effects department is headed), although one can never forget the genuine look of the animatronic predators created by Stan Winston, who rightfully earned an Academy Award for his role in the 1993 production of the franchise's first picture.

    Which brings us to this thought: There is this misguided notion that audiences will become somewhat jaded with regard to these dinosaur's abilities; a notion whose influence can certainly be seen in this film with the increased utilization of computer graphic imaging to provide scenes with more "Dino action." (Which is best encapsulated by an all out brawl between the Spinosaurus and the Tyrannosaurus Rex.) Although this conviction may be accurate in its claim, a filmmaker must never replace an audience's need with a so-called desire. The animatronic dinosaurs seem undeniably real in their design and add a level of authenticity to the production that a computer could never dream of doing. After all, if filmmakers routinely exchanged an audience's need with their carefree desire, then the art of film would suffer immeasurably.    

The Lost World: Jurassic Park ★★★1/2

    If the original "Jurassic Park" can be deemed that glorious and heavenly feast for all the senses, then "The Lost World" is surely that delectable and tempting dessert, which can never fully be enjoyed simply because it is too overwhelming. Even the most intuitive of moviegoers know that sequels rarely measure up to their predecessors and, unfortunately, that is exactly how this second indulgence into Micheal Crichton's unique techno-thriller series ultimately comes off.

    What we have here is a picture that essentially shuns the plot driven atmosphere that propelled the first film to popular culture stardom (even if there were insinuations to themes of capitalism and man's failings with technology--a mainspring of Crichton's novels) and instead divulges into an emotional mood of horror and suspense, as our resident prehistoric pals once again step into the role of external conflict and whilst our human counterparts become nothing more than a walking and talking buffet.

    Sure, there are underlying implications that suggest that dinosaurs were more caring parental guardians than originally thought and romanticized notions that allude to the timeless phrase of "life will find a way," yet this becomes a rather forgotten topic once our misunderstood predators begin to spill the blood of anything that moves; a less than subtle transition from intellectual endeavors to simplistic and pulse throbbing action.

    "The Lost World" takes place four years after the tragic events of the 1993 box-office smasher and centers on the side character of Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) and his relationship with paleontologist Sarah Harding (Julianne Moore). We are told that the original park was simply a site for the tourists and that there was also a "site B," which came to become a breeding ground and experimental island for all things prehistoric and genetically cloned.

    After a small incident on this second island, John Hammond (our fallen Walt Disney) must relinquish control of Ingen to his devious nephew; the latter of whom is now focused on bringing the contents of this Costa Rican territory back to the United States, in order to fulfill Hammond's earliest ambition--that being an amphitheater type attraction set in San Diego, California.

 
    On the flip side of this storyline is Malcolm's quandary, as Harding becomes one of a select few individuals chosen by Hammond to engage in a simple "observation and documentation" of the island, in hopes that public opinion will allow the animals to remain untouched in this natural biological preserve. The two groups (being Ingen's capturers and Hammond's team, including a disgruntled Malcolm) will ultimately butt heads--in what becomes a hunters versus gatherers type conflict--yet they must learn to work together if they are to survive the inevitable run-ins with T-Rex and a relentless pack of Velociraptors.

    Of all the memorable elements of the original film that fail to show up here, two become blatantly obvious: the acting and the musical score. Although Moore embraces her character of Sarah Harding with a refreshing sense of vitality, Jeff Goldblum seems to be quite out of place as the leading man on this brand new and exciting adventure. He not only provides us with a performance that is knee deep in monotony, but it is one that simply comes off as uninspired, which may be due to a lack of motivation. 

    Unlike Harding, whose incentive is extremely logical, the character of Ian Malcolm has little reason to visit this nesting ground, other than to save his girlfriend, which is as cliché as it is feeble. Malcolm becomes nothing more than a plot pusher and translator for the audience, which never seems to fit his personality. (This is in direct comparison to the character's arrogant disposition in "Jurassic Park," and although this change of personality is warranted, it besieges Goldblum's charisma.) 

    John Williams reprises his role as the film's composer and delivers a score that is underwhelmingly enthusiastic and downright bland at times. There seems to be a heavy influence of the "tribal" sound this time around, which culminates in several uses of the bongo drum. Although this distinct rhythm does accentuate the setting of the jungle adequately, the score can never capture that wondrous and dynamic feeling like it did in the first picture; a feeling that overshadowed several scenes if for no other reason than for its striking composition and monumental charm.    

