Last night, I made one of the classic movie-watching blunders: forgetting that it is directors, not writers, who have the final say on the end product. Eric Roth and Brian Helgeland are excellent screenwriters, but when you're writing for a director whose primary obsessions are epic scenery, gratuitous and very realistic sex, and the American Civil War, there's only so much you can do to help.
The Postman, by David Brin, is one of the greatest reads ever. The Postman, directed by and starring Kevin Costner, is just a few steps shy of being sufficiently over the top to qualify as a Hapless Shitstorm, a genre coined by my friend Andre to describe Baz Luhrman's Australia. The Postman is not just a bad movie, it's an empty one. That's the best description I can come up with: empty. The Postman lives up to its legendary reputation for dullness and then some. Very little happens in its 178 minutes, which I suppose is an impressive feat in its own way. On top of that, Costner forced the story into an epic Civil War allegory, a baffling move that can best be described as a critical failure. Even if you don't take into account its source material and consider the film as a distinct story in its own right, it's still a story that doesn't make any sense. Ignoring everything that made Brin's story interesting, filled instead with said nonsensical allegory and lots and lots of scenery, and basically given the Paul Verhoeven treatment, a condition in which a director reads part of a great book and decides that it would be a way better story if he completely missed, ignored and/or discarded the book's theme, thesis, and message, and replaced it with his own, The Postman is as boring as it is pointless.
(Paul Verhoeven got hired to direct a film version of Robert A. Heinlein's Starship Troopers, by his own admission read only the prologue and thought it was too boring to read any further, and then went on to make what I would crown the king of Hapless Shitstorms (disclaimer: I have not seen Australia) whose cherry on top is the fact that its theme, message, and portrayal of the military are in every way the antithesis of Heinlein's. Costner's Postman is similar in structure, except that instead of being an antithesis, it's just more or less nothing at all. As I said, empty. I have no idea whether or not Costner read all of The Postman, but the film's content suggests that he never made it past chapter five.)
Avoid at all costs.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Postman
About seven or eight months ago, I borrowed a copy of David Brin's The Postman from some friends, and for seven or eight months it gathered dust on my coffee table as I was putting off reading it. I borrowed it in the first place because I'm familiar with Hugo-winner Brin for Startide Rising, but avoided it because in my head I had him confused with David Weber (best known for the Honor Harrington series), who I'm not crazy about. In fact, I bought a Weber book at this year's library sale, because in my head I was buying a Brin novel. Confused? I know I am.
Anyways, the point is, I finally read it, and it is the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi book - and one of the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi stories - I've ever come across.
The Postman (1985) opens in U.S. of A., year 2009, sixteen years after a nuclear war that has left the country in a state very similar that of the Fallout video game series, with protagonist Gordon Krantz fleeing for his life while simultaneously trying to reclaim all his worldly possessions after his camp is attacked by "survivalists", roaming terrors who thrive on death, destruction, and mutilating corpses, and who I wouldn't be surprised to hear were the direct inspiration for Fallout's raiders. Just eighteen when the first of the wars began, he has survived the interim, including a three-year long nuclear winter, first by joining a short-lived militia in the early days of the war and later by using his brain and the skills he learned in the militia he wanders the country trading plays and stories for food and shelter at the settlements scattered across the mid-west, thus proving that English Literature 101 may be useful in the event of a nuclear apocalypse after all. After surviving the opening attack on his camp, but losing all his posessions - making him as good as dead, out in the wild - in the course of his escape he stumbles across a derelict jeep containing the fully uniformed body of a pre-war postman, along with a big sack of official government mail regarding what would later be referred to as the Doomwar. Gordon is deeply stricken by this unexpected and most familiar of links to better days, and the fact that the postman was most likely ambushed while trying to deliver his cargo but pressed on as long as he could in an attempt to preserve his country, bringing to mind the U.S. Postal Service Oath to deliver the mail no matter what. He's also delighted to have the postman's warm uniform, and so takes it and the mailbag and continues on his way. At the next settlement he comes across, the residents decide that, regardless of how he came by it, now that he's put on the postman's uniform he is a postman. Recognizing the potential of this course of action, Gordon decides to re-open lines of communication and build up hope, instituting post offices, mail routes, and carriers in each subsequent settlement he comes to and even as going so far as to forge documents "proving" that there is a government out east which is working on restoring America. As the baby postal service grows, and people actually start getting letters from friends and family they thought were long dead, their hope and belief in the rebuilding of the country grows with it. Making the lie even easier to believe is the reasonable assumption that the post would be the only sustainable, wide-reaching federal service to continue after a holocaust, as all it requires is people willing to travel. Gordon is determined to keep the hope alive, but the bulk of the story's tension is found in his constant nervous state of wondering about when his lie will be revealed, and if it will have been successful enough for that revelation to not make a difference to the people.
However, all that's just the setting. The true story of The Postman is a calm, thought out, well-constructed examination of why people need other people, and how it is impossible for an organization, be it town or country, to survive and succeed if run by or consisting of only one type of person or group. This is subtly emphasized by how different each settlement Gordon visits is, in its structure, leadership, attitudes, and practices, and more strongly emphasized by the almost overwhelmingly destructive force of the survivalists. Brin even manages to tactfully deconstruct one of the major and very sensitive real-life socio-political arguments of his time, though I imagine it would not be hard for a certain type of person to ignore everything else and claim The Postman as a feminist manifesto. It is because Brin is so calm that it could be very easy to ignore all the subtle elements that build the core of his message and cling to one of the stronger ones, but ultimately The Postman remains a powerful and successful argument for why no one ideological group can successfully rule or survive on its own.
On top of that, Brin's writing style is incredibly easy to engage. Casual and flowing, his voice in this book feels like a cross between late-50's-early 60's Robert A. Heinlein (Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land), late-90's Stephen King (Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon), and Harry Harrison (Make Room! Make Room!, the Stainless Steel Rat books) minus the hysterics. It opens well, it ends well, has a very reasonable take on the future which is our present, and contains one the most beautifully blunt foreshadowings I've come across. Packed with thoughts and visuals, The Postman somehow manages to never stop flowing, or even slow down. That to me is a most impressive accomplishment - that most famous of descriptive writers, Tolkien, wrote gorgeous visual paragraphs that are well worth taking the time to read, but generally stop the story dead. Brin's visuals are nowhere near as detailed as Tolkien's, but they are full and whole, and his world, protagonist, and secondary characters are both complete and engaging straight 'til the end.
