The proud parent thinking that they had done the right thing taking their child to the amusement park asked, “Well! How was it?” The little boy stared back quizzically and replied, “I’ll tell you when I finally get back from the very last one.” And who of any of us can say that we have ever gotten off that merry-go-round since? Or indeed have wanted to? Even if it finally kills everything about us that may have been decent in the end? We spend the night in fear of our own cowardice to act in our own behalf. Leaders and perpetrators may be one and the same but the real party at fault is ourselves for going along. Is the life of a fantasy soaked slave so sweet that he cannot risk breaking his chains? What is so magnificent about carrying the very weapon of your enemy about in your hand and then taking it’s cancerous emanations into your head? Who told you that you could not wash your own clothing by hand in a washtub? Who told you that you had to allow yourself to be injected with the same poison that is spread by the same institutions that wish to eliminate you? Why must your take a necktie as anything beyond what it is intended to symbolize beyond a noose that you eventually hang yourself with? The populations of the major cities are simply self deluded fools that think that their lifetimes are simply about being owned like spoiled pets. Fulfilling a false illusion of individuality while in fact they are merely rearranged cogs glued into place on phantom wheels designed to grind them into their own slow inevitable destruction. The plans of which having been planted through careful drama’s endless repetition written by those very enemies that have lived amidst them for generations as parasites. The existence that your persist in perpetuating is your own folly and no one else’s. You let ‘evil‘ rule existence, that less than ironic polar opposite of ‘live‘, and then wait around humbly, like empty headed sheep, for the consequences to catch up to you. The only sure thing in this equation being your own assured end on someone else’s terms.
My mother loved to watch, Gone With The Wind. It was her favorite movie. I can’t say that I ever understood what it meant to her. That was my failing as the perennial ‘late bloomer’. When I have seen it as of late it seems so blatantly obvious now. The frivolous nature of a young desirable girl. A seen of love based upon a foolish seen of infatuation. The fear of being left vulnerable and alone. The building of an inner resolve as a maturing woman to steel herself against any challenge. The opportunity that life provides her to prove her abilities and worth again all odds. Making her own way int he world despite the criticism of society. Discovering the true nature of love and friendship even if it seems too late in the game. And the value of home and the legacy of family that one has come from. All these qualities having their effect upon a young girl looking forward to the transition into womanhood.
She was nineteen when it appeared in theaters in 1940. I have to wonder if she viewed it first in the last preeminent movie palace still extent in the midst of the loop in Chicago? What disappointments and discoveries that lay ahead of her one might wonder if she expected? A world where war stole the possibility of finding a lasting love. The rise of career seeming to interject itself betwixt the chance for finding a home and raising a family. A brief and incidental marriage to a selfish boy that pretended to be a man leading to the disappointment and despair of never achieving the goal of harmony in motherhood. The tragic death of her mother and the subsequent loss of her father due to his grief and despair. And of course my father who in so many ways was a fit stand in for the real man in O’Selznick’s passion play. That special someone who had all the faults but at the core of it loved her and held her as the center of his universe. The most significant big budget extravaganza of her coming of age predicting in so many ways what became the challenges that she faced in the subsequent progress of her later life. How she must have viewed herself against the foil of the drama’s lead character at those many decisive junctures of her existence?
To view the film now is to catch sight of her at that tender age in the flickering darkness of the audience. A sight one rarely finds as a child of a woman that to them seemed the eternal archaic goddess known as ‘mother’. “January 17th, 1940.” To think of the date that she may have stepped into the lobby of some baroque movie palace fresh with anticipation to encounter the fresh celluloid telling her the tale of her future and destiny. How clever in hindsight for the doyens of Hollywood to fashion their plans to come within such clever intrigue. To show how a well-planned world conflict would affect the aspirations of the then contemporary iteration society coming of age and hint at how it would soon be transfigured. And in considering the subsequent ‘strum und drang‘ of this current time deposed. The players in the drama provided with both highs and lows and revealed as heroes or villains by their building legacy of reactions. The controversial aspect of the social incarceration of one and the effect of their inescapable lot in life ever-present as both tool and warning.
I have to wonder at the double edge sword the genius and the diabolical nature of those that power society so frivolously without the art form of painting the prospective progression of human life upon a screen? And then hangs it over the heads of the viewer by a thread for the rest of their existence. The audience aligning their lives to a mass hysterical narrative as opposed to finding their own way unassisted through the tangle wood of everyday chaos? Sitting here alone within the fading limelight of my own passing existence being the sole keeper of the long but now extinct narrative of my own kin I can only wonder further what the true natures of my own local players were? Their true identities reflected by the unspoken hopes and dreams that never were revealed . And somehow remained elusive never to come to pass! And how I might somehow in some small way further get to know them as they really once were.
The aging starlet saw her face seamlessly foisted upon the body of another. The composite likeness of her own visage Photo-shopped upon the naked form of another impaled on the fleshy stick of another faceless male like a Popsicle. How unlike her current existence. That empty series of early morning cattle calls to studio appointments and celebrity events that demanded more of makeup and costume each year to camouflage the decline of that indescribable youthful zest that had brought her into the business in the first place. Now that damnable icon that she had fallen a slave to serving had vaulted to a celebrated realm of perpetual existence that she had never known or would ever hope to approach. The fact of her most private portions shown in proxy utterly maddening if one considered that the anonymous artist had been so overly generous in his choice of pictorial reality. Something that even in her heyday was redoubtable and left untouched by the camera’s hard and uncompromising lens. In some ways it drover her insane to see the slapdash perfection of her most public rival of herself. These midnight hacks seemed so much better at it than she. They not having to endure endless hunger to keep an unruly form at bay or return each night to a solitary bathroom mirror to peel off the glitz and become demoralized by the reacquainted with the lesser mortal that lay just beneath. It was all she could do to control her anger.
How many years of suffering had she devoted to perfecting the imperfect that this unknown scoundrel had re-devised in a matter of less than an hour if that? The juxtaposition of head and body seeming flawless yet the overfilled chest and hips ballooned to almost cartoon proportion. The breasts that bobbed below her chin seemed more from the produce section than from any living human being. The saltwater implants that had as of late replaced the older model of silicone had been the result of much careful judgment in the choosing of the medical practitioner that would assure no sense of bilious proportion that would suggest to the eye of a viewer anything but natural proportion. The viewer now left with the impression that all this care had gone for naught with some overstated hack job. The suggestion being that the aura of refinement and grace that had been the foundation of her stereotyping had been tossed into the arena of a gutter slut. The nerve! And then there was the issue of that ravenous clam-like entrance that through careful management had never come to see the light of day. A rough grizzly dark forest hanging weed-like over the rudeness over a super dilated outcropping of irritated mucous ridden pink flesh. Nothing conceived in the darker regions of her own past could approach the heresy of being so casually associated with this. Save a singular episode of her own dimly lit experience dutifully forgotten from an incident when she had run fallen afoul of good judgment to contract some exacerbated case of women’s trouble.
This ignoble visage in every way mounting broadside after broadside to the woman’s ego. She couldn’t imagine the slut that had originally posed for it and her mindset. At least that bitch had the convenience of anonymity provided by her face. A suppressed memory long cordoned off was instantly jogged as