Reviews by PvtCaboose91

Generally speaking, viewers cut horror movies a little slack - we can overlook nonsensical plots and stupid characters, but in return we want decent scares, an intoxicating atmosphere of visceral terror, and perhaps a bit of blood and violence. The Unborn contains all the elements one would expect to put up with, but without the compensation. Writer-director David S. Goyer's tedious, flat, convoluted, agonisingly dull horror movie ultimately spends so much time explaining itself, it forgets its purpose to actually scare. Think The Grudge meets The Exorcist, as written by an inept screenwriter like Uwe Boll.

The average, well-adjusted teen taking centre stage in The Unborn is a girl named Casey Beldon (Yustman), who is having trouble unlocking the meaning behind her recent dreams. Sensing that a demonic force in the form of a child named "Jumby" is pursuing her (yes, according to this flick, the root of all evil is a one-time foetus named Jumby), Casey turns to the clues left behind by her late mother (Gugino). This leads her to the Wise Old Woman Whose Sole Purpose Is To Provide Exposition (™) in the form of an Auschwitz survivor (Alexander) who turns out to be Casey's grandmother. So instead of acting like a normal teen and paying a visit to the psychiatrist, Casey spends time with granny and is informed that she had a twin brother who died in the womb. Apparently it's this twin brother who's haunting her...or something to that tune. Casey's only hope is to request the services of Rabbi Sendak (Oldman).

The plotline is merely a ridiculous mishmash of Auschwitz, Nazis, demonic possession and twins, resulting in a barely coherent story. One would expect a review of a horror movie like this to state that it simply shifts from one lazy jump moment to the next...but in the case of The Unborn, the "scary" sequences are bridged with 15 or 20 minutes of a teary-eyed Casey seeking the truth. This could've been at least a watchable film, but Goyer provides far too much exposition. As the convoluted babble about twins, demons, the door being open and other such nonsense unfolds, the more preposterous the movie becomes and the less entertainment one can ultimately find within it.

In desperation to market The Unborn as something more substantive than it is, the distributor used the fact that writer-director David S. Goyer was also involved with 2008's The Dark Knight. But, you see, Goyer only helped develop the story with Christopher Nolan, who then wrote the script with his brother Jonathan. For a more accurate representation of Goyer's cinematic legacy, look no further than the Blade films - he wrote all three and directed the appalling third movie. As bad as that film was, Blade: Trinity is still better than this tripe. The Unborn has been directed by Goyer with conventional touches, with set-pieces straight out of the horror handbook. But when the scares are telegraphed so far in advance, do they even qualify as scares? (For instance, when a character is wandering around for 5 minutes in an uneasy atmosphere before the sloppily-formulated "scare moment" eventually happens.) If Goyer deserves any praise, it's for devising a few unsettling images, like upside-down heads and mutilated faces which barely slip under the PG-13 radar. Yet a lot of this stuff seems lifted directly from other genre movies, particularly The Exorcist, and they're only slightly scary.

Goyer also drops the ball when it comes to basic logic; filling the movie with a multitude of plot holes and behavioural whoppers. He appears to make no attempt to establish a coherent set of rules by which possession occurs, with the evil "Jumby" conveniently leaping from body to body, which makes one wonder why it's so fixated on possessing Casey outside of the fact that a character claims it has a taste for her family's blood. On the topic of family, Casey's father (Remar) appears in two scenes before completely disappearing from the story. Apparently he went on a business trip, but it's mentioned that he's supposed to return the following day. And he doesn't appear to. I guess his plane crashed and nobody noticed.

In the dybbuk (as the Jews call it), Goyer found an interesting and little-known piece of folklore around which to form his story...but he had no idea what to do with it. The film is a mess of dead-end exposition and credibility-stretching coincidence. The dybbuk mythology never amounts to a compelling story and it rarely makes sense, even despite a tonne of mind-numbering exposition. And of all the dumb characters, the dybbuk might be the dumbest - Rabbi Sendak is initially sceptical of Casey's claims when she goes to see him, then the spirit decides to intimidate the Rabbi with a show of natural force, thus proving its existence to a guy who can banish it! Without spoiling the ending here, this can be said: you'll see the ending coming a mile away, will convince yourself that Goyer wouldn't possibly pen a conclusion so utterly lame, then either laugh or cry at the realisation that he did it. The film's conclusion is a stunning blend of predictability and hardcore stupidity. No amount of blood or gore could be added to improve this inert horror throwaway that was obviously cut to PG-13 standards (the unrated cut only adds a whole 49 seconds of footage).

In terms of casting, there's Gary Oldman who should have taken a much-deserved vacation instead of taking part in this clunker. How he ended up in this film is a true mystery for the ages - he was probably drunk, bored, or doing someone a favour. Odette Yustman, who was last seen escaping the tentacled behemoth in Cloverfield, is only nice to look at in a deeply generic sense (think Megan Fox). Goyer is completely aware that Yustman looks good in underwear, so he included two scenes in which the camera focuses on the actress' white-cotton-covered derriere. Even the poster takes advantage of this.

There's only one thing of interest about The Unborn: it's not a remake of an Asian horror film, but it certainly feels like one. Not just because it's incoherent and nigh on unwatchable (a common trait of said remakes), but because the plot contains the same basic characteristics; a nasty demon or ghost messing with a poor heroine in sinister but PG-13 ways. Perhaps that's how David S. Goyer got the green light for this movie - by fooling some gullible producers into thinking it was an Asian horror remake. At the end of the day, there is nothing to like about The Unborn. It is not scary. It is not interesting. It is not worth watching. Making a really obvious crack about it being a cinematic abortion is too easy...so I'd rather just belt out a bold, italicised "avoid" and get on with my life. So yeah...avoid! I've warned you. I've done my duty. Let's never speak of this movie again.

0.8/10

The year is 2018, the sky is ashen, machines rule the world, and the only humans which remain (who've undergone a humour bypass) constitute "The Resistance". That's the simplified synopsis of the fourth instalment in the Terminator franchise; a dull, predictable, bloated exercise in CGI overload which could easily be mistaken for a Transformers sequel. While the previous three films offered glimpses into the devastated futureworld dominated by the self-aware SkyNet, Terminator Salvation is the first sequel to be set entirely in that future, which provides the series with a new look. It's a shame, then, that it's merely another trembling step backwards for the franchise, and an appalling buttfucking of a once-great series of time-travelling adventures. With awful dialogue, an uninteresting plot and mostly uninspired performances, the human element has (ironically) been drained from the franchise... The machines have won.

The narrative intentions of Terminator Salvation are simple: John Connor (Christian Bale) has to meet his father Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin), become the leader of the resistance, and get his scar. Meanwhile Kyle is being held captive by SkyNet, and Connor's superiors plan to bomb the complex with no regard for the human prisoners inside...which means Connor must launch a rescue mission. But the movie is more consumed with a secondary plot strand involving a man named Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington). He's first seen as a death-row inmate on his way to lethal injection in 2003, but is suddenly resurrected in the apocalyptic 2018 with no memory of what has occurred in the years between.

Our brains logically tell us that this is John Connor's story. The Terminator franchise has always been about Connor. So why does Salvation inexplicably focus on the character of Marcus? In fact, Connor is pushed into the background...he becomes the supporting player in his own series (in the original script, Connor had an even smaller role, but the part was made comparatively larger when Bale signed on). Salvation mainly suffers from countless story problems. For instance, SkyNet are shown manufacturing the T-800 Terminators (those portrayed by Arnie in prior sequels) when the human/terminator hybrid Marcus was assembled beforehand... Why would SkyNet begin with the complete package (as in Marcus) and then regress to the inferior Schwarzenegger-style T-800? The terminator models are simply a joke in this film - there are Growlenators (seriously, the T-800s were growling), Throwenators (they just throw everything in sight instead of, ya know, killing their targets) and ready-for-humans-to-hijack Motorcyclenators. Adding insult to injury, there are even enormous machines which resemble the Transformers that stomped around in Michael Bay's cinematic abortion of a 2009 summer blockbuster. Couple this nonsense with the fact that one of these Transformer-type machines at one stage manages to silently sneak up on a group of humans...

Terminator Salvation neglects the cardinal rule of action cinema - introducing human characters a viewer can care about. The film plays out like a video game tie-in to the original franchise, and even proceeds with video game logic. It's set in 2018 when John Connor hasn't become the leader yet... So why has SkyNet been hunting Connor for years? He doesn't smash their defence grid until 2029, which is when SkyNet decides to send a T-800 back in time to terminate his mother. Moreover, how could SkyNet concoct an elaborate trap using Kyle Reese when it's impossible for the system to have any knowledge that he's Connor's father? And if SkyNet knew Reese was Connor's father, why not just kill him? Eventually Terminator Salvation culminates with an exhaustively moronic climax. To begin with, Connor frees a bunch of prisoners and tells them to run for "the transport ship". He has seemingly forgotten that he came alone on a Motorcyclenator and that there is no transport ship. Oops...

The first cut for Terminator Salvation was apparently 30-40 minutes longer than the theatrical cut, and the sloppy trimming is obvious throughout the entire film. This is felt most directly with the character of Blair (Moon Bloodgood) who nonsensically botches her allegiance to the Resistance in order to protect Marcus from justifiable execution after only one day spent together. Screenwriters John D. Brancato and Michael Ferris may have been natural picks for Salvation considering they wrote Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, but the duo also penned Catwoman and Primeval (that cheesy crocodile feature, not the BBC series). The dialogue is particularly appalling - the characters spout hackneyed action movie speak, while occasionally recycling trademark lines from earlier Terminator movies. For his tirade, Bale should have lashed out at the screenwriters rather than the cinematographer (who admittedly crafted a stylish, good-looking film).

For all of Christian Bale's public insistence that McG is more talented than his moronic stage name suggests, he's still the guy who directed Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. With not much of a story to worry about and no complex characters, there wasn't much preventing McG from crafting kick-ass action sequences. Except, uh...lack of skill!! As painful as it is to say (well, not really), the explosive, epic battles between man and machine are dull. The future war scenes imagined by James Cameron in the first two Terminator movies were murky, petrifying and dark. 200 million dollars were blown on this movie, but nothing matches Cameron's masterful work (not even the set-pieces in the original film should feel threatened...and they were produced on a $7 million budget). The only positives of Salvation (amazing CGI, great production design) are merely superficial - if a turd is coated in gold, it's still a turd...just a shiny one. The biggest action set-piece of the film feels like something from Transformers, and other highlights feel as if they've been lifted from other films (shots of helicopters landing resemble Apocalypse Now, the Motorcyclenators look like something from The Dark Knight, some shots from prior Terminator films have been replicated, etc... Terminator Regurgitation is a more appropriate title). Bear this in mind as well: Salvation is a Terminator movie directed by a producer of The O.C.... The technological lethargy even extends to Danny Elfman's score, which only reminds a viewer just how terrific Brad Fiedel's original music was.

All the sound and fury of the powerhouse action sequences can't make up for the studious lack of humanity. The characters are one-dimensional ciphers who never evoke passion or enthusiasm. A viewer will only root for these characters based on their appearances in prior instalments (another huge issue, since some consider this a "reboot" of the franchise that's independent from all other Terminator films). Playing John Connor, Bale unleashes his Gotham Growl, but he's sullen and tedious. Worse, he doesn't feel like the kind of guy who would fire up anyone, let alone the remainder of the human population. For his famous on-set rant, Bale displayed more drama, emotionality and variety than anything in the actual film. Worthington, on the other hand, is passable - it's just a shame he's never given a chance to truly test his acting ability. Meanwhile the supporting cast is miserably wasted. Helena Bonham Carter is embarrassing, Michael Ironside is hopelessly flat, and Terry Crews is reduced to...a corpse seen in a single blink-and-you'll-miss-it shot. Arnold Schwarzenegger's much-discussed CGI cameo is hardly convincing; he looks like the product of a below-par Pixar movie.

The unforgivable problem with Salvation is its PG-13 rating. Terminator is an R-rated franchise, and this toned-down, kid-friendly sequel is neutered beyond repair (nothing more unsightly than a man being mowed down with a mini-gun before merely slumping over). The visceral nature of the first two movies generated by heavy violence and profanity made an audience feel that the protagonists were in genuine danger. In Salvation, it feels like the characters are merely going through the motions and are never in real peril. A talented director given a better-written R-rated script and the same budget could have turned this into another classic. As it is...this is Terminator Castration.

Compared with James Cameron's two thought-provoking action classics, Salvation is a powerfully dumb film. The first two movies offered sprawling stories, visceral thrills, deep drama and well-defined characters. This film strains credibility with epic unlikelihoods, and tries to camouflage them with nonstop paroxysms. It doesn't matter how awesomely designed the robots are rendered; without gripping drama, characters to sympathise with or even an ounce of humour, Terminator Suckvation is a dumbed-down, soulless summer offering - the commercialisation of the Terminator franchise which might as well have been Transformers 3. It's also far worse than Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, which was no classic but deserves a bit more credit than it gets.

3.2/10

Fired Up! might as well have been entitled Cheer Leader Movie or Teen Movie, because those are far more suitable titles considering the bottom-of-the-barrel quality of the film it's concerning. The only thing to differentiate this comedic dud from the likes of Date Movie, Epic Movie and Disaster Movie is the absence of the names Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg from the credits. Instead, there's a first-time director named Will Gluck, and a group of four writers who credit themselves as 'Freedom Jones'. Fired Up! is nothing we haven't already seen countless times - it's a watered-down hodgepodge of several other films, and the result kills laughter rather than triggering it.

Working under the assumption that girls are as stupid as cattle, the movie introduces Nick (Olsen) and Shawn (D'Agosto); two football-playing studs who have used up the reserve of girls at their high school, and are seeking a new lady-killing challenge. The boys decide to ditch football camp in favour of cheerleading camp when they learn that it'll be attended by 300 young women. They worm their way onto the squad and hence into the camp, then proceed to sleep with anything that moves. But trouble arises when Shawn falls in love with one of their team-members.

