Review #1,391: 'Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom' (2018)

Everybody's favourite mathematician, Dr. Ian Malcolm, warned misguided entrepreneur John Hammond 25 years ago of the perils of playing god and re-awakening dinosaurs from their extinct slumber. Of course, he was right, and the result was a personal childhood favourite. What he didn't foresee were the increasingly numbing sequels that would follow in the wake of Steven Spielberg's 1993 classic, which serve as a reminder not only of Spielberg's magical touch (let's pretend he wasn't responsible for The Lost World), but that general audiences will happily hand over their money to watch the same thing again and again. Jurassic World was unbelievably stupid, but its slightly schlocky attitude managed to scrape it a pass. Somehow, it became the third highest-grossing film of all time, so a sequel, or a trilogy (why not?), was quickly set in motion. Despite attracting a fantastic director in J.A. Bayona, Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom is the dullest entry since Jurassic Park III and manages, once again, to somehow make dinosaurs boring.

In the wake of a devastating volcanic eruption on Isla Nublar, Jeff Goldblum's Ian Malcolm is back to warn the U.S. Senate that rescuing the soon-to-be-lava-toast dinosaurs could have devastating repercussions for humanity, and once again states his belief that such unnatural tampering should have never been attempted in the first place. Protesters have gathered across the country in an attempt to convince the government that these creatures deserve another chance, and just when you think the film will serve as an allegory of our own mistreatment of the planet, the action zips across to Claire Dearing (Bryce Dallas Howard), who has set up a fundraiser to rescue the animals. The efforts of Claire and her cronies Zia (Daniella Pineda) and Franklin (Justice Smith) have failed to raise enough cash, but things look up when Claire is invited to the estate of Benjamin Lockwood (James Cromwell), John Hammond's former partner. Lockwood and his slickly-dressed aide Eli Mills (Rafe Spall) reveal a plan to rescue as many dinosaurs as they can and transport them to another island facility, where they will live in isolation and peace.

As soon as you set eyes on the mercenary team led by Ted Levin's Ken Wheatley, you'll have figured out exactly where the story is going and what everyone's motives are. Mills' combination of slicked-back hair and friendly demeanour is a dead giveaway, and Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom continues Hollywood's recent obsession with the amoral corporate bad guy. Wheatley's is Pete Postlethwaite's character from The Lost World, only without the gravitas and sense of backstory. Of course, their plan is to steal the dinosaurs and sell them on the black market, backed by Toby Jones' millionaire auctioneer Gunnar Eversol. They've also been working on their own little project, the Indoraptor, the genetically-modified brainchild of mad scientist Dr. Wu (BD Wong). Thank God then, that amidst all of this mess emerges the lovable face of Chris Pratt, dressed in manly clothes and building a manly house. Pratt's Owen Grady and Claire ended Jurassic World as a happy couple, but they have since drifted apart, presumably because Owen only plays by his own manly rules. They are reunited because Claire wants him on Isla Nublar, and we remember what little chemistry they share. But Pratt is charismatic and hugely likeable, a true movie star should he ever find a decent role outside of Guardians of the Galaxy.

What makes Jurassic World: Fallen Kimgdom so unforgivably dull is the sheer lack of care taken with the set-pieces. One thrilling struggle under water - shot with one impressively long take - aside, Bayona and writers Derek Connolly and Colin Trevorrow don't seem particularly interested in exploring fresh ways to pit man against dinosaur. The opening scene, shot in near darkness, sees an unfortunate soul stalked and gobbled up by one of the predators, but the piece is crafted with such lazy editing and unimaginative build-up that it barely raises the heartbeat. For a director who conjured such wonderful atmospheres in The Orphanage and A Monster Calls, Fallen Kingdom is glaringly hollow, and the whole thing reeks of movie-making by committee. The dinosaurs relocation from jungle to Mills' underground laboratory - a labyrinth of corridors, control rooms and difficult-to-close dumbwaiters - is the only thing that really passes for invention, and it's a relief not have to watch the characters hunted in the jungle once again. The ending leaves the future of Hammond's dinosaurs as something to be explored in the next film, but there is little doubt that this franchise will strut on for many years to come. My investment in it, however, has all but vanished entirely.


Directed by: J.A. Bayona
Starring: Chris Pratt, Bryce Dallas Howard, Rafe Spall, Justice Smith, Daniella Pineda, James Cromwell, Toby Jones, Ted Levine, Jeff Goldblum
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,367: 'Spider-Man 3' (2007)

When Marvel Studios were finally allowed some control over their most bankable character Spider-Man with just enough time to fit him into Captain America: Civil War, even the most die-hard superhero obsessives had grown tired of the adventures of Peter Parker and his red-suited alter-ego. When Tom Holland's definitive incarnation eventually graced the screen in a glorious extended cameo, it suddenly all made sense. Sony, who still held onto the rights but agreed to share with Marvel and allow him into their universe, simply didn't know what to do with him. They were on a roll with Sam Raimi's horror-inflected vision, which placed character above action and made Parker an underdog you could really root for. But the studio wanted more, and forced Raimi to shoe-horn in a fan-favourite villain at the expense of what was so great about this series. The worst part is that they did it again just seven years later with their Andrew Garfield-led reboot.