I've never seen the 1997 Kevin Costner film based on this book, and have believed the rumours regarding its legendary dullness as the only Costner-directed film I have seen and enjoyed is 2003's Open Range. However, after reading The Postman, I'm now quite interested in its screen adaptation. Costner is a thinker, and I'd like to see his take on this story. Seeing that the screenplay was written by Brian Helegeland (L.A. Confidential, Conspiracy Theory) and Eric Roth (Munich, The Good Shepherd) more or less confirms that I'll be watching The Postman pretty soon.
In the meantime, I highly recommend The Postman as reading material, even if you've seen and hated the movie. It's a fantastic book, a smart story, and appears to have significantly influenced many aspects of Fallout 3, so if you enjoyed that series I can't think of a single reason why you won't enjoy this book. And if you hate video games with a passion, as some people dear to me do, I still can't think of a single reason why you won't consider The Postman to have been an excellent use of your time.
Anyways, the point is, I finally read it, and it is the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi book - and one of the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi stories - I've ever come across.
The Postman (1985) opens in U.S. of A., year 2009, sixteen years after a nuclear war that has left the country in a state very similar that of the Fallout video game series, with protagonist Gordon Krantz fleeing for his life while simultaneously trying to reclaim all his worldly possessions after his camp is attacked by "survivalists", roaming terrors who thrive on death, destruction, and mutilating corpses, and who I wouldn't be surprised to hear were the direct inspiration for Fallout's raiders. Just eighteen when the first of the wars began, he has survived the interim, including a three-year long nuclear winter, first by joining a short-lived militia in the early days of the war and later by using his brain and the skills he learned in the militia he wanders the country trading plays and stories for food and shelter at the settlements scattered across the mid-west, thus proving that English Literature 101 may be useful in the event of a nuclear apocalypse after all. After surviving the opening attack on his camp, but losing all his posessions - making him as good as dead, out in the wild - in the course of his escape he stumbles across a derelict jeep containing the fully uniformed body of a pre-war postman, along with a big sack of official government mail regarding what would later be referred to as the Doomwar. Gordon is deeply stricken by this unexpected and most familiar of links to better days, and the fact that the postman was most likely ambushed while trying to deliver his cargo but pressed on as long as he could in an attempt to preserve his country, bringing to mind the U.S. Postal Service Oath to deliver the mail no matter what. He's also delighted to have the postman's warm uniform, and so takes it and the mailbag and continues on his way. At the next settlement he comes across, the residents decide that, regardless of how he came by it, now that he's put on the postman's uniform he is a postman. Recognizing the potential of this course of action, Gordon decides to re-open lines of communication and build up hope, instituting post offices, mail routes, and carriers in each subsequent settlement he comes to and even as going so far as to forge documents "proving" that there is a government out east which is working on restoring America. As the baby postal service grows, and people actually start getting letters from friends and family they thought were long dead, their hope and belief in the rebuilding of the country grows with it. Making the lie even easier to believe is the reasonable assumption that the post would be the only sustainable, wide-reaching federal service to continue after a holocaust, as all it requires is people willing to travel. Gordon is determined to keep the hope alive, but the bulk of the story's tension is found in his constant nervous state of wondering about when his lie will be revealed, and if it will have been successful enough for that revelation to not make a difference to the people.
However, all that's just the setting. The true story of The Postman is a calm, thought out, well-constructed examination of why people need other people, and how it is impossible for an organization, be it town or country, to survive and succeed if run by or consisting of only one type of person or group. This is subtly emphasized by how different each settlement Gordon visits is, in its structure, leadership, attitudes, and practices, and more strongly emphasized by the almost overwhelmingly destructive force of the survivalists. Brin even manages to tactfully deconstruct one of the major and very sensitive real-life socio-political arguments of his time, though I imagine it would not be hard for a certain type of person to ignore everything else and claim The Postman as a feminist manifesto. It is because Brin is so calm that it could be very easy to ignore all the subtle elements that build the core of his message and cling to one of the stronger ones, but ultimately The Postman remains a powerful and successful argument for why no one ideological group can successfully rule or survive on its own.
On top of that, Brin's writing style is incredibly easy to engage. Casual and flowing, his voice in this book feels like a cross between late-50's-early 60's Robert A. Heinlein (Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land), late-90's Stephen King (Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon), and Harry Harrison (Make Room! Make Room!, the Stainless Steel Rat books) minus the hysterics. It opens well, it ends well, has a very reasonable take on the future which is our present, and contains one the most beautifully blunt foreshadowings I've come across. Packed with thoughts and visuals, The Postman somehow manages to never stop flowing, or even slow down. That to me is a most impressive accomplishment - that most famous of descriptive writers, Tolkien, wrote gorgeous visual paragraphs that are well worth taking the time to read, but generally stop the story dead. Brin's visuals are nowhere near as detailed as Tolkien's, but they are full and whole, and his world, protagonist, and secondary characters are both complete and engaging straight 'til the end.
I've never seen the 1997 Kevin Costner film based on this book, and have believed the rumours regarding its legendary dullness as the only Costner-directed film I have seen and enjoyed is 2003's Open Range. However, after reading The Postman, I'm now quite interested in its screen adaptation. Costner is a thinker, and I'd like to see his take on this story. Seeing that the screenplay was written by Brian Helegeland (L.A. Confidential, Conspiracy Theory) and Eric Roth (Munich, The Good Shepherd) more or less confirms that I'll be watching The Postman pretty soon.
In the meantime, I highly recommend The Postman as reading material, even if you've seen and hated the movie. It's a fantastic book, a smart story, and appears to have significantly influenced many aspects of Fallout 3, so if you enjoyed that series I can't think of a single reason why you won't enjoy this book. And if you hate video games with a passion, as some people dear to me do, I still can't think of a single reason why you won't consider The Postman to have been an excellent use of your time.
Two Gentlemen of Lebowski
Much thanks to the crew at EW.com's Popwatch blog for bringing this to my attention. Warning: will only be appreciated by those who have seen and enjoyed the Cohen brother's cult bowling-noir classic The Big Lebowski.
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
...Is, in this case, J.J. Abram's Star Trek. We won a copy at Corey's company Christmas party, much to our delight. Cor's co-worker, our friend Tim, would have liked that particular door prize, but we all knew it would be borrowed anyways so it's all good. Then, I enacted our plan to buy my mother-in-law a copy of that same movie for Christmas. And then, on Christmas day, I opened a present from that same mother-in-law, and tucked away beneath Kung-Fu Panda, Up, and Keith Green's greatest hits lay...
Well, guess what we got Tim for Christmas this year!