After a brief opening sequence which establishes the protagonists as through-and-through jerks, Fired Up! embarks on a profoundly unfunny quest to add any sort of non-sequitur to the mix; assuming that conventional absurdity will wash over audiences like laughing gas. The actors are visibly too old for their roles, but the jokes are older than the Bible - the film is a morass of tired, obvious and telegraphed gags, from the mascots who never remove their costumes to the cheerleaders chanting about what they're doing all the time ("We are eating, we we are eating"), and even a scene in which the cheerleaders repeatedly chant "FU!" for Fired Up...because the very notion of the girls almost cursing is side-splitting, of course. The film also relies on the outtakes-during-the-end-credits approach to generate a few cheap, late laughs...but even these aren't even slightly funny. How bad must a movie be to contain a dud blooper reel?! And, despite the presence of talent like Philip Baker Hall and John Michael Higgins, the side characters are never given a chance to make an impact - they have been reduced to one-note caricatures or, in the case of the females, personality-free sex objects. Masochism aside, there are also homosexual gags - primarily a constant suggestion that all male cheerleaders must be gay.

Among the biggest problems with Fired Up! is that it contains absolutely no surprises. With such a totally obvious plot, you'll be able to predict what will happen at every juncture. The minute Shawn takes a shine for his teammate Carly (Roemer), it's obvious they'll eventually get together. But not after she overcomes her Jerk Boyfriend Who Sleeps With Other Girls (™), and the Break Up To Make Up Scenario Because The Protagonist's Disreputable Original Plans Which He Decided To Change Were Discovered (™). See, the two boys wanted to leave camp a week early, but they realise they've grown to care about the team and decide to stay, but their initial treachery is uncovered and they have to prove themselves to the team. Sound like anything new? Combine this with the fact that Nick wants to go to bed with the "unattainable" camp counsellor who's married to an old guy. Care to venture a guess about how that'll pan out? A Frankenstein's Monster of a movie, Fired Up! has three things on its mind: showcasing the improvisatory "skills" of the stars, PG-13 titillation, and cashing in on a cheerleading genre that's already passé. In reality, these intentions add up to a big headache of a movie, with director Gluck highlighting his naivety behind the camera through routine shot construction and a permissive attitude with the cast, who all seem to think they're God's gift to comedy. Nicholas D'Agosto and Eric Christian Olsen (aged 29 and 31, respectively) play the least convincing high school students imaginable, and they spend their screen-time mugging the camera. Neither actor possesses any degree of charisma, nor does the duo have the skill for turning bad material into less-bad material. Crucially, why should we care about these shallow douchebags who try to tap every female in sight?

It would seem that Fired Up! was intended to be a parody of Bring it On (the characters even view the movie at one stage, and recite every single line verbatim), though that's not for certain. See, the concept of a parody implies humour, and there's nothing even resembling laughs within this tripe. Making matters worse, this is an obviously R-rated movie masquerading as a PG-13 (ah, nothing like a smutty teen comedy in which the guys ogle fully dressed women). The emasculation is so painfully obvious that it calls attention to itself: characters wear clothes for skinny-dipping scenes, there are euphemisms for "fuck", and the sexual innuendo is softened. According to IMDb, the movie was submitted to the MPAA a grand total of 18 times before it was finally slapped with a PG-13 rating. A raunchier approach to Fired Up! may not have spawned a superior film per se, but it would've seemed more honest, and there would have been at least some guilty pleasure moments.

There's no checking your qualms at the door and riding along with Fired Up!, as it manages to be unfunny and offensive at every turn. Girls sucked in by the cheerleading theme will merely find out that boys perceive them as dumb-as-rocks sex objects, while the male demographic seeking raunchy laughs will find more original, funnier stuff in the first American Pie movie. If there's something rarer than a great comedy, it's a depressing one that somehow manages to produce not a single laugh (even with outtakes in consideration). Fired Up! is one of those - it's so formulaic, disposable and instantly forgettable, and even if you do find these gags funny, you'll be hard-pressed to justify why you found it at all amusing once you finish watching it.

0.9/10

Throughout My Life in Ruins, a couple of characters are frequently told that they're not as funny as they believe they are. Unfortunately, those watching the film will echo this sentiment as they endure the clichés and predictable scenarios it provides, on top of the forced attempts at humour that wouldn't pass muster for the world's worst sitcoms. My Life in Ruins is a generic romantic comedy that has no clue when it comes to romance, comedy, or above all charm. The "comedy" is based almost entirely on stereotyping nationalities, the story is trite, and the main coupling is devoid of that hard-to-pin rom-com necessity: chemistry! This godawful motion picture merely plays out like an obnoxiously terrible, been-there-seen-that sitcom. "Ruins" is indeed an apt descriptor of this flick.

My Life in Ruins follows a history-professor-turned-tour-guide living in Greece named Georgia (Vardalos). She hates her job, fusses because she's always assigned the second-rate tourists, and finds faults with everything in Greece that isn't a few thousand years old. Feeling the job is beneath her, and having a deep love for Greek history, Georgia tends to bore her tour companions by offering historical trivia when they'd rather shop for souvenirs, grab an ice cream or spend a day at the beach. In a traditional rom-com Character Rehabilitation Journey (™), Georgia attempts to regain her "kefi" (Greek for "mojo") through guiding a group of difficult tourists around Greece.

The core of the story is about Georgia's life view being changed when she falls in love with the tour's bus driver, Poupi (Georgoulis), and her learning a thing or two from the most flamboyant of the tourists, Irv (Dreyfuss). Suffice to say, by the film's dénouement Georgia has transformed herself from boring, inept tour guide into the best that Greece has to offer, and she's beloved by everyone in her group. Georgia also has a nemesis in the form of competing tour guide Nico (McGowan) who wants to torture her into quitting, but he's eventually humiliated and decides to quit himself. There's a bored teenage girl (Stuckey) in the film as well who is at first reluctant about Greece but eventually finds the guy of her dreams... Stop me if any of this sounds familiar... The problem with My Life in Ruins is that this isn't a lively rerun of every rom-com cliché in existence - it's a dreary tour through Clichéville that wouldn't be interesting even if it was original.

The screenplay by Mike Reiss (a sitcom writer, unsurprisingly) utilises the multiple-day tour as an excuse to showcase brainless cultural stereotypes which are as plentiful as they are offensive. The woeful surface-level caricatures range from boorish Americans and drunk Aussie bogans with an unlimited supply of Foster's (who should be deported for treason) to snooty shoplifting seniors from England and sexed-up Spanish cougars. There's a corporate representative thrown in the mix as well, who spends his screen-time making pancake puns. Pancake puns! Surely there were funnier avenues to explore with this plotline - all we get are unfunny one-liners, cheap detours into homophobia, and Nia Vardalos mugging the camera in an alarming manner. Screenwriter Reiss spent a period writing The Simpsons when it was actually good (he even wrote the feature film), so where is that wit?! Rather than wittiness, Reiss conceives characters named Poupi and Doudi... How ironic it is that infantile poo jokes have been used for a turd of a comedy.

At the helm of My Life in Ruins is Donald Petrie, whose filmography is so badly tarnished that it's surprising any producer (let alone Tom Hanks) would allow him anywhere near a project of potential value (his prior cinematic "masterpieces" include Just My Luck and Welcome to Mooseport). Not only is Petrie despondently clueless when it comes to conjuring a ghost of a romantic spark between Vardalos and Georgoulis, but he's also unable to accomplish what should've been the easiest task: gorgeous scenery. Greece is incredibly photogenic, yet this director imbues the movie with a depressingly commonplace look. Even an amateur home video taken by a bunch of tourists would be less dreary than this.

Nia Vardalos is practically a one-hit acting wonder. After My Big Fat Greek Wedding, her career has only spiralled downwards. In My Life in Ruins, there's nothing human about her character - she plays a walking cliché, and her performance is unable to elevate the material. She's slightly watchable, but spending 90 minutes with her is too much.
The rest of the cast is left floundering amid a sea of exasperating stereotypes. It should come as no surprise that Richard Dreyfuss is the film's only bright spot - he isn't enough to make this rubbish tolerable as a whole, but the actor deserves some credit. Playing the character who dispenses homespun wisdom (essentially the Midwestern version of Morgan Freeman), Dreyfuss appears to commit to the moronic antics that are asked of him, which is either the result of terrific professional courtesy or heavy drinking in between takes. His constantly weary expression is most likely a sign of grief due to being coaxed into starring in this crap purely for the money and sightseeing opportunities.

Ostensibly a film about the protagonist's mental transformation, My Life in Ruins is really just a long scenic tour of every rom-com cliché imaginable. It's a profoundly nauseating film that grows progressively more repellent as time goes by... A beautiful place like Greece deserves a far better travelogue than this, and a better spokesperson than the utterly charmless Vardalos. It seems that even with excellent movies hitting cinemas in this day and age (like Up or Drag Me to Hell), awful movies like My Life in Ruins are always lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce upon us and remind us that bad films are just as common - if not more common - than the quality ones.

1.9/10

Sequel-camouflaging title notwithstanding, The Final Destination is the fourth instalment of the now 9-year-old horror series wherein the Grim Reaper eviscerates those who have avoided their predestined death. By this point in the franchise, one would hope for the filmmakers to finally tweak the time-worn formula (perhaps explore the source of the premonitions, or place the action somewhere more exciting) but if someone pitched this idea to the studio executives, they were outvoted...this fourth film follows the formula to the letter without deviation. The sole element that has been changed is the visuals, which are now in 3-D (meaning blood, sharp objects and viscera are thrown at your face). The Final Destination does get credit for cutting straight to the chase; brushing aside both story and characterisation to plunge straight into the delightful gore. But the film is too rote, and it's handled weakly by those involved who were clearly more interested in box office returns than refreshing genre creativity.

For those unfamiliar with the three prior movies (released in 2000, 2003 and 2006), the recurring set-up is exceedingly simple: a group of characters are supposed to die in a terrible accident, but they survive because one of them has a premonition of said accident, and they escape before it actually happens. While this would logically suggest that they've been given a second chance, it isn't long before the Grim Reaper returns to claim the souls of those who evaded his scythe. Thus, The Final Destination commences with a group of four friends attending a NASCAR event. One of them, Nick (Campo), experiences the obligatory vision of a crash so implausibly epic that it causes a series of explosions and results in the death of dozens...including those of himself and his friends. Since his vision was so vivid, Nick is sent into a turbulent panic, and frantically attempts to leave the venue. He and a number of people do so, which leaves a motley assortment of survivors who must now navigate the dangerous waters of life-after-averted-death. The Grim Reaper spends the next 70 minutes of the film re-killing the survivors in meticulous ways.

Inexplicably, the main characters are very quickly able to figure out that the spirit of doom is hunting them - they just know purely because it's in the screenplay (though the word "Google" is uttered by one of the characters in a half-hearted attempt to justify their knowledge). Like its predecessors, The Final Destination does contain vague notions of expanding upon the mythology of the series, but there's minuscule effort on the part of the filmmakers to go through with it.
What was the source of Nick's premonition? Not important enough to explore, it seems. Why does Nick continue to experience premonitions which detail how the next survivor will die? No-one involved had an interest in addressing that either. The Final Destination is virtually a carbon copy of the preceding films, except that it's packaged in digital 3-D and eschews a numerical affix in favour of a definitive "the" in the title to suggest it is the final destination...unless, of course, the cash registers ring hard and often enough to warrant another follow-up.

Director David R. Ellis (a former stuntman-turned-director) makes his return to the director's chair after having helmed the second movie, which was arguably superior to the first (X-Files alumni James Wong co-wrote and directed the first & third instalments). In terms of delivering what the series promises, Ellis doesn't disappoint; beginning the film with a suitably horrific and spectacular disaster that kills dozens of people. And taking the ride in 3-D - which is undoubtedly the most enjoyable way to experience The Final Destination - makes the sequence extremely spectacular. Beyond this opening action set-piece, however, Ellis is unable to electrify the material - he merely ticks off sequences one by one, concentrating more on shock value due to gore as opposed to intoxicating tension. The kill scenes - while enjoyable and occasionally gripping - are still far too elaborate to be believed. Domino effect situations like these are too unbelievable, especially in such bulk. With lack of suspense and with originality at an all-time low, it seems the filmmaker utilised the 3-D gimmick as an excuse to get lazy. At least the film manages to sustain a viewer's attention for its short 80-minute duration - there's certainly minimal downtime between the unapologetically brutal kill scenes that define these movies.

Another problem with The Final Destination is that the characters are flat. Yes, it's incredibly rash to expect decent characterisations in a slasher flick, but the previous Final Destination films at least explored the basic backgrounds of the protagonists. A number of the main characters in this film, however, make absolutely no sense as people - they are apparently post-college and in their mid-20s, yet they don't appear to have a job to fund their comfortable lifestyle...they just inhabit an apartment and try mightily not to get killed. Tension for the most part relies on a viewer's ability to care for the characters, but with personality-deficient people within the movie, who really cares if they live or die? (As a side note, some of the characters in the prior Final Destination films were named after horror icons. This is unfortunately not retained here.)

The acting is expectedly awful. Every single performer is generic, especially Bobby Campo who brings scarcely a modicum of intensity to his premonition-receiving character. Shantel VanSanten and Haley Webb are fairly interchangeable with the previous Final Destination starlets (they're gorgeous, have great bodies, and are instantly forgettable), while David Webb appears as the requisite jerk (who's dismissive of the whole concept that Death is out to get them). Obviously it's daft to expect decent acting when dealing with unfussy horror mechanics, but the ensemble often fails to provide requisite anxiety...they appear to look upon death as a mild nuisance akin to a lengthy red light.

The Final Destination would be a terrible movie (even as far as horror sequels go) if it weren't for its sense of humour, which constantly reminds a viewer that the filmmakers were self-aware of how ridiculous the whole thing is. A scene in which a racist redneck is dragged to his fiery death after attempting to plant a burning cross in an African American man's yard is given an extra touch in the form of the car stereo blaring the song Why Can't We Be Friends? as it unfolds. The climax is set in a movie theatre primed to explode while playing a 3-D movie that features a ticking time-bomb (which is actually footage from The Long Kiss Goodnight).

Whether the "more of the same, only in 3-D" approach to The Final Destination will satisfy you depends entirely on your taste. While this reviewer would have liked to see the filmmakers mine other thematic areas, there's still enough popcorn entertainment here to warrant a watch.

5.1/10

Riding in on the four horses currently plaguing the horror-thriller genre - stylised gore, crude neon lighting, whiplash editing, and compulsive script turnarounds - Horsemen is a strictly by-the-numbers chiller courtesy of Michael Bay's Platinum Dunes production company. If nothing else, Horsemen (alternately known as The Horsemen in some circles) proves that Platinum Dunes is capable of more than just screwing up remakes of classic horror films (such as Friday the 13th and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre) - they're equally adept at ruining original (I use the term loosely) ideas too. In a nutshell, this film plays out like a half-hearted amalgam of about a dozen other (superior) genre films (like Se7en, Saw, Silence of the Lambs, etc) that's composed with an eye towards merging C.S.I. aesthetics with the single-father domestic troubles of a family sitcom. Admittedly, Horsemen begins well enough, but it isn't long before the film derails itself with a one-way trip to Crapsville.

The protagonist of the film is Detective Aidan Breslin (Quaid). He's a single father with two boys, but their relationship has been strained due to the untimely death of the mother of the family. (If you guessed that Breslin has avoided dealing with both his wife's passing and his grieving children by throwing himself into his work - and looking dishevelled in the process - you can give yourself a screenwriting credit.) The main narrative thread of the film concerns a string of brutal murders, and the investigation that's being carried out by Detective Breslin. It's a big case, yet Breslin has next to no help, which only makes the already contrived plot seem even dumber. Anyway, Breslin uncovers something startling during his investigation: the killers have taken inspiration from the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and are committing thematically appropriate murders.

Music video director Jonas Åkerlund makes his feature film debut here, and assembles a dynamic aura of panic for Horsemen that, at least for the first 40 minutes, is fairly gripping. The atmosphere is incredibly effective; promising that the film has something shocking up its sleeve that'll separate it from other entries to the tiresome serial killer genre. Alas, Horsemen has no unique plans in mind, and (with very few exceptions) this thriller is devoid of both thrills and compelling suspense. The plot, initially so promising, inevitably succumbs to formula. For the most part, the killers reveal themselves at seemingly random moments to provide a cheap, short-lived shock. The lazy script (written by Dave Callaham...who was also responsible for Doom) attempts to create shocks out of not who the killers are, but how they are revealed. Alas, this objective can be considered failed. Contrivances are another issue - for instance one character appears to turn themselves in for no apparent reason beyond "the script told me to". Most detrimentally, what aims to be a climactic twist is foreseeable from around the film's midpoint. Thus, this is a mystery-thriller with no real build, no climax and no mystery.

Without spoiling too much, the "mastermind" behind the murders decided to kill people simply because of a personal problem many of us have faced. Certainly, it isn't an easy issue to deal with, but gutting innocents is hardly the most effective way to handle it. Furthermore, an audience is actually asked to feel sympathy for the guilty party! It's preposterous. The main killer delivers a cliché-ridden speech towards the film's dénouement, telling Breslin "If you had done this, none of this would have happened". This reviewer thinks differently - this reviewer believes that if the killer had just controlled their murderous impulses despite their hurt feelings, no killings would've happened. On top of all this malarkey, Horsemen carries the appearance of a second-guessed film - subplots seem condensed; there are loose ends; character introductions are short-changed; and psychological strands are cut in half. The original runtime was reportedly about 20 minutes longer than the final cut (not to mention the film went through significant reshoots), so perhaps a number of things were lost in translation. It seems even the distributor knew they had a turkey on their hands - Lionsgate quarantined the film's release to less than 100 theatres in early March 2009 where it scooped up about a million dollars, and then shuffled off to DVD.

To be fair, director Jonas Åkerlund's work isn't too bad. It's just a shame he was saddled with such a damn stupid script. As a result, Horsemen comes off as a B-Grade rehash of a lot classic serial killer movies. The picture looks good, but still simplistic and elementary compared to, say, Se7en. Åkerlund is no David Fincher, and no matter how you look at it, this movie is a lesser version of Se7en - especially in terms of visual appeal, storytelling and above all suspense. Unfortunately, too, the movie is let down by the inclusion of some slipshod filmmaking (for instance bad continuity between close-ups and wide shots). Jan A.P. Kaczmarek's score also merits a mention; it fulfils its function, though it's nothing remarkable.
On the acting front, Dennis Quaid gives it his all, but he's hamstrung by the Frankenstein's monster of a script. Zhang Ziyi (who's given 15 minutes of screen-time despite top billing) is particularly awful - one can only assume her inclusion was to help the film sell in international markets. It's painful to watch Zhang regurgitate the dialogue she was given, but not as painful as the scenes she shares with Quaid in which the actors commit 100% to the material despite the fact that it's utter trash.

All in all, Horsemen works on a very basic level and it's admittedly watchable, but it's ultimately nothing we haven't seen done before and done better - a very simple mental dissection after viewing will cause the film to crumble into pieces.

4.4/10

Pixar Animation Studios has tackled talking bugs, washed-up superheroes, a rat who can cook, and a mute garbage robot in a post-apocalyptic environment, among many other premises. For their 10th motion picture, 2009's Up, the esteemed studio delivers something unexpected: an emotionally resonant action-adventure about a 78-year-old widower, an obese young boy, and a talking canine. Despite looking like an uninviting concept on paper, the Pixar squad pulled off the impossible once again, garnering over $700 million at the worldwide box office and garnering the sort of acclaim that Michael Bay and McG could only dream of. A distinctive and masterful amalgam of comedy, action, and heart-rending pathos, Up again demonstrates why Pixar are the best in the business at what they do, and shows that even the most simplistic story ideas can translate to a masterpiece in the hands of the right creative team.

At the centre of Up is aging, bespectacled curmudgeon Carl Fredricksen (Ed Asner), who tragically loses his beloved wife, Ellie, after decades of blissful marriage. Carl is unable to emotionally cope with the loss, maintaining his cynical senior citizen lifestyle while property developers threaten his house. When Carl is deemed a public menace and a court orders him into an assisted living facility, he senses his last opportunity to keep his promise to Ellie and pursue a life of adventure. Carl attaches thousands of balloons to his house, allowing it to lift off the ground and into the sky, and he promptly begins flying in the direction of Paradise Falls in South America. As children, Carl and Ellie both idolised an adventurer named Charles Muntz (Christopher Plummer), who was renowned for his expeditions to Paradise Falls. Unfortunately for Carl, he has a stowaway in the form of a Wilderness Explorer named Russell (Jordan Nagal), who hopes to earn his "Assisting the Elderly" badge by helping Carl however he can. As they begin to traverse Paradise Falls, Carl and Russell meet an eager golden retriever named Dug, whose electronic collar can translate his thoughts into English.

Written by Bob Peterson (Finding Nemo) and director Pete Docter (Monsters, Inc.), Up is an old man/young kid "buddy film" brought to life through animation - on that note, it is essentially James and the Giant Peach meets Gran Torino. Chief among the film's myriad pleasures is watching this unlikely intergenerational friendship take root, particularly considering its shaky and highly amusing beginning. The vocal performances are top-notch across the board - instead of well-known stars to boost the box office, Up features lesser-known performers who perfectly suit their respective roles. Asner and Plummer are not unknowns, but they are not A-list actors, either. 

Pixar's brilliance lies in their ability to say more in ten wordless minutes than most other films can say in twenty pages of dialogue. Up's exceptional prologue brilliantly demonstrates this trait - the brisk sequence is a masterpiece of economy and could stand as a self-contained short. It tells the story of Carl and Ellie, whose childhood meeting (when they were both adventure-spirited kids) is charm personified. The episode that follows has a certain grace that's seldom seen in a motion picture - it's an emotionally resonant, beautiful montage that exquisitely captures the couple's young love, marriage, hopes, dreams and heartbreaks. But Ellie eventually dies and Carl is left alone in a house rich with memories where every floorboard is imbued with Ellie's presence. It brings a tear to the eye. Furthermore, this is all communicated brilliantly and mutely by the filmmakers who utilise the gift of elegant animation and well-lubed character expressions to lend the audience a glimpse into Carl's stubborn psychology. Through this, a viewer gets to know everything there is to know about Carl... We understand him, and feel with him. His decision to abandon the world and float away seems sensible and right. All the central characters are brilliantly developed; Pixar understands that the action set-pieces are far more nail-biting with likeable characters entangled in the perilous situations.

Every frame of Up is meticulously constructed to the finest detail, with every behaviour (be it dog or human) carefully observed and replicated. The film is constructed with all the required narrative elements in place, yet the functionality is rarely obvious. There's a villain in the film, as well as conflict, but that's all external. At surface level, Up is the story of an elderly man and his boy scout sidekick wandering through exotic jungles and fighting dastardly air pirates. But in truth, this is the story of Carl coming to grips with the loss of his beloved wife and struggling to find a way to move on. The rest is just window dressing. See, above all else, those who constructed the movie never forgot that entertainment is job one. The film itself is therefore a piece of entertainment which can also be appreciated for what it carries underneath its surface.

As always, the animation in Up (a marvellous blend of realism and caricature) is breathtaking - especially in 3-D, which is the best way to experience the movie. Pixar have become so excellent at what they do, it's almost no longer a requirement to stop and marvel their artistic efforts. The filmmakers' attention to detail borders on pathological, from the way Carl's beard subtly grows as the days roll by to the vivid candy colours of the beautiful mound of balloons. There are a number of images here that would be considered amazing in any film (animated or live-action). On top of all this, the stunning visual world is set to a wonderful musical score. Composer Michael Giacchino recalls the lushly orchestrated compositions of cinema's golden age; providing ebullient pieces of music perfectly suited to Carl and Russell's lofty adventure.

One thing's for sure: Up is very touching, but it's also hilarious. There are sequences included here with the inventiveness of a Charlie Chaplin comedy, not to mention an abundance of clever laugh lines with nary a pop-culture reference in sight. One of the greatest pleasures of Up is a bunch of talking dogs. Anyone who has ever spent time with a dog will find infinite pleasures in the spot-on approximations of what might be going through a lovable, slobbery mutt's mind at any given moment. It's comedy gold. Granted, some of the characters feel more like the product of a DreamWorks animation film, but they're grounded with a glorious Pixar sensibility (for instance, if this was a DreamWorks movie, the talking dogs would all carry iPhones and the giant bird would be voiced by Eddie Murphy). In a way, Up does succumb to screenwriting clichés towards the opening of its third act; hatching a break-up-to-make-up scenario that feels alien to the material. Yet this is only a small objection within a film of boundless beauty and gorgeous cartoon buoyancy.

A motion picture like Up makes it clear that Pixar has moved beyond the point where they need to pander children. Unlike DreamWorks, Pixar allows sophisticated themes and ideas to seep into their movies and they don't feel the need to oversimplify everything. That's not to say Pixar creates family unfriendly art films - Up includes plenty of jokes that kid will get, and its appeal is boundless. To describe the pleasures afforded by Up is ultimately an exercise in futility because it wins you over in so many ways - alternating between solid belly laughs to cliffhanger thrills to gorgeous imagery - that one is simply left wondering what they're smoking over at Pixar studios and why more filmmakers aren't smoking the same thing.

8.9/10

The 1970's television series Land of the Lost was ripe for hilarious parody. If a screen adaptation was produced that poked fun at the series and the low-budget, stop-motion genre, a gem would be imminent. However, as it is, 2009's Land of the Lost is just a lightweight adventure in the form of a standard Will Ferrell movie. Throughout the feature, Ferrell's character runs from things and screams, and between these sequences he's engaging in semi-improvisational speeches designed to make himself look like a moron. One can watch Ferrell doing the aforementioned in literally any movie in which he features, so why would anyone want to see him repeat his same old routine under the guise of a cinematic reimagining of a '70s TV show? From the outset, it's unclear who this movie was meant to be pitched to. Was the aim to introduce the show's campy zest to a new generation of children? Or appeal to the now adult fans of the show with a combination of cheesy nostalgia and postmodern mockery? Unwisely, Land of the Lost tries to be both; peppering the story's juvenile antics with smutty adult humour. That said, it at least makes the cut in the dumb but fun department, and it's still watchable.

In the TV series, a father and his two children on a rafting trip become sucked into a portal which teleports them to an alternate universe that fuses elements of the past (namely dinosaurs) with elements of fantasy and science fiction. This fundamental concept remains in the movie adaptation, but rather than a family of protagonists there's an unlikely trio of mere acquaintances - Dr. Rick Marshall (Ferrell), Holly (Friel), and Will (McBride) - who plunge into an alternate universe as the result of Rick's invention, a "Tachyon Amplifier", which was the cause of his banishment from mainstream science several years prior (following a career-ending appearance on The Today Show with Matt Lauer (who gamely played an extra-glib version of himself)).

Once in this alternate dimension, the protagonists forge a tenuous friendship with a primate named Chaka (Taccone), and encounter the kind of scenarios that the two screenwriters (Dennis McNicholas and Chris Hench) were able to conceive when given $100 million to play with - namely, loosely connected skits tailored to the improvisatory skills and free-wheeling talents of the primary stars. There are rampaging dinosaurs, fast-crawling bugs, a race of lizard people (called the Sleestaks) and an assortment of cultural signifiers from different eras of human history (a Viking Ship, the Golden Gate Bridge, a roadside motel) scattered throughout the desert. Those involved with the production preserve creature designs and locations from the original series, as well as adding the occasional inside joke to please old fans. But the inconsistent quality of the special effects is jarring. The Sleestaks, for example, look very phoney, and the sets frequently look goofy. This is all well and good, since it's an obvious homage to the low-budget origins of the show. So why is it, then, that the dinosaurs were brought to life with state-of-the-art CGI? Early in the movie, Matt Lauer asks Rick Marshall in disbelief "You've spent $50 million studying time warps?". Meanwhile, the filmmakers blew $100 million making this motion picture when it could've been produced for half that amount to better effect.

Contrary to common sense, Land of the Lost is absolutely not for children. Perplexingly, the filmmakers elected the hard PG-13/borderline R-rated route. Sex jokes, abrasive profanities, vulgarities, breast grabs, drug-induced hazes and a few expected bits of rather graphic violence are all incorporated into the film; imparting a darker edge to the material that's foreign to the franchise. It'd be one thing to fully commit to a gross-out, hilariously violent, curse-ridden R-rated send-up of the television program, but the filmmakers seem afraid to pursue this. The alienating approach they end up taking will most likely charm teenagers and young couples who enjoy such films as Anchorman or Talladega Nights, but it will appeal to very few others. Admittedly, there are several amusing moments scattered throughout Land of the Lost. A few one-liners delivered by McBride and Ferrell, which feel improvisational, at least achieve chuckles. The fact that this cast is better suited to a vulgar comedy environment and that the raunchiness affords the best comedic moments is compelling evidence that the filmmakers should have selected the R rating option.

Director Brad Silberling - who was responsible for the 2004 screen adaptation of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events - serves up a wonderful visual feast, supported by the efforts of production designer Bo Welch. A peculiar universe has been accomplished here, so it's a shame that the movie built around it isn't up to standard. Another key problem with Land of the Lost is that of unbelievably sloppy filmmaking. The editing in particular is simply ghastly. For instance, whenever the Tyrannosaurus Rex is chasing the characters, the spatial relationships are a mess. One moment the T-Rex is within biting distance of the characters...then in the following shot the characters have magically jumped forward about 10 or 20 metres. In a scene towards the climax, Marshall and Will rescue Holly from about eight or nine Sleestaks...they end up dispatching three or four, and suddenly they're all gone. Do the filmmakers assume we're not paying attention?

It's possible to see the flop-sweat of desperation on Will Ferrell's forehead as he battles to mine laughs from this barren screenplay. However Ferrell's ability to play self-deluded and conceited is admittedly somewhat amusing. Danny McBride has his moments and happily pings off Ferrell, while Anna Friel delivers a pretty stoic performance as the scientist incarnation of Lara Croft...which is all the script asks of her. The only other member of the cast worth mentioning is Leonard Nimoy, who is given a cameo.

Land of the Lost has its pleasures - the always-charming Anna Friel in small outfits, a few funny Will Ferrell moments - but it's ultimately forgettable and uneven. It's too schlocky and adult-minded in its humour for a family audience, but too dumb in its broad strokes to appeal to adults. To its credit, though, it's still enjoyable fluff, and it qualifies as one of the trippiest movies of the 2009 summer season - think the prehistoric version of Anchorman as written by Hunter S. Thompson...except it's no-where near as awesome as that sounds.

5.1/10

"Vintage Woody Allen" would be the most appropriate label for 2009's Whatever Works, because that's never been truer. Woody initially wrote this film back in 1977 as a vehicle for Zero Mostel, but the screenplay was set aside when Mostel inconsiderably died before the film could be made. However when Woody's one-movie-a-year output was placed in jeopardy by a threatened actor's strike and he needed a movie ready to go sooner than usual, he resurrected the old script and gave it a quick rewrite. Whatever Works marks the writer-director's return to New York City following several filmmaking endeavours in Europe, and it features a number of his touchstones: the philosophising of Annie Hall, the misanthropy of Deconstructing Harry, and the customary old man/young lover theme present in a lot of Woody's prior films. A familiarity that clouds the entire enterprise notwithstanding, this typically Woody-esque, comical mediation on human existence and love is the filmmaker's most effective and hilarious comedy in years (the fact that Woody wrote this film around the same time as Annie Hall probably has something to do with that).

Whatever Works opens brilliantly with Boris Yellnikoff (David) breaking the fourth wall (a typical Woody Allen technique) as he addresses the camera to introduce his narrative. However this isn't an aside; Boris is doing it in the middle of New York City in full view of bystanders. His friends think he has utterly lost it, especially when he explains that they are in fact being watched by thousands of people in theatres. This technique begins the film with an easy charm; a sly smile in the audience's direction.
Boris is an adamant misanthropist who bad-mouths children, shows little patience for anyone, and even insults the most inoffensive individuals who cross his path (perceiving them as imbecilic simpletons of inferior intellect). He also impresses his ideologies on religion, relationships and the randomness of existence upon anyone willing to listen. But when Boris begrudgingly allows naïve Mississippi runaway Melodie St. Ann Celestine (Wood) into his apartment, his reclusive rage gives way to an unlikely friendship.

Amidst this narrative, there are talky conversations at landmarks and outdoor cafés; all taking place in the New York City that Woody Allen has celebrated throughout his career. The time of separation away from his native Manhattan (during which he worked in London and Spain) has reinvigorated his work - there's a great sense of liveliness and spirit. It's a joy to see the filmmaker back in this territory. However, Whatever Works is far from flawless - in between the one-liners and witty dialogue, the narrative odds and ends of the film feel perfunctory, even resigned. The second half of the movie (full of reunions and subplots to extend the runtime) isn't as well-paced as the blisteringly hilarious, rapid-fire first half. In addition, the movie's philosophy may be about life being full of surprises, but Allen's recent output is only rarely surprising. Whatever Works reinforces the notion that the writer-director's creative well has run dry; his films now either spectacles featuring attractive characters in foreign locales (like 2008's Vicky Cristina Barcelona) or comedic larks in which notable names embody the archetypal Woody Allen role. These criticisms notwithstanding, his latest efforts are still entertaining, and with the comfortable space he's created for himself he can just get on with being Woody Allen without fretting (ironically).

Interestingly, the three decades have been kind to Woody's script for Whatever Works. It's just as funny - maybe even funnier - as it would've been back in 1977, and it feels more audacious and relevant in 2009. As a matter of fact, much of what makes the film seem daring is as a result of the passage of time. The elements guaranteed to startle in 2009 - a ménage à trois, a homosexual awakening, the generally irreligious tone - would be far less shocking to a '70s audience. The fact that Allen presents these in a matter-of-fact, offhanded manner reflects the earlier era, making them more provocative all these decades later. Since Whatever Works is a dosage of old-school Allen, the dialogue is boundlessly witty and there are some killer one-liners. Boris' diatribes are hysterical; the best Woody has written for years (once again coming back to the fact that the material was written in the '70s). Probably the most note-worthy aspect of Whatever Works is that it's one of Allen's most optimistic films about life and love to date.

Curb Your Enthusiasm comedian Larry David is an excellent Boris Yellnikoff. David was a natural to play the "Woody Allen role", and he handles himself excellently; making his character appealing and tolerable without diluting his nasty side. According to Allen, Boris is an extreme exaggeration of his feelings - to that end, David's gleeful portrayal of the unyielding misanthrope is more savage and belligerent than Woody has even been. Boris' omnipotent contempt is nothing new, but the mean-spirited ferocity is. The 74-year-old Allen could have probably pulled off the character, yet it still works with a surrogate. As a side note, there are lines delivered by Larry David that Zero Mostel might have gotten more comedic mileage out of.
David receives solid support from Evan Rachel Wood (previously seen in 2008's The Wrestler), who manages to make her role of Melodie dopey and callow but not grating or obvious. The actress disappears into the role of the Southern dumbbell to the extent that she's almost unrecognisable. Patricia Clarkson (who starred in Woody's 2008 project Vicky Cristina Barcelona) shines as Marietta, while Ed Begley Jr. and Henry Cavill fulfil their functions in the story terrifically.

Curiously, the predominantly negative reviews for Whatever Works gripe about the fact that Boris is "too unlikeable" or "unsympathetic". These critics are missing the point entirely. It's no accident that (as the familiar old record for the opening credits) Allen chose Groucho Marx singing Hello, I Must Be Going; the character of Boris Yellnikoff is the same type of sharp-witted, bitter grouser that Groucho used to portray. Despite this, Groucho was a comedian and, as often noted, a huge influence on Allen. Did anyone complain about Groucho playing a quick-witted con man who insulted everyone in sight? No, because he was funny. So is Boris Yellnikoff. So is Whatever Works to a tremendous degree. While a viewer may be left with a lingering sense of déjà vu during the movie, this is a fun and funny sit-down; a nourishing dose of old-school Woody Allen ladled on top of a New York that, after all these years, still needs him.

7.8/10

Year One looked to be the comedy of the 2009 summer season. Judd Apatow (the King Midas of modern comedy) produced the film for his idol Harold Ramis (Groundhog Day, Caddyshack) who wrote the screenplay with the staff writers for the successful American version of The Office. The two leads of the movie are Jack Black and Michael Cera, who are supported by a bunch of able actors (including David Cross, Hank Azaria and Paul Rudd). It's a colossal shame, then, that Year One is an inexplicably unfunny, hit-and-miss comedy. It's not exactly an abject laugh famine, but with the film boasting such a large variety of comedic players behind and in front of the camera it wouldn't have been unreasonable to expect something far better than this.

The film introduces two cavemen protagonists: inept hunter Zed (Black) who has a tendency to annoy the tribe's more respected members, and equally inept, wimpy gatherer Oh (Cera). Neither of them have much luck with women - Maya (Raphael), the object of Zed's lust, perceives him as an unlikely provider, while Oh's would-be bedmate Eema (Temple) doesn't even know he exists. Zed gets fed up and bored with his life, and decides to eat forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. Since this is a violation of tribal law, Zed is banished from the primitive village, and Oh joins him as they set out to explore the ancient world.

Director Ramis and his pair of screenwriters employ material from the first book of the Bible in the form of a sketch-comedy akin to Mel Brooks' History of the World, Part I. In fact, Year One treats the Biblical book of "Genesis" not as a chronology of happenings but as a geographical road map instead. The Garden of Eden and Sodom are included, along with Cain, Abel, Abraham, Isaac and countless others - all separated by distance rather than time. The film isn't exactly a satire of Bible stories (it might've worked better had that been the objective) - it's instead a mismatched buddy movie which contains Biblical names and locations. This is not a necessarily bad idea, but laughs are crucial for a shallow comedy like this. It'd be remiss to say Year One never achieves chuckles, as it does occasionally, but these are a depressingly thin and disappointingly intermittent commodity. This could have been the new generation's Life of Brian, but that film had the advantage of a smart, inspired and hilarious screenplay written by the Monty Python troupe working at the pinnacle of their creative powers, and who were unafraid to push the boundaries in order to achieve comedic goals. Hindered by its PG-13 rating, Year One feels like the product of a group of writers having an off night with a paranoid studio executive supervising the process.

Year One plays it frustratingly safe. With little in the way of cutting Biblical humour or mockery of primitive cultures, the movie is crammed with gross-out humour, incest jokes and flat pop culture references. There's a brief scene featuring Bill Hader that fails so spectacularly that Hader himself is seen questiong the script during the end-credit outtakes. Year One might provoke belly laughs from 6 or 7-year-old kids who can't resist giggling at the image of someone farting or urinating on themselves, or someone munching on faecal matter, but what the film sorely lacks is ingenuity and wit. There's even a large orgy sequence which was probably designed to serve as the film's comedic centrepiece, but it's exasperatingly long without being funny or (thanks to the PG-13 rating) even sexy. Hell, the writers were even unable to come up with a single amusing Sodom joke; a task this reviewer could pull off over the course of a quick lunch break. Year One is a stillborn production that merely delivers 100 minutes of laugh-free scenarios.

Judd Apatow apparently has great affection for Harold Ramis, but allowing him to run wild with Year One was an ill-advised decision. The film's failure is almost entirely because of Ramis whose direction is clumsy and half-hearted, and whose sense of comic timing is slipshod. The story simply meanders along, awkwardly transitioning from one scene to the next. Ramis often cuts to the next skit before any real punchline; regularly generating the impression that huge chunks of the movie are missing. For instance, Oh is attacked by both a snake and a cougar early into the movie. But on both occasions, the film cuts to the next scene before we get to see how he gets out of it! Even the final scene ends with the characters just walking away. This is followed by an end-credit blooper reel full of flubs and on-set stuff-ups that allow an audience the opportunity to see just how little anyone cared about the production.

It's almost cruel to witness a procession of marvellous actors failing so miserably here. All these talented performers are unable to elevate the material beyond primary school depth. Furthermore, no-one in the cast pushes themselves beyond their established screen personas, with the respective shtick of Jack Black and Michael Cera - the bug-eyed, over-exuberant fat doofus and the mumbling, deadpan pork - growing tiresome very quickly. Black's comedic liveliness is usually only tolerable in small doses. With him receiving top billing and maximum screen time in Year One, he becomes grating. Cera, on the other hand, merely turns in the exact same performance we've seen him deliver in Superbad, Juno, and so on. The concept of pairing Black's bluster with Cera's reticence may have seemed foolproof in theory, but in practise the results are lethal.
Arguably, the only comedic highlight of Year One (if there is only one) is Hank Azaria's amusing interpretation of Abraham, though his screen-time is far too limited. The rest of the cast is awful, including Oliver Platt who hams it up and merely epitomises an abundance of gay jokes for his role. It would seem impossible to include a bad Paul Rudd cameo, but Harold Ramis is a can-do guy when it comes to pushing quality into the middle of the road - or, in this case, off the road and into a ditch!

Year One admittedly retains some energy, so it's tragic that this energy is squandered on a movie not really worth making. There are a few chuckles to be found here and there throughout the film, but they're so irregular that they only serve to highlight how the rest of it has utterly failed in that regard.

2.7/10