The villain the studio demanded was Venom, the razor-toothed, lizard-tongued alien symbiote who attaches itself to Spider-Man and improves his powers, while turning him into a dancing, floppy-haired douchebag at the same time. But Venom isn't the only Spidey foe appearing, for we also have a new Green Goblin, played by a returning James Franco, and Flint Marko, aka the Sandman, played by an incredibly bored-looking Thomas Haden Church. The evolution of Franco's Harry Obsorn has been set up from the very start, so his emergence as his father's successor to don the goblin mask and wreak havoc for our friendly neighbourhood web-spinner should feel natural and well-timed, until he is hit on the head and develops amnesia. With so much already going on, it feels like both an unnecessary step back in the story and sheer lazy writing. We are also given Marko's backstory, and it turns out the lug-headed escaped con was the man really responsible for Uncle Ben's death, which paves the way for more of Tobey Maguire's constipation face during his quiet time with Aunt May (Rosemary Harris).

There's simply too much going on, and when the film allows the pace to slow enough to spend some quality time with its central character, it turns out that Peter has turned into such an insufferable narcissist that we can't wait to get away from him. But, if you've seen the film, you'll know that's not the worst of it. The black alien goo arrives from space without explanation, and just so happens to land nearest to Peter Parker. The posters teased the darker side of Spider-Man, but what we got was spontaneous dancing, winking at girls in the street, and not listening to Mary Jane's (Kirsten Dunst) acting career troubles. I remember hiding behind my hands back in 2007 during the now-infamous dance sequence, and it hasn't improved with age. I've never uttered the words "I just want it to stop" out loud during a movie before, not until I saw Spider-Man 3 for the second time anyway. But it doesn't stop, not for what feels like another two hours, squeezing in Eddie Brock's (Topher Grace) transformation from slimy, unethical photographer into the vengeful Venom, and forging alliances that come out of nothing. As the wasted Kirsten Dunst screams as she hangs from an alien web at the climax, you'll be thinking that everybody involved is so much better than this, and they were, just three years earlier.


Directed by: Sam Raimi
Starring: Tobey Maguire, Kirsten Dunst, James Franco, Thomas Haden Church, Topher Grace, Bryce Dallas Howard, Rosemary Harris, J.K. Simmons, James Cromwell
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #946: 'L.A. Confidential' (1997)

Curtis Hanson's L.A. Confidential is a now long-established movie classic, regularly featuring in the various Top 100 lists drummed up by magazines and websites. But despite the impeccable performances from the film's three leads and writers Hanson and Brian Hengeland's firm grip on the labyrinthine plot, something about the film has never quite sat right with me. Don't get me wrong, I still think this is fantastic cinema and I've adored the few James Ellroy novels I've read (L.A. Confidential is adapted from the third book of his 'L.A. Quartet'), but some corny dialogue and flat cinematography weigh down what is ultimately an absorbing character piece.

There are a million stories in the city and it is the job of Sid Hudgens (Danny DeVito), the editor of trashy magazine Hush-Hush, to find them. Celebrity cop Jack Vincennes (Kevin Spacey) works on the side as 'technical advisor' for cop show Badge of Honor and is paid by Hudgens to bust celebrities in all sorts of compromising situations. It's Christmas, and Bud White (Russell Crowe) is buying liquor for the station when he stops by a house and beats on a man for doing the same to his wife. At the station, ambitious young cop Ed Exley (Guy Pearce) is determined to live up to his father's reputation and refuses to be drawn in to the various exploits of his corrupt colleagues. When a group of Mexicans are brought in for assaulting two officers, the drunken officers assault them and the story hits the newspapers.

It's difficult to summarise the plot as the film is always moving forward, putting many pieces into play to the point where you struggle to figure out how it will all link together. The main crux of the film lies with a massacre at a diner called the Nite Owl, where many are killed along with White's ex-partner Dick Stensland (Graham Beckel) and a girl White met at Christmas. She looked beaten up, but Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger) assured him it wasn't what he thought. Also, with her at Christmas was Pierce Patchett (David Strathairn), a millionaire who runs an agency of hookers made to look like movie stars by plastic surgery. After the incident with the Mexicans, Exley becomes despised by his colleagues for testifying against those involved, particularly angering White after Stensland was shown the door, and forcing Vincennes to testify by threatening his work on Badge of Honor.