    Nevertheless, if one is to judge this picture sufficiently, then the focus must be placed on the auteur craftsmanship of Steven Spielberg; for, this film undoubtedly oozes with his style and direction, which can also be attributed to editor Michael Kahn, Spielberg's right hand man. There is the uncanny ability to craft scenes brimming with technical greatness (a fact realized several minutes in, during the signing over of Ingen, as Goldblum is placed in a foreground frame and while an execution of low-key lighting accompanies the moment beautifully), that wondrous scene of adolescent curiosity, the indirect/subjective close-up of numerous objects and actions, a stint in a suburban neighborhood, and several shots that could be utilized specifically for the film's promotion. (This includes a shot of the menacing Tyrannosaurus Rex in front of the San Diego skyline, among several others.) 

    Not to mention a few scenes enhanced by a number of conversations happening all at once--a technique known to that of Bob Altman and one that induces an effect of pure authenticity. The fact of the matter is this: Even though "The Lost World" is a well-crafted film, as far as technical ability is concerned, its construction would never allow it to capture that magical ambiance that permeated the first installment. Unfortunately for Spielberg, lightning rarely strikes the same place twice.  

San Andreas ★★★

    Disaster films have certainly become the laughing stock of Hollywood over the last several years, if for no other reason than for their unadulterated reliance on over-the-top special effects and storylines--that are not only inconceivable--but downright inane. Enter "San Andreas," a picture that is bigger and bolder than that of "2012," and one that adds a little extra something to its storyboard: That being, human emotion. "San Andreas" takes a simple but effective approach to the eradication of anything in junction with this fault line and becomes the first true disaster film along the way.

    Sure, there are instances where the plot makes absolutely no sense (which is rather often), yet, to be quite honest, this hardly matters, especially considering the fact that most scenes cannot even finish their thought, as action becomes relatively non-stop and quite intense at times. We are introduced to Ray (Dwayne Johnson aka "The Rock"), a veteran employee for the Los Angeles Fire Department and Rescue squad, in an opening scene very reminiscent to that of "Cliff Hanger," as our main protagonist and his fellow colleagues indulge in their first life-threatening call of the day.

    From here, we become acquainted with the life of Ray, which ultimately consists of a broken marriage and two daughters. This is only for a brief moment, however, as a series of Earth shattering quakes begin to hit the California coast; subsequently, turning the film into nothing more than a free for all, as Ray inevitably focuses on rescuing his family during this tumultuous period. (This alludes to a theme immersed in the truth of human nature, as this egoist mindset dominates all of Ray's priorities.) He merely becomes a one man rescuing crew, complete with his own helicopter, as he scours the wreckage of San Francisco in an effort to save his seemingly torn family.

    This is not to say that those events are the only noteworthy actions taking place here; there is a tedious and informative subplot involving some local scientists. (The purpose of which is to obviously give the film some tranquil minutes, although action comes swiftly and our scientific geniuses simply become a visual aid in-between these natural occurrences.) There is a handful of sequences in which a lost child is thrown into the mix to heighten dramatic tension, and enough CGI destruction to last a lifetime. Let's face it: When it comes to a picture of this structure, the special effects gain the most prominence and "San Andreas" delivers invariably on that note, even if scrambling crowds appear silly and fake at times.

    Although Dwayne Johnson headlines this picture in almost every imaginable way (we are even introduced to the man with a very bright radiance, as if his presence was tinged with this angelic feeling), his performance is really just limited to a handful of one-liners, several phrases littered with profanity, and one endearing conversation with his character's soon to be ex-wife. Nevertheless, Johnson achieves a naturalness that fits him well, which is quite difficult considering his bulky appearance and larger than life persona. (He is not only the highest paid action star of the last decade but a man built around charisma.)

    We have to actually believe that he is this average human being, and many scenes rely heavily on his delivery, in part because he is physically the largest actor on-screen. Johnson holds serve, however, and even provides us with an improved sense of facial acting, which only shows the growth of the actor, as far as technique is concerned.

    What separates "San Andreas" from your run-of-the-mill action film is its fondness of human emotion and moments that will surely pull the strings of your heart. Several scenes bestow upon us this warranted affection and close-ups of touching hands and strains of regret only enhance this idea. Most notably, however, is a scene involving a reminiscent Johnson and a set of photographs. It is clearly the most heartwarming moment of the picture--and the most refreshing--considering most films nowadays utilize cell phones and Instagram accounts for these instances of remembrance; we should not only commend this decision but applaud its simplistic and out-dated design.

    Yet, it would seem that the biggest elephant in the room, with regard to this film's discussion, is the career of one Dwayne Johnson--a former wrestling great turned professional action star. Although Johnson's career has not been as prestigious as past action film stars (namely Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone, the former of which I would deem to be the greatest action persona to ever grace the silver screen), he is beginning to hit a stride that is very conducive to his style and personality.

    Schwarzenegger could never have pulled off this role, and although Stallone has played this type of character before, it becomes clear that Johnson fits the mold precisely; a mold that the actor began his career with in films such as "The Rundown" and "Walking Tall." It is only when Johnson steps into bit roles aligned with popular franchises and children's films where things seem to go awry. Will "The Rock" ever produce a masterpiece, much like Stallone's "Rocky" or Schwarzenegger's "Terminator?" Only time will tell, however, his surrounding talent must be upgraded if the goal is to come even remotely close to being attainable.         

Tomorrowland ★★1/2

    Disney's "Tomorrowland" is a film that can be characterized by its ability to squash every magical moment that it ultimately conjures; I've never seen a picture so willing to burst from the seams with its overly enthusiastic imagination, yet never fully reaching that "wow factor" status. I mean, the constraints are obvious:

    Two lovable personas are smashed together in a duel storytelling fashion (as each character indulges in their own expository flashback) with very little time to get to know either, all while we are bombarded with a storyline so muddled that its negligence simply becomes inevitable. (There are space blasters, a hidden rocket in the Eiffel Tower, cheesy robots, an end of the world apocalyptic scenario, and enough branding to make even the Super Bowl seem rather reserved.)

    Not to mention a love story featuring one of our main protagonists in Frank Walker (George Clooney) that can never get off the ground and a plethora of comedic cues that--much like the film itself--become nothing more than a miscalculation. It would seem that our filmmakers went that extra mile, and, unfortunately, it never pans out in the manner that one would hope.

    The plot merely consists of a boy genius, Frank Walker, who after attending the 1964 New York World's Fair, catches the eye of Athena (Raffey Cassidy), a young girl who can impart a wonderful gift--that being an entrance into Tomorrowland--a captivating futuristic world where the greatest minds assemble and where innovation never ceases to amaze.

    Fast forward to the present time period and we become acquainted with Casey Newton (Britt Robertson), a teenage girl who is as technologically brilliant as she is ambitious. After fatefully receiving a lapel pin with the ability to transport the owner into Tomorrowland, Newton embarks on a perilous journey that will not only see her team up with Walker, but will hold the future of the world in its balance. (Although this may seem intriguing, the duel character study never allows the plot and the glory of its intentions to come to fruition.)

 

    "Tomorrowland" relies heavily on the acting of Clooney and his younger female co-stars, and rightfully so. (The genuineness of the actors and actresses was not only the best aspect of the picture, but one of the most integral, considering the feverishness of the plot.) Clooney excels in several scenes with Robertson and Cassidy--the both of which look to have bright futures in the film industry. (This being roughly two breakthrough performances for the pair.)

     With all of that being said, however, it is the film's inability to capture the blissfulness of the moment when it direly needs to that really becomes the most prominent issue here. Although the setting of Tomorrowland is surely utilized for its visual impact, the time spent within its construction is less than adequate--and in a way--quite demoralizing. (It has become a Hollywood gimmick as of late to advertise a picture's setting to be in a majestic realm, sparing no expense, even though collectively it is only about fifteen percent of the running time.)

    We are shown the beauty of this futuristic paradise in the most graceful of ways, as the mobile camera becomes a subjective participant in its own right--following the wonders of the city with subtle strides, pans, and tilts--as if we were actually experiencing this moment ourselves, and stretching our necks to see men with jetpacks and a superb display of architecture. This is all for not, however, as the moment becomes overshadowed by its subsequent lack of endurance. (We are not only teased with the thought of frolicking in the boundaries of "Tomorrowland," but duped into believing that it would last longer than five minutes.)

    Additionally, the final scene featuring Clooney and his love interest (being one of the most important scenes in the entire film and the latter of whom I will not unveil here) becomes rather awkward and lacking of all sentiment, when the opportunity for affection surely existed, if handled properly. I guess this pining for emotion stems from the fact that Walker is ultimately the more compelling storyline, and a man that we want to see content, even though finding love in this instance seems to be crossing moral boundaries, on many different levels. A kiss on the forehead or cheek would have sufficed.

    The critical question to ask becomes this: Did the film achieve that coveted suspension of disbelief, where anything seems plausible and where moments become immersed in conceivability? I would say just barely, which is never a good thing. This Disney production simply aligns with the company's most recent agenda, which apparently involves the creation of films in an attempt to shed light on a contemporary social issue or to convey a message of moral implication. (As if Socrates himself were running the Disney corporation and instructing audiences to be courageous and kind--and in this particular instance--making a call for inspiration.)

    There is no doubt that "Tomorrowland" is motivated to inspire the youth of America and to spark ingenuity (as it sheds light on our inability as a race to continue innovation), but this is a moot point, especially considering that the message comes from a company who has lost much of its own creativeness, culminating in several live-action renditions of past animation successes. There will be no more Einsteins, Nietzsches, or Walt Disneys for that matter, and this has never been more obvious than in the twenty-first century. Unfortunately for Disney, this call will go unheard, although I hope that the idea behind the message does not become lost on the company itself.

Poltergeist ★

    The art of film-making has come a long way since its historic conception in the late nineteenth century and since the first feature-length picture graced our presence roughly one hundred years ago. We have been transported through numerous decades of innovation, including the muted yet lovable silent era, the studio dominated productions of the 1940s and 1950s, and the American New Wave of the 1970s.

    Yet, with all due respect, it would seem that the twenty-first century has been composed of nothing more than mediocre efforts--highlighted by several great films--but mostly consisting of banal reproductions of past ideas, deemed as an experience for a new generation. Not only is this a blatant lie to anyone who can see through this facade of derivative creation, but it ultimately compromises the integrity of the art of cinema. Where have all the great filmmakers gone?

    "Poltergeist" is a 2015 horror film that attempts to recreate the atmosphere and magic of the 1982 original, yet failing to realize why it was so captivating to begin with. For, it wasn't the emphasis of horror or frightening images that made it all the more compelling, but it was the instances of uncertainty and the charming moments of humanness that touched our heart; all of which surely cemented the Spielberg produced original as an instant classic, and none of which seem to be present in this year's latest debacle. There is no magical build-up, hardly an atmosphere of suspense, and so many predictable fright scenes that make even the worst horror films a shining spectacle of sophistication.

    If anything, however, this rendition simply comes off as a poor recreation of the first installment--down to the minute detail--as several key lines of dialogue are rehashed (including the lines "They're here" spoken by the youngest child of the seemingly cursed family and "It's not like its a tribal burial ground," a line used to justify the act of building a suburban neighborhood on a cemetery) and certain objects remain in the spotlight for interpretation. The ominous tree and creepy clown doll return in an effort to spook the audience and the television once again becomes a symbol of how modern technology has placed a negative constraint on our society. There is even a focus edit in roughly the same place as the original, which only proves how uninspired this picture actually is. (Art should try to create, not imitate.)

    What this all basically comes down to is this: Was there even remotely a reason for this film to be made? The answer is a resounding no, and yet, this is only one instance in a plethora of circumstances that can serve as a prime example of this unwarranted pattern of behavior. Have we lost all sense of ingenuity? Nevertheless, one thing is for certain: Steven Spielberg can be proud of the fact that his "Poltergeist" will live on as the epitome of classic horror film-making, as pictures of this stature only add to their predecessor's greatness, if applicable.

Poltergeist ★★★1/2

    Fundamentally speaking, the 1982 film entitled "Poltergeist" can surely be designated the most quintessential cult classic ever made. It has everything: An overemphasis on branding, recreational drug use, excessive gore, a string of memorable dialogue, an eerie and downright ominous musical score, and several strange and heartwarming stories surrounding its production. (The latter consisting of quite a few mysterious and unfortunate deaths involving cast members aligned with the process, along with moments oozing of auteur professionalism, as producer Steven Spielberg had to console both the lead actress and leading adolescent star--albeit in different fashions--in two instances of pure terror.)    

    Not to mention a number of included elements drawn from the real life experiences of the filmmakers themselves--that being a fear of creepy clowns and menacing trees--both apprehensions of a young Spielberg. Yet, what is most intriguing about this picture is the puzzle surrounding the final product. Although the credit of direction is given to Tobe Hooper, it would seem that Spielberg's creative talents were far more tangible (Spielberg is listed as producer and contributor of the script) except, of course, until all hell breaks loose within the last fifteen minutes of the film. (A decision that will be discussed further and one that could have used a little more "E.T." and less "Texas Chainsaw Massacre.")

    In essence, however, it is this strategic build-up and sense of unpredictability (a trademark of Spielberg's directorial ambitions) that fuels this film to success. For, it creates an atmosphere knee deep in human emotion--and although most of the frightening images evoke a rather perturbed feeling instead of unadulterated terror--it never becomes lost on our minds. This portrayal of your typical 1980s suburban family and the everyday occurrences that surround their lives is exceedingly simple; nevertheless, doubtlessly effective.

    We are thrown into a world much like our own by way of several key scenes and a set that certainly utilizes its live screen capacity to the fullest extent. "Star Wars" memorabilia tends to litter the children's bedroom in the most genuine manner, and scenes involving that of mischievous children and nighttime scares (best represented by the alarm of a frightful thunderstorm and the uneasiness surrounding a darkened bedroom closet) only add to this air of authenticity. When paranormal activity begins to rear its enigmatic head--culminating in the abduction of the family's youngest child--we are never in doubt as to its plausibility, simply because of the coaxing that has already taken place.

    Accentuating this ambiance of sheer captivation are two indispensable performances provided by JoBeth Williams and Craig T. Nelson as the lovable and fearing parents. Nelson truly embodies the run-of-the-mill working man, who spends his free time hosting football parties and indulging in marijuana, among other things. Yet, it is his change in disposition, once things begin to unravel, that really highlights Nelson's inner solicitude--which has clearly been there all along--still never becoming more present than that first instance in where we see its effect on his mood. Williams obviously has a more emotionally charged role here and excels in her delivery time after time, when force is ultimately needed to guide her conviction. She clearly comes off as a tormented mother, whose only goal is to protect her children, and this is not only refreshing, but invariably winning.

    Although the theme of "Poltergeist" generally settles around that of emotional mood and the fear accompanied with uncertainty (or the fear of the misunderstood for that matter), there are numerous hints to something larger at play. There is the underlining notion of the ramifications of man's tampering, scenes exposing both of the younger children to death and suffering (loss of innocence), and a symbolic treatment of the television that would have Philo Farnsworth himself brimming with delight. (The latter of which is best encapsulated via an intrinsic metaphor, as once the youngest child, Carol Anne, is caught sitting too close to a scrambled TV set, she is told that it is "bad for her eyes," and the set is then changed to an unblemished station, providing our adolescent with images of war and destruction instead.)

    Which brings us to the most pivotal decision of the production: The unnecessary act of bombarding the audience with a ludicrous amount of grotesque images and bewilderment in the last fifteen minutes of running time; a decision that surely came from the mind of credited director Tobe Hooper, whose reputation for these types of qualities precedes itself. It was intelligibly the wrong calculation, considering the resolution of the conflict had already been completed and nothing of any value was added, except, of course, for an ending motif that again alludes to the destructive nature of the television on our lives.

    "Poltergeist" has a monumental foundation based on a plethora of magic moments that only Steven Spielberg can provide. A magical kiss in a time of great turmoil, the act of covering up a frightening clown in a moment of adolescent terror, and several instances of emotional restraint that charm from days on in. Let's be honest: Although the previously mentioned, and rather unfortunate, sequence of events does allude to the workings of Hooper, Spielberg obviously had a hand in the commitment, considering his heavy contribution to the script. (Now, it is not uncommon for screenplays to be thrown out from time to time, but this still does not explain why Spielberg insisted on slipping into a pool of mud, complete with real human skeletons, in an effort to console Williams, which just so happens to take place during this string of nonsense.) "Poltergeist" will always be characterized by the magic of Spielberg and this reckless decision, the blame of which will ultimately have to be pinned on the filmmaker, himself. He is a brilliant artisan and should have known better in this particular instance, in what can be deemed the pinnacle of his career. After all, 1982 was noted as the "Summer of Spielberg," not the "Summer of Hooper."      

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ★★★★

    The significance surrounding the original "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," a film that spawned a franchise of quite a durable stature, stems from its tendency to break away from the conventional superhero and provide a subject matter that is not only unique but somewhat more compelling. We are introduced to the rise of these four brothers through a scene that is entirely thespian (considering its on-stage lighting and feel), and yet, it works—not because we are blown away by the monologue at hand, mind you, but because it is spoken by a wise-talking rat. And that's the beauty of its design.

    We cannot help but fall in love with these teenage turtles who spend most of their time below the bustling streets of New York City learning the art of Ninjutsu and ordering Dominos pizza. Their disparate personalities clash at times (much like most siblings), and they ultimately have a hard time obeying their father-like figure in Master Splinter—another complication that arises once adolescence transitions into adulthood. Throw in an antagonist from the past, a TV news reporter in April O' Neil (Judith Hoag), and the kidnapping of a family member, and you pretty much have a storyline that has become a staple in the "Turtles" cinematic universe.

    The finely crafted exteriors of the characters (provided by the wonderfully talented Jim Henson and Company) and an atmosphere that brims with authenticity, which, in part, is due to the plethora of stock characters that grace our presence, makes this film that much more memorable. The irate police chief, the overbearing news producer, and a taxi cab driver who, after coming into contact with the easily irritated Raphael, simply turns to his bewildered passenger and asks, "You going to La Guardia, right?" being most notable of the bunch.

    These personas not only enhance the setting, but they help the film achieve a sense of realism that is direly warranted. (I mean, our central characters are walking and talking reptiles, so it is only right that our filmmakers attempt to nail the customary, observable patrons of society.) This is surely not to mention a sequence where our lovable protagonists find refuge in the countryside—where the aesthetic beauty of the wilderness speaks for itself. 
       

    Although the design of our heroes' costumes has perceptible flaws, (most notably the head, which, at times, displays the actor's face within the costume through the opening of the mouth) the emphasis on a rather rustic and tattered look could not be more ideal. After all, they do live in a sewer, and although it is not uncommon for our mischievous protagonists to catch a flick every now and then above-ground, it would hardly be acceptable to see them roaming around the local mall in an effort to pick up fighting gear. Of all the directions in which their appearance could have gone, this is unquestionably the most practical and, to be quite honest, it is the most endearing.    

    If this particular rendition of our beloved "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" somehow made it back to the silver screen, I would guarantee that its allure would captivate the minds of any young child who has not come into contact with the franchise. I also believe that it would outshine the 2014 debacle of the same name, but that is beside the point.

    A brilliant execution of low-key lighting (which only adds to the film's dark and somber mood), an excellent display of action choreography, and a well-written dialogue infused with modest humor, all contribute to a film that simply should have failed, if for no other reason than for the poor outing from its resident human star in Hoag. (Her performance is quite substandard, and it seems to be relatively melodramatic in form.) 

    Nevertheless, what we have here is a picture that succeeded because of its universal theme of family (brought to our attention by way of our heroes' experience and a subplot involving O' Neil's boss and son) and because of several touching moments between these four brothers. It is the most sophisticated portrayal that one could ask for, and, unfortunately, it just becomes another reminder of how ingenuity has been replaced by technological advances, i.e., special effects. 
  

Mad Max: Fury Road ★★★★

    There is no question that director George Miller is an enigma in his own right. I mean, it is quite hard to believe that this is the same man who produced cheerful and family-oriented films such as "Babe" and "Happy Feet." This rendition of Mad Max is surely his Magnum Opus (as well as an insight into the eccentric and outlandish portion of his mind), yet it is also a magnificent work of art that has been in production hell for far too long. 

    A simple allegory--yes--but it is also a testament to his particular style and brand of film-making. "Fury Road" is simply a tour-de-force of non-stop action and brilliance, which just so happens to come in the form of what I would designate to be a rock opera. (The picture not only utilizes several "acts" to compose the whole, but features a metal head guitarist, who produces jarring notes while the action takes place.) Intrigued? You should be.

    Now, if you are expecting to indulge in a film where Max Rockatansky is the central focus, then you will be sorely mistaken. The character of "Mad Max" has been reduced to a shell of his former self, which ultimately seems to be a harsh ramification of the cosmic irony treatment he has received over the years; sure, he is present and somewhat integral to the story at hand, but it seems to be more of a "passing of the torch" type of setup than anything else.

    In post-apocalyptic Australia, the land has been reduced to nothing more than salt and the instinct of survival. Only a handful of civilizations exist, including the "Bullet Farm," "Gas Town," and a somewhat lush environment known as "The Citadel," which is run by a dictator named Immortan Joe. Water is given to the helpless civilians in intervals and most of the dirty work is handled by an army of "War Boys," who in the opening moments of the film, capture a broken man turned scavenger in Max (Tom Hardy). 

    This rather nihilistic and suicidal culture of The Citadel (in which the War Boys believe they will reach the halls of Valhalla upon death--glad to see Norse mythology still alive and well) is gearing up for a run to "Gas Town," when Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron), the driver of the "War Rig" and a well-established leader, decides otherwise.

     Meanwhile . . . . . . but is the plot really of any importance here? I think not. The rest of the picture merely involves the War Rig on the open dirt highway that is Fury Road, as Furiosa attempts to steal several precious "objects" that belong to Immortan Joe, who subsequently follows in pursuit; Max begrudgingly tags along and the rest is history. This strategy is not only exceedingly simplistic, but absolutely brilliant. Characterizations are blatantly left short in an effort to convey the allegory at hand (that being one with a nature of sexual equality), and although this structure generally fails in its aims, it succeeds invariably here. Action films worldwide take note.

    What is most striking about this film is its unique production design and a style that ironically seems more artistic than anything else. The latter is created by way of numerous techniques, most of which can also be found permeating throughout Miller's original trilogy, including: fast motion, long tracking shots, and an indirect subjective viewpoint that ensnares the audience's attention with relative ease. Symbolism comes in the form of natural symbols, such as the raven (also found in Miller's earlier productions), and same shot relationships, such as a pregnant stomach representing innocent life, accompanied by a spray of bullet rounds to express death. (It would seem that Miller is trying to claim that in this realm: Both are one in the same.)

    An abundance of visual metaphors (executed both internally and externally) help to round out this one-of-a-kind style, which at times can be compared to the comic book atmosphere of "Sin City." The majority of these external "visions" allude to the haunting past of Max, yet Miller is obviously intent on placing an artistic touch in every crevice that he is able. There is a junction in the picture where we are flashed with what seems to be a yellow paint splotch, which makes very little sense; nevertheless, evoking a feeling of unadulterated inspiration.

    The look and feel of the picture are utterly evocative, and one can certainly understand why a film's production is deemed a collaborative effort if they stay long enough through the end credits. ("Fury Road" contains one of the longest production lists I've ever seen.) The obvious utilization of color filters on the camera gives the picture an almost orange peeled tone during the day and a mystical hue of blue at night. (The former being brought out even more by the shade of Hardy, who looks to have overdosed on spray tanning.) There are even special lighting effects used in the character's eyes while, under the night sky, that signifies how Miller pulled out all the stops on this one; every note is composed elegantly.

 

    As far as the allegorical script is concerned: The film is teeming with insinuations to the struggle for woman's equality, and every character fits this mold to a certain extent. Furiosa and her journey to "redemption" comes to symbolize feminism in its purest form (strong and able) and Joe represents the chauvinistic eighteenth century frame of mind that places the sex of women--and their children for that matter--in the same category as a bundle of possessions. Even particular scenes give off this impression, most notably in one instance where Max has to hand over the last shot of ammo because he knows Furiosa is a better aim.

    My only issue with this formula is that allegories tend to subdue the complexity of the character's disposition to where it becomes one-dimensional, however, Theron's performance clearly impedes this process; Theron steals the show with this portrayal and provides a heartfelt sentiment that most actresses can only dream of.

    Exactly what is 70-year-old director George Miller attempting to communicate here? The quotation that is boldly displayed at film's end suggests that there is a bigger picture at play; that is what makes the philosophical riddle all the more captivating. Not to mention the single shot motif in which Nux (Nicholas Hoult), a symbolic War Boy who garners his own subplot, devours a fly in a seemingly graceful fashion. Could this be an ode to the 1959 film entitled "Suddenly, Last Summer," where it is implied that mankind is nothing more than a viscous being that feeds on each other? Possibly not, yet whatever Miller is suggesting here, more of the same has become undoubtedly warranted.

Mad Max ★★★★

    If there is anything to be said about the 1979 film entitled "Mad Max," a picture that spawned one of the most underrated action franchises in the history of the cinema, it has to be in regard to the relentless suspense that enshrouds this rather nihilistic and peculiar atmosphere. Director George Miller not only instills a sense of uncertainty into a plot that is routinely simplistic (considering its focus on a sole persona and his progressive descent into darkness), but he does so in such a way that captures the essence of Ozploitation cinema--a term that characterizes a certain style of film-making that blossomed in 1970s Australia. 

    Let's face it: "Mad Max" is a film that expresses the qualities of the above-mentioned style (which can become quite intolerable at times) in glamorous fashion. The picture is littered with scenes of a "campy" mentality and inexplicable situations in which a young female is led into a dangerous circumstance by way of her mindless decision-making skills. (Both of which have become a staple in shoe-string budgeted horror films.) 

    Nevertheless, Miller somehow finds a balance between cheesy and sophisticated, as his employment of several techniques essentially helps to mold this picture into a heart-pounding extravaganza on wheels. Fast motion, long tracking shots, and the indirect subjective camera viewpoint (a subtle positioning of the camera that eliminates the emotional distance between audience and character, yet not entirely placing the events in the eyes of the participant) all enhance this frenetic mood. The post-apocalyptic world never seemed more enjoyable.   

     The plot: Our story takes place sometime in the near future, in the Outback of Australia; the Earth has become little more than a planet filled with dirt and chaos. Order is set into place by a group called the Main Force Patrol, who proceed to lay down the law by scouring the roads in suped-up vehicles they like to refer to as "pursuit specials." Max Rockatansky (Mel Gibson) is obviously the most skilled driver, which ultimately pits him against a renegade psychopath in the opening minutes of the film after several other Patrollers fail to bring him into custody. 

    

    After an intense chase scene (which makes those of "Bullitt" seem downright bland) ends in a fiery death for the gang member self-labeled as "The Nightrider," Max finds himself as the target of a vicious group of marauders, who are not only hell-bent on avenging their fallen comrade, but who seemingly have adopted the way of life that can only be found in philosophical doctrines--this being the brutish State of Nature. They pillage, they plunder, they sexually molest anyone they can find, all while being led by a man named Toe-cutter. Max will have to walk the fine line between violence and insanity, as his life will be turned upside down by the reckless actions of this pack of disgruntled raiders.

    Although this picture can certainly be characterized as a simple action film, whose conflict becomes a symbolic clash between law and lawlessness (or in the film's context--a battle of "the Scags versus the Bronzes," the latter of which alludes to the bronze badge carried by law enforcement and the former a slang term for the raging motorcyclists), its soul is undoubtedly tied to this single character study, which is perfectly executed by an extremely young Mel Gibson. Max is a character doomed by cosmic irony, which becomes more evident as the series progresses, yet it is this internal conflict and struggle for human dignity that makes him all the more compelling. He not only doesn't want to kill or be killed for that matter, but he refuses to succumb to this instinctive insanity that has taken hold of humanity.  

     
    The scene with the greatest emotional impact (other than, of course, the traumatic event that shapes Max's outlook on life, which can be deemed rather overdramatic), and arguably the most important scene in the film itself, takes place after the climax and in the denouement. Gibson fills the screen with this sense of repressed anger and quiet rage, which becomes quite frightening; not necessarily because of his tone or actions, but because of the progression of his character. His restraint here is impeccable, and this cannot be overstated. It is at this point that he actually becomes "Mad Max," and that we realize that the action genre will never be the same. Thank God for that.