:D
Well, guess what we got Tim for Christmas this year!
:D
Thursday, December 10, 2009
(Still) The Best Thing About Buffalo
Remember The Goo Goo Dolls? Those guys that you couldn't not hear on the radio all through the 90's, between numerous singles including "Name", "Slide", "Black Balloon", and, of course, "Iris"? Well, I believe there should be less incredulous looks given in my direction when commenting on their recent material ("What? I didn't know they were still around!"), especially now that I've finally heard their most recent studio album, 2006's Let Love In.
Perhaps the most surprising little-know information about the Dolls is that they're not only still alive and well, but have been recording with record labels since 1987. I had no idea myself that 1995's A Boy Named Goo, which cemented their place as a respectable rock and roll band, was in fact their fifth studio album. But even working only from that album, their evolution as a band, and lead singer/writer John Rzeznik's evolution as a lyricist, is what makes them my favourite pure rock band still recording.
Stylistically, there hasn't been a lot of change between A Boy Named Goo and Let Love In - and I mean that as a complement. I listen to particular bands because I like the distinct sound that makes them, well, them, and get pretty put out when, two albums later, they decide to "reinvent themselves" (i.e. got bored with their old style, or got an ultimatum from their label). Also, as an artist and amateur musician, I personally have more respect for artists who choose to focus on something and then spend the rest of their careers striving to make that one thing constantly better while still retaining its core elements. That's a lot harder than it sounds. So the first thing I love about The Goo Goo Dolls is how, since they started being a rock band (they used to be punks, I had no idea), they've never stopped sounding like The Goo Goo Dolls. Every subsequent album sounds like The Goo Goo Dolls, but more accomplished than before. I appreciate it on a personal level, and it speaks volumes to their musicianship. Which is already of substantial quality, as they derive their unique sound by doing things like tuning every guitar string to the same note, but in a different octave, and so on, resulting in music that in a cursory listen sounds like everyone else's same three chords (all hail G C D!) but upon closer inspection stands out because it doesn't sound anything like that. In fact, most of their songs are in A or D flat, which are not really amenable to standard guitar tunings, which means someone needs to do some serious problem-solving in order to achieve their desired result. It sounds different, simultaneously shiny and matte, better than the Big Three in a way that's blunt and subtle all at the same time. I respect no artists more than those who create something so complex it seems simple. That is a truly challenging endeavour, and the Dolls have not only been pulling it off but building on it since the early '90's.
But I mention style here because that's what got me thinking about this post. While listening to Let Love In, Corey commented that it sounded a lot like contemporary Christian worship rock. Which got my attention, because, though both a contemporary Christian and musician I may be, I can't stand the musical stylings of contemporary Christian worship rock. But it wasn't so much the music on Let Love In that makes it this way, but rather what it sounds like. It sounds like praise, and in its own way, I am quite convinced that this is the case.
I alluded early on to John Rzeznik's evolution as a writer, and currently having in my possession every studio album from A Boy Named Goo to Let Love In really makes this stand out. A Boy Named Goo isn't quite an angry album, per se, but it has a lot of despair - an overarching feeling and message of, "things suck, and we're quite upset about that, but can't see a way out or what can be done to change things." Its follow-up, Dizzy Up the Girl (she of the numerous radio hits), starts presenting glimmers of hope - there is still a lot of entanglement in bad situations, but there are also the beginnings of seeing light at the end of the tunnel, the realization that maybe, just maybe, there might be a way out after all. Gutterflower (2002) is a strange one, and quite possibly my favourite. It's what you might call a break-up album, but which I would say, in its depth and maturity, is more about the end of a relationship rather than a break-up. With the average levels of bitterness, rage, and immaturity on the standard break-up album, it would be both insulting and misleading to refer to Gutterflower as such. That album is packed with surprisingly gentle but sharp rebukes on how not to deal ("Big Machine), grown-up acceptances and admissions ("Sympathy", "What do you need?"), and it closes with the most clear expression up to then of what became of Rzeznik's Catholic upbringing: "Truth is a whisper and only a choice / nobody hears above this noise / It's always a risk when you try and believe / I know there's so much more than me / Yeah I got caught up in the ruse of this world / It's just a promise no one ever keeps / And now it's changing while we sleep... / Who's the one you answer to / do you listen when he speaks / or is everything for you / and do you find it hard to sleep"
Let Love In tells a story of what sounds like Rzeznik finding good, healthy, earthly love, but every song also drips with Christian images of joy, peace, hope, delight, particularly "Without You Here". With lyrics like "let me remind you / the light doesn't blind you at all / it just helps you see" ("Become"), and songs like "Better Days" (my new favourite Christmas tune), the one thing this album is clearly in praise of is truth and love - the only question is whose. I can't imagine it being anything other than the Christian variety, because that's what it screams in my ear, and because the one thing I can say in all certainty without being a presumptuous ass is that there is no truth but Christ, and that there is no joy comparable or more powerful than that found in his salvation. However, I would be a presumptuous ass to make declarations regarding John Rzeznik's opinions on Jesus, and since I can't find any word from him on the subject, the true inspiration behind Let Love In will remain a mystery.
And, of course, the album is very solid musically, and John Rzeznik's made a place for himself in my books amongst the great lyricists of rock and roll with "Feel the Silence", an honest song about the difficulties of reconciliation that includes the brilliant line "we're drowning in the water that flows under this bridge."
All this to say that The Goo Goo Dolls are alive, well, and, with every album, better than ever. Rock and roll hasn't been too big this decade, what with the major trends being the alt-experimental styles used by Coldplay, Broken Social Scene, Arcade Fire, Hey Rosetta!, Sufjian Stevens, Jets Overhead, and the like, and, on the not-so-good side of things, the "adult contemporary" resurgence we can all throw gardening tools at American Idol for causing. But despair not! If you want some good current, plain ol' rock and roll, look no further than the little white tab at HMV labelled "Goo Goo Dolls". I once had some kick-ass lemonade and corndogs at an outlet mall in Buffalo, but The Goo Goo Dolls will always be the best thing that little city's ever produced.
Perhaps the most surprising little-know information about the Dolls is that they're not only still alive and well, but have been recording with record labels since 1987. I had no idea myself that 1995's A Boy Named Goo, which cemented their place as a respectable rock and roll band, was in fact their fifth studio album. But even working only from that album, their evolution as a band, and lead singer/writer John Rzeznik's evolution as a lyricist, is what makes them my favourite pure rock band still recording.
Stylistically, there hasn't been a lot of change between A Boy Named Goo and Let Love In - and I mean that as a complement. I listen to particular bands because I like the distinct sound that makes them, well, them, and get pretty put out when, two albums later, they decide to "reinvent themselves" (i.e. got bored with their old style, or got an ultimatum from their label). Also, as an artist and amateur musician, I personally have more respect for artists who choose to focus on something and then spend the rest of their careers striving to make that one thing constantly better while still retaining its core elements. That's a lot harder than it sounds. So the first thing I love about The Goo Goo Dolls is how, since they started being a rock band (they used to be punks, I had no idea), they've never stopped sounding like The Goo Goo Dolls. Every subsequent album sounds like The Goo Goo Dolls, but more accomplished than before. I appreciate it on a personal level, and it speaks volumes to their musicianship. Which is already of substantial quality, as they derive their unique sound by doing things like tuning every guitar string to the same note, but in a different octave, and so on, resulting in music that in a cursory listen sounds like everyone else's same three chords (all hail G C D!) but upon closer inspection stands out because it doesn't sound anything like that. In fact, most of their songs are in A or D flat, which are not really amenable to standard guitar tunings, which means someone needs to do some serious problem-solving in order to achieve their desired result. It sounds different, simultaneously shiny and matte, better than the Big Three in a way that's blunt and subtle all at the same time. I respect no artists more than those who create something so complex it seems simple. That is a truly challenging endeavour, and the Dolls have not only been pulling it off but building on it since the early '90's.
But I mention style here because that's what got me thinking about this post. While listening to Let Love In, Corey commented that it sounded a lot like contemporary Christian worship rock. Which got my attention, because, though both a contemporary Christian and musician I may be, I can't stand the musical stylings of contemporary Christian worship rock. But it wasn't so much the music on Let Love In that makes it this way, but rather what it sounds like. It sounds like praise, and in its own way, I am quite convinced that this is the case.
I alluded early on to John Rzeznik's evolution as a writer, and currently having in my possession every studio album from A Boy Named Goo to Let Love In really makes this stand out. A Boy Named Goo isn't quite an angry album, per se, but it has a lot of despair - an overarching feeling and message of, "things suck, and we're quite upset about that, but can't see a way out or what can be done to change things." Its follow-up, Dizzy Up the Girl (she of the numerous radio hits), starts presenting glimmers of hope - there is still a lot of entanglement in bad situations, but there are also the beginnings of seeing light at the end of the tunnel, the realization that maybe, just maybe, there might be a way out after all. Gutterflower (2002) is a strange one, and quite possibly my favourite. It's what you might call a break-up album, but which I would say, in its depth and maturity, is more about the end of a relationship rather than a break-up. With the average levels of bitterness, rage, and immaturity on the standard break-up album, it would be both insulting and misleading to refer to Gutterflower as such. That album is packed with surprisingly gentle but sharp rebukes on how not to deal ("Big Machine), grown-up acceptances and admissions ("Sympathy", "What do you need?"), and it closes with the most clear expression up to then of what became of Rzeznik's Catholic upbringing: "Truth is a whisper and only a choice / nobody hears above this noise / It's always a risk when you try and believe / I know there's so much more than me / Yeah I got caught up in the ruse of this world / It's just a promise no one ever keeps / And now it's changing while we sleep... / Who's the one you answer to / do you listen when he speaks / or is everything for you / and do you find it hard to sleep"
Let Love In tells a story of what sounds like Rzeznik finding good, healthy, earthly love, but every song also drips with Christian images of joy, peace, hope, delight, particularly "Without You Here". With lyrics like "let me remind you / the light doesn't blind you at all / it just helps you see" ("Become"), and songs like "Better Days" (my new favourite Christmas tune), the one thing this album is clearly in praise of is truth and love - the only question is whose. I can't imagine it being anything other than the Christian variety, because that's what it screams in my ear, and because the one thing I can say in all certainty without being a presumptuous ass is that there is no truth but Christ, and that there is no joy comparable or more powerful than that found in his salvation. However, I would be a presumptuous ass to make declarations regarding John Rzeznik's opinions on Jesus, and since I can't find any word from him on the subject, the true inspiration behind Let Love In will remain a mystery.
And, of course, the album is very solid musically, and John Rzeznik's made a place for himself in my books amongst the great lyricists of rock and roll with "Feel the Silence", an honest song about the difficulties of reconciliation that includes the brilliant line "we're drowning in the water that flows under this bridge."
All this to say that The Goo Goo Dolls are alive, well, and, with every album, better than ever. Rock and roll hasn't been too big this decade, what with the major trends being the alt-experimental styles used by Coldplay, Broken Social Scene, Arcade Fire, Hey Rosetta!, Sufjian Stevens, Jets Overhead, and the like, and, on the not-so-good side of things, the "adult contemporary" resurgence we can all throw gardening tools at American Idol for causing. But despair not! If you want some good current, plain ol' rock and roll, look no further than the little white tab at HMV labelled "Goo Goo Dolls". I once had some kick-ass lemonade and corndogs at an outlet mall in Buffalo, but The Goo Goo Dolls will always be the best thing that little city's ever produced.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Where The Wild Things Are
While I've got nothing against professional film critics, and read a critics review because I'm interested in what they have to say, there are four major categories in which I don't take anyone's word for in regards to a film's quality and/or message: action blockbusters (particularly comic and sci-fi related), Oscar bait or anything released during Oscar sweeps season, foreign films, and children's films. Children's films are tricky territory for critics, probably because they are not made for the people reviewing them, and in that same sphere their suitability for children is also necessarily judged. And suitability seems to have been the main point of contention regarding director Spike Jonze's brilliant adaptation of one of the few books it seems everyone you know has both read and loved: Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are.
That Jonze's film is brilliant doesn't seem to have been in contention amongst critics. Beautifully written, directed, acted, designed, and photographed, Where the Wild Things Are expands on its brief but loaded source material in all the right ways. In this version of the story, young Max's journey doesn't begin with a punishment for acting his age, but a panicked flight from a confusing home situation made that way by his father's absence. It is this absence and its impact on both Max and his mother that set the framework for this picture. Miserable, confused, and hurting, he throws a spectacularly well- (or ill-) timed tantrum that gets out of hand, culminating with biting his mom and running away into the woods, and so his mystical journey begins.
And what a journey it is. The most striking thing about the land of the Wild Things is that it's not striking. It's a very familiar, plain deciduous forest, albeit one bordered by desert on one side and ocean on the other. The forests inhabitants, physical appearance aside, aren't especially fantastical either. Most of the Wild Things are easily identifiable as the different aspects of Max's being, and the rest are familiar in less obvious ways. In this way, the film allows Max to explore his feelings and question his actions after the Things crown his their king and he spends the length of his reign being caught in the middle of their conflicts. Carol is the most obvious part of Max, angry and confused by a sudden and unexplained abandonment, and it is mostly through arguments over Carol's behaviour that Max learns about his own. Max's journey to the land of the Wild Things is psychological in nature, and I would wager that its raw honesty is at the heart of what so many critics and filmgoers have claimed makes this film unsuitable for children - a claim I strongly dispute. There is much in this film to make both adult and child uncomfortable, but discomfort and unsuitability are two very different conditions, and the former is not always without its benefits.
Some critics have taken exception with the film's dark depiction of an unstable, unreliable world; others, with its violence. I would address the latter complaint first. Usually, when people complain about violence in kids films, it is because the violence is over-the-top or cartoonish, that is to say sanitized, the reality of its impacts hidden and denied. In the case of Where the Wild Things Are, it's kind of ironic that the majority of complaint's I've come across stem from the impacts of violence being portrayed in an honest and realistic fashion. The Wild Things are much bigger and stronger than Max, and so even their innocent play is fraught with peril as they cavort around jumping on each other and knocking over trees with childish exuberance. The risk of Max being involuntarily harmed is always present and palpable, largely thanks to an excellent performance by twelve-year old Max Records, and the risk of voluntary harm is always in play as well, as it is quickly established that the Wild Things have very short fuses. Also, there's the fact that they crown Max with a circlet and scepter taken from the corpse of a former king they clearly ate after they grew displeased with him, and verbal threats regarding Max becoming someone's meal are made more than once. The involuntary violence - that is, Max being hurt while playing - is not something I can find a reason for being alarmed by, as kids face it every day in the schoolyard, and it is in many ways a normal part of childhood. As my husband pointed out, Where the Wild Things Are is more honest about play than any other kid's film we've seen, because in this one - as in real life - play and games always break down after a point, resulting in at least one kid leaving hurt or unhappy. As for the threat of voluntary violence, I'd say it ties into the film's deeper theme, with is the second point of contention for many critics: the instability and unreliability of Max's world. Early in the film, Max's teacher gets a little too in-depth explaining to the class how the sun will eventually die, but not to worry, because humanity will probably have eradicated itself through any number of apocalyptic scenarios long before that happens (that uncomfortably hilarious scene brought Invader Zim''s Miss Bitters ("doom...dooom....dooooomed!"). Carols mournful monologues include a reflection on how all the sand in the desert used to be something, and what it might erode into next; and, of course, the eventual discovery that Max isn't a real king with mystical powers destroys any fairtytale qualities remaining in the Wild Things existence.
I think it is this portrayal and exploration of instability that makes Where the Wild Things Are one of, possibly the best kid's film I've ever seen, and the very reason kids should be taken to see it. It is unflinching, but not unbearably so, because it is honest. The reason for Max's recent loss of his father is never spoken of in the film, allowing it to be read as being about either divorce or death, and in this way its talk of the sun's extinction is a perfect metaphor. What should be more gratuitously reliable than the sun rising, setting, and being there every day? What should be more gratuitously reliable to a child than the continued, whole existence of his family? More than any other film I've seen on the topic, Where the Wild Things Are explores what happens when the most reliable thing in a kids world is swept out from under his feet with a breadth and depth unmatched even by Brad Bird's The Iron Giant - and I would argue that it does this in a way that a child sufficiently old enough would understand and identify with. Unfortunately, I don't have a child to query on this topic, so this is all conjecture based on what I read and watched as a kid and the fact that I come from what sociologists call a broken home, but I can say this: it's no E.T. E.T. is the most famous, well-loved kid's film about broken homes of my generation, and I hate it. I think it's horribly dishonest, as it glosses over the ugliness of divorce and its impacts with both the confusingly incomplete metaphor of its titular character and the fact that, aside from being less lonely for a few weeks, Elliot never works anything out emotionally, and the only angry or irrational behaviour he exhibits can be blamed on E.T. accidentally getting drunk and passing it on psychically. There is, of course, a tidy, convenient, happy-sappy ending to the story. People love this movie, I mean truly, deeply love it - a Rotten Tomatoes poll several years back ranked it as the best sci-fi film of all time. To quote my favourite virtual philosopher, Homestar Runner: What. The. Crap. E.T. is escapism, but not the good kind. I hated it when I watched it as a child of divorce, and I hated it when I watched it as an adult child of divorce.
Where The Wild Things Are, on the other hand, lays its cards on the table. It's a story about reality, and what our options are when the prospects of a fairytale ending or mysterious stranger who will make everything okay are dim or impossible. I don't know about you, but I don't know a lot of adults who speak fondly of blatantly fictional stories about uncomfortable realities. Sure, we like our biopics, and "based on true events" stuff, but it's telling that the best, most complete, most honest film I've ever found about the destructive nature of guilt and unconfessed sin is an English-language picture written and directed by Americans...which was produced and filmed in Spain, because they could not get financial backing in their home country, and whose only U.S. distributor was Paramount Home Video. In the circles I most frequently travel in, El Maquinista (The Machinist) is often dismissed out of hand because of its R rating, a rating which seems to accompany films about truth almost as much as it does films about obscene and gratuitous lies. Where The Wild Things Are, by virtue of its source material, is already more famous than The Machinist will ever be, even in the face of a new public interest in star Christian Bale (The Dark Knight) - but I wonder how the response to this movie would change were it an original or little-known story. I'd love to read a review by someone who's never heard of the book.
Spike Jonze is a man with a very strange resume consisting mostly of music videos for the like of Bjork, The Chemical Brothers, and R.E.M., as well as writing credits for Jackass, Jackass: The Movie, and Jackass 2, but until now has been most well-known for a bizarre little film called Being John Malkovich, a picture I'm not sure I like but will always appreciate. Whether or not you take your kid to see it, Where The Wild Things Are is a work of art that accomplishes everything good artwork should.
That Jonze's film is brilliant doesn't seem to have been in contention amongst critics. Beautifully written, directed, acted, designed, and photographed, Where the Wild Things Are expands on its brief but loaded source material in all the right ways. In this version of the story, young Max's journey doesn't begin with a punishment for acting his age, but a panicked flight from a confusing home situation made that way by his father's absence. It is this absence and its impact on both Max and his mother that set the framework for this picture. Miserable, confused, and hurting, he throws a spectacularly well- (or ill-) timed tantrum that gets out of hand, culminating with biting his mom and running away into the woods, and so his mystical journey begins.
And what a journey it is. The most striking thing about the land of the Wild Things is that it's not striking. It's a very familiar, plain deciduous forest, albeit one bordered by desert on one side and ocean on the other. The forests inhabitants, physical appearance aside, aren't especially fantastical either. Most of the Wild Things are easily identifiable as the different aspects of Max's being, and the rest are familiar in less obvious ways. In this way, the film allows Max to explore his feelings and question his actions after the Things crown his their king and he spends the length of his reign being caught in the middle of their conflicts. Carol is the most obvious part of Max, angry and confused by a sudden and unexplained abandonment, and it is mostly through arguments over Carol's behaviour that Max learns about his own. Max's journey to the land of the Wild Things is psychological in nature, and I would wager that its raw honesty is at the heart of what so many critics and filmgoers have claimed makes this film unsuitable for children - a claim I strongly dispute. There is much in this film to make both adult and child uncomfortable, but discomfort and unsuitability are two very different conditions, and the former is not always without its benefits.
Some critics have taken exception with the film's dark depiction of an unstable, unreliable world; others, with its violence. I would address the latter complaint first. Usually, when people complain about violence in kids films, it is because the violence is over-the-top or cartoonish, that is to say sanitized, the reality of its impacts hidden and denied. In the case of Where the Wild Things Are, it's kind of ironic that the majority of complaint's I've come across stem from the impacts of violence being portrayed in an honest and realistic fashion. The Wild Things are much bigger and stronger than Max, and so even their innocent play is fraught with peril as they cavort around jumping on each other and knocking over trees with childish exuberance. The risk of Max being involuntarily harmed is always present and palpable, largely thanks to an excellent performance by twelve-year old Max Records, and the risk of voluntary harm is always in play as well, as it is quickly established that the Wild Things have very short fuses. Also, there's the fact that they crown Max with a circlet and scepter taken from the corpse of a former king they clearly ate after they grew displeased with him, and verbal threats regarding Max becoming someone's meal are made more than once. The involuntary violence - that is, Max being hurt while playing - is not something I can find a reason for being alarmed by, as kids face it every day in the schoolyard, and it is in many ways a normal part of childhood. As my husband pointed out, Where the Wild Things Are is more honest about play than any other kid's film we've seen, because in this one - as in real life - play and games always break down after a point, resulting in at least one kid leaving hurt or unhappy. As for the threat of voluntary violence, I'd say it ties into the film's deeper theme, with is the second point of contention for many critics: the instability and unreliability of Max's world. Early in the film, Max's teacher gets a little too in-depth explaining to the class how the sun will eventually die, but not to worry, because humanity will probably have eradicated itself through any number of apocalyptic scenarios long before that happens (that uncomfortably hilarious scene brought Invader Zim''s Miss Bitters ("doom...dooom....dooooomed!"). Carols mournful monologues include a reflection on how all the sand in the desert used to be something, and what it might erode into next; and, of course, the eventual discovery that Max isn't a real king with mystical powers destroys any fairtytale qualities remaining in the Wild Things existence.
I think it is this portrayal and exploration of instability that makes Where the Wild Things Are one of, possibly the best kid's film I've ever seen, and the very reason kids should be taken to see it. It is unflinching, but not unbearably so, because it is honest. The reason for Max's recent loss of his father is never spoken of in the film, allowing it to be read as being about either divorce or death, and in this way its talk of the sun's extinction is a perfect metaphor. What should be more gratuitously reliable than the sun rising, setting, and being there every day? What should be more gratuitously reliable to a child than the continued, whole existence of his family? More than any other film I've seen on the topic, Where the Wild Things Are explores what happens when the most reliable thing in a kids world is swept out from under his feet with a breadth and depth unmatched even by Brad Bird's The Iron Giant - and I would argue that it does this in a way that a child sufficiently old enough would understand and identify with. Unfortunately, I don't have a child to query on this topic, so this is all conjecture based on what I read and watched as a kid and the fact that I come from what sociologists call a broken home, but I can say this: it's no E.T. E.T. is the most famous, well-loved kid's film about broken homes of my generation, and I hate it. I think it's horribly dishonest, as it glosses over the ugliness of divorce and its impacts with both the confusingly incomplete metaphor of its titular character and the fact that, aside from being less lonely for a few weeks, Elliot never works anything out emotionally, and the only angry or irrational behaviour he exhibits can be blamed on E.T. accidentally getting drunk and passing it on psychically. There is, of course, a tidy, convenient, happy-sappy ending to the story. People love this movie, I mean truly, deeply love it - a Rotten Tomatoes poll several years back ranked it as the best sci-fi film of all time. To quote my favourite virtual philosopher, Homestar Runner: What. The. Crap. E.T. is escapism, but not the good kind. I hated it when I watched it as a child of divorce, and I hated it when I watched it as an adult child of divorce.
Where The Wild Things Are, on the other hand, lays its cards on the table. It's a story about reality, and what our options are when the prospects of a fairytale ending or mysterious stranger who will make everything okay are dim or impossible. I don't know about you, but I don't know a lot of adults who speak fondly of blatantly fictional stories about uncomfortable realities. Sure, we like our biopics, and "based on true events" stuff, but it's telling that the best, most complete, most honest film I've ever found about the destructive nature of guilt and unconfessed sin is an English-language picture written and directed by Americans...which was produced and filmed in Spain, because they could not get financial backing in their home country, and whose only U.S. distributor was Paramount Home Video. In the circles I most frequently travel in, El Maquinista (The Machinist) is often dismissed out of hand because of its R rating, a rating which seems to accompany films about truth almost as much as it does films about obscene and gratuitous lies. Where The Wild Things Are, by virtue of its source material, is already more famous than The Machinist will ever be, even in the face of a new public interest in star Christian Bale (The Dark Knight) - but I wonder how the response to this movie would change were it an original or little-known story. I'd love to read a review by someone who's never heard of the book.
Spike Jonze is a man with a very strange resume consisting mostly of music videos for the like of Bjork, The Chemical Brothers, and R.E.M., as well as writing credits for Jackass, Jackass: The Movie, and Jackass 2, but until now has been most well-known for a bizarre little film called Being John Malkovich, a picture I'm not sure I like but will always appreciate. Whether or not you take your kid to see it, Where The Wild Things Are is a work of art that accomplishes everything good artwork should.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Just Act Natural: Rise of the Silver Surfer
When the first Fantastic Four came out in 2005, it was not a good time to be making comic book movies about comic books that weren't serious. Sam Raimi's first two Spider-Man flicks had just taught the non-comic-loving world that superheroes had both brains and hearts, Guillermo Del Toro's first Hellboy (2004), though not a high-profile film, was rather good and also featuring a dark and somber mythology, and Batman Begins, which hit Can-Am screens a month before Fantastic Four, pushed critics and audiences over the final edge of belief that a comic book movie must be serious, dark, and restless in order to be good, legitimate, popularly acceptable art. The fact that Fantastic Four is not, as a series, a dark and serious enterprise didn't stop filmmakers from trying to force it to fit such a tone, and the resulting film, when not outright awful, was underwhelming and dull. So it's not surprise that its 2007 sequel 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer, was a gift-wrapped critical punching bag. I certainly had no intentions of watching it with memories of the first film still fresh in my mind.
But I'll watch virtually anything as long as it's free, and this month's new Telus Preview Channel is Action, and amidst all the awesome double-bill screenings of The Rock/Con Air and Aliens/the original Predator came, obviously, Rise of the Silver Surfer, which somehow got taped and somehow got watched, in its entirety, last night. I was expecting lots of things from Silver Surfer, but a good time wasn't one of them.
And yet, a good time was exactly what I got. Casting aside all efforts to make The Fantastic Four something they're not, Rise of the Silver Surfer is lighthearted, candy-coated, well-played fun that exercises the spirit of its source material with delightful abandon. The plot is nicely straightforward: the Surfer, a scout for a planet-eating entity known as Galactus, has marked Earth as his boss's next meal, and by the time the Four get this information, they have less then a week to come up with a way to throw Galactus off course. Galactus has awfully inconvenient timing, because Reed Richards/Mr. Fantastic (Ioan Gruffud) and Sue Storm/The Invisible Girl (Jessica Alba) are still trying very hard to hold a wedding without a world-threatening crisis breaking out before they can say "I do". For others, however, Galactus' timing is great, because it coincides with some nameless lackey un-boxing Reed's defeated arch-nemesis Victor Von Doom so that he can meet up with the Surfer and try to strike an alliance. When his proposal is rejected, Doom turns to the U.S. military - and the Fantastic Four - with the insistence that they must work together in order to save the planet. Of course, Dr. Doom is full of crap. Fortunately, The Invisible Girl has a power none of her comrades can absorb from her: feminine charm, which, also fortunately, the non-human Surfer is not immune to. And did I mention that the Surfer has total mastery over matter, and is Earth's only hope? Much planet-saving ensues!
When I say the plot's straightforward, I don't mean there are no holes or discrepancies, just that if you roll with them, you'll have a good time. Who un-boxed Doom, and why? Why does the military let him parade around with virtually unrestricted access and no armed escort? How, exactly, does the Surfer defeat Galactus? Rise of the Silver Surfer is one of those films in which such trifles don't matter, and if you think they need to matter, of course you'll hate it. The whole feel of this film is 100% Fantastic Four comic book fun, and succeeds on those grounds. Its deliberately cheesy humour is nicely underplayed, and it has a lot of genuinely funny moments to boot, mostly courtesy of Ioan Gruffud's spot-on portrayal of Reed Richards. Gruffud, the titular star of A&E's fantastic Horatio Hornblower films, plays Reed as every inch the haplessly boring, scientific, un-witty, out-of-the-loop straight man character he is, and the result is lots of natural, believable, enjoyable comedy. A lot of critics panned his performance for being dry - well, it is, and that's the point. Reed is a dry character, who produces lots of dry humour, and when you do it right, like Gruffud does, this is a good thing. There's also a lot of fun provided by Johnny Storm/The Human Torch (Chris Evans) and Ben Grimm/The Thing (Michael Chiklis, The Shield), particularly in a Surfer-related plot device that causes the Four to be able to trade powers by touching each other. All in all, how understated everyone is is surprising and delightful, and really ties the film together. There are some pleasantly touching moments, too, again divided up between Reed/Sue and Johnny/Ben. And the phone call that interrupts Reed and Sue's third attempt at a wedding at the film's close is a brief moment of pure comic genius, a hilariously ludicrous scenario which the cast plays straight to end the film on a wonderfully memorable note.
I'm going to be a presumptuous cynic here and suggest that another reason Rise of the Silver Surfer didn't do well with Canadian/U.S. audiences may be that there was no significant action occurring in major Can-Am cities, or affecting major Can-Am attractions (aside from a crack in the Washington monument), and I wouldn't be surprised if this led to a lot of people not caring about damage or peril occurring on-screen simply by virtue of being disconnected from the locations. The first major peril of the film involves the Surfer dislodging the ferris wheel at Central Pier in Blackpool, Englad, a major tourist attraction and point of significance - but only if you know that it's more than just another ferris wheel in the first place, and you think about it in relation to the movie's main theme. In the context of the film's primary sub-plot, in which Reed and Sue's wedding is constantly postponed because they can't have a 'normal life', I thought it was a brilliant decision to imperil/have an assault on a monument that represents, well, a pleasant and normal life instead of the usual imperiled government or patriotic monument, which though more globally, recognizable, wouldn't have much impact in this film. There's also a lot of potential for audience disconnection in the film's climax, in which a) the Four don't defeat Galactus, and b) the parts taking place on the ground take place in what looks like a small residential area in (I believe) Hong Kong. When the lights go on again, signifying victory, it really is stunning and effective to see a city so densely lit as Hong Kong come back on-line. In the average Hollywood film this scenario would probably take place in Times Square, but with a small and unassuming Hong Kong street comes not only commercial/entertainment neon advertising, but more emphasis of the theme of a normal life: lights burst on in corner groceries, laundromats, office buildings, real run-of-the-mill, everyday sort of places. It's a small touch, but a big reinforcement.
Also, a lot of people were upset about having a non-corporeal villain, complaining that he wasn't scary. I don't think he was supposed to be. Galactus, and defeating him, is the main plot of the film - but it's not the point. It's a character-driven story, and Galactus is merely a backdrop for giving the characters new situations to interact in.
Honestly, the only thing I had a hard time rolling with in 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer was the fact that Chris Evans and Jessica Alba, whose characters are brother and sister by birth, share absolutely no discernable genetic markers, by which I mean I was starting to wonder if my memory of the comics failed me and the characters were supposed to be adopted. Alba is a lovely lady, but whoever decided to dye her hair blonde and bronze her skin for this film succeeded only in making her look very strange, very fake, and ultimately, very distracting, and not in the good way. What can I say, I'm an artist. Strange visual discrepancies distract and bother me far more than their plot equivalents. Yes, yes, I know that Sue Storm is a blonde in the comics, but this is one area in which a little revisionism wouldn't have hurt.
4 Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer is enough good (mostly) clean fun that I wouldn't mind having it on my shelf if I ever find it in the cheap bin. It's a great way to spend a fun and relaxing evening, as long as you're willing to accept it for what it is.
But I'll watch virtually anything as long as it's free, and this month's new Telus Preview Channel is Action, and amidst all the awesome double-bill screenings of The Rock/Con Air and Aliens/the original Predator came, obviously, Rise of the Silver Surfer, which somehow got taped and somehow got watched, in its entirety, last night. I was expecting lots of things from Silver Surfer, but a good time wasn't one of them.
And yet, a good time was exactly what I got. Casting aside all efforts to make The Fantastic Four something they're not, Rise of the Silver Surfer is lighthearted, candy-coated, well-played fun that exercises the spirit of its source material with delightful abandon. The plot is nicely straightforward: the Surfer, a scout for a planet-eating entity known as Galactus, has marked Earth as his boss's next meal, and by the time the Four get this information, they have less then a week to come up with a way to throw Galactus off course. Galactus has awfully inconvenient timing, because Reed Richards/Mr. Fantastic (Ioan Gruffud) and Sue Storm/The Invisible Girl (Jessica Alba) are still trying very hard to hold a wedding without a world-threatening crisis breaking out before they can say "I do". For others, however, Galactus' timing is great, because it coincides with some nameless lackey un-boxing Reed's defeated arch-nemesis Victor Von Doom so that he can meet up with the Surfer and try to strike an alliance. When his proposal is rejected, Doom turns to the U.S. military - and the Fantastic Four - with the insistence that they must work together in order to save the planet. Of course, Dr. Doom is full of crap. Fortunately, The Invisible Girl has a power none of her comrades can absorb from her: feminine charm, which, also fortunately, the non-human Surfer is not immune to. And did I mention that the Surfer has total mastery over matter, and is Earth's only hope? Much planet-saving ensues!
When I say the plot's straightforward, I don't mean there are no holes or discrepancies, just that if you roll with them, you'll have a good time. Who un-boxed Doom, and why? Why does the military let him parade around with virtually unrestricted access and no armed escort? How, exactly, does the Surfer defeat Galactus? Rise of the Silver Surfer is one of those films in which such trifles don't matter, and if you think they need to matter, of course you'll hate it. The whole feel of this film is 100% Fantastic Four comic book fun, and succeeds on those grounds. Its deliberately cheesy humour is nicely underplayed, and it has a lot of genuinely funny moments to boot, mostly courtesy of Ioan Gruffud's spot-on portrayal of Reed Richards. Gruffud, the titular star of A&E's fantastic Horatio Hornblower films, plays Reed as every inch the haplessly boring, scientific, un-witty, out-of-the-loop straight man character he is, and the result is lots of natural, believable, enjoyable comedy. A lot of critics panned his performance for being dry - well, it is, and that's the point. Reed is a dry character, who produces lots of dry humour, and when you do it right, like Gruffud does, this is a good thing. There's also a lot of fun provided by Johnny Storm/The Human Torch (Chris Evans) and Ben Grimm/The Thing (Michael Chiklis, The Shield), particularly in a Surfer-related plot device that causes the Four to be able to trade powers by touching each other. All in all, how understated everyone is is surprising and delightful, and really ties the film together. There are some pleasantly touching moments, too, again divided up between Reed/Sue and Johnny/Ben. And the phone call that interrupts Reed and Sue's third attempt at a wedding at the film's close is a brief moment of pure comic genius, a hilariously ludicrous scenario which the cast plays straight to end the film on a wonderfully memorable note.
I'm going to be a presumptuous cynic here and suggest that another reason Rise of the Silver Surfer didn't do well with Canadian/U.S. audiences may be that there was no significant action occurring in major Can-Am cities, or affecting major Can-Am attractions (aside from a crack in the Washington monument), and I wouldn't be surprised if this led to a lot of people not caring about damage or peril occurring on-screen simply by virtue of being disconnected from the locations. The first major peril of the film involves the Surfer dislodging the ferris wheel at Central Pier in Blackpool, Englad, a major tourist attraction and point of significance - but only if you know that it's more than just another ferris wheel in the first place, and you think about it in relation to the movie's main theme. In the context of the film's primary sub-plot, in which Reed and Sue's wedding is constantly postponed because they can't have a 'normal life', I thought it was a brilliant decision to imperil/have an assault on a monument that represents, well, a pleasant and normal life instead of the usual imperiled government or patriotic monument, which though more globally, recognizable, wouldn't have much impact in this film. There's also a lot of potential for audience disconnection in the film's climax, in which a) the Four don't defeat Galactus, and b) the parts taking place on the ground take place in what looks like a small residential area in (I believe) Hong Kong. When the lights go on again, signifying victory, it really is stunning and effective to see a city so densely lit as Hong Kong come back on-line. In the average Hollywood film this scenario would probably take place in Times Square, but with a small and unassuming Hong Kong street comes not only commercial/entertainment neon advertising, but more emphasis of the theme of a normal life: lights burst on in corner groceries, laundromats, office buildings, real run-of-the-mill, everyday sort of places. It's a small touch, but a big reinforcement.
Also, a lot of people were upset about having a non-corporeal villain, complaining that he wasn't scary. I don't think he was supposed to be. Galactus, and defeating him, is the main plot of the film - but it's not the point. It's a character-driven story, and Galactus is merely a backdrop for giving the characters new situations to interact in.
Honestly, the only thing I had a hard time rolling with in 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer was the fact that Chris Evans and Jessica Alba, whose characters are brother and sister by birth, share absolutely no discernable genetic markers, by which I mean I was starting to wonder if my memory of the comics failed me and the characters were supposed to be adopted. Alba is a lovely lady, but whoever decided to dye her hair blonde and bronze her skin for this film succeeded only in making her look very strange, very fake, and ultimately, very distracting, and not in the good way. What can I say, I'm an artist. Strange visual discrepancies distract and bother me far more than their plot equivalents. Yes, yes, I know that Sue Storm is a blonde in the comics, but this is one area in which a little revisionism wouldn't have hurt.
4 Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer is enough good (mostly) clean fun that I wouldn't mind having it on my shelf if I ever find it in the cheap bin. It's a great way to spend a fun and relaxing evening, as long as you're willing to accept it for what it is.
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