Acting out almost like vignettes, the various pieces of the puzzle stay apart for the majority of the film, and it's difficult to figure out what the plot actually is. But the way all these elements ingeniously blend together at the end is the film's main strength. Somehow, Hanson also manages to retain his grasp on the film's trio of complex leads, who are all heavily conflicted and psychologically scarred in some manner. Even Exley, who is a determined straight-arrow, concludes that circumstances often call for one's dark side to be embraced. It's a film noir more invested in the driving force at the core of its central characters than any crime committed, and a crime story more focused on the politicking of the higher-ups and the corruption that comes with it. Despite the occasional wobble, L.A. Confidential is still thrilling cinema 18 years on.


Directed by: Curtis Hanson
Starring: Guy Pearce, Russell Crowe, Kevin Spacey, James Cromwell, Kim Basinger, Danny DeVito, David Strathairn
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #317: 'The Artist' (2011)

George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is one of the biggest stars in Hollywoodland. His latest picture looks set to be a commercial success after he charms the audience after a screening with his on and off-screen sidekick dog Jack. Afterwards, as the press surge around him, a screaming fan, Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo) drops her purse and finds herself alongside George, who grabs her and smiles for the camera. She causes a sensation in the press and lands a small dancing role in George's next film. But with the emergence of the talkies looming, George finds his role as Hollywoodland's favourite star threatened, and Peppy slowly rises and becomes a star in her own right. Unable to find work as a talking film star, George slides into infamy, but finds his path repeatedly crossing with Peppy's.

The emergence of the 'talkies' is one the biggest events in cinema history. Cinema giants found themselves pushed out of the business if they didn't have the right voice, and had to make way for a new set of stars. Very few actors survived the transformation, with the likes of Charlie Chaplin and Greta Garbo managing to scrape through. This has been depicted on screen before, most notably in two very different masterpieces - Billy Wilder's homage-filled noir Sunset Boulevard (1950), and Stanley Donen's iconic musical Singin' in the Rain (1952). While the latter depicted an ageing former silent star verging on madness, and the latter a production company making the difficult transition from silent movies to musicals, what The Artist has going for it is that it's shot and acted exactly like a silent movie, and does so with such dedication and love that it transports you back to the time where you feel as if you're witnessing this change first hand.

It would be easy to make a mockery of silent movies. As many greats as the era produced, they mainly consist of over-the-top acting, unrealistic sets and overly romantic attitudes (I said mainly, I'm not referring to the works of Murnau, Lang and Dreyer, but mainly the work that came out of Hollywood). But they were simple, passionate and often theatrical, and the works of Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton are still some of the greatest comedies ever made. Director Michel Hazanavicius is clearly in love with them, and even shot the film in the 1.33:1 aspect ratio, which allows the actors to dominate the screen. It is also littered with sly winks to the era and to the likes of Mary Pickford, who was possibly the biggest actress of the era, and Douglas Fairbanks (a scene from his The Mark of Zorro (1920) is shown as a Valentin movie, with Valentin incorporated into the close-up shots). 

The casting is a stroke of genius. Dujardin has such a perfect cinematic face that it is as if he was made for silent cinema. He simply doesn't need to speak, he has the ability to generate an emotion with an eyebrow movement, and has possibly the greatest screen moustache for many a year. If the Academy fails to recognise his performance here, I'll eat my own face, and I hope he goes on to bigger and better things. Bejo is not nearly as impressive, but charms her way through the film and is perfectly believable in her role. She has real chemistry with Dujardin, and the scene in which she has a small role dancing with Valentin, who keeps fluffing his actions because he is enamoured by Peppy, is truly beautiful. It is one of the most genuine and achingly romantic scenes I've seen in the cinema.

It is too early to call it a masterpiece, but it is truly a stunning film and the hype is well justified. But I did leave wondering if I had just witnessed the death of cinema. Are we so devoid of ideas that we have reverted back to where we started? Well, no, but it did make me think. Cinema has come full circle, and I am now concerned that there is nothing else left to explore. With the emergence of 3-D, old classics such as Star Wars (1977) and Jurassic Park (1993) are being re-released into cinemas. Do we now have to look back for inspiration, rather than forward into the unknown? Perhaps people have wondered this in the past, only to then witness cinematic landmarks that have pushed the medium forward. I'm most likely, and hopefully, wrong, but for now I'll enjoy The Artist for what it is - a love letter to a time in cinema often neglected by the masses - and a brilliant one at that.

Directed by: Michel Hazanavicius

Starring: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo, John Goodman, James Cromwell, Penelope Ann Miller

Country: France/Belgium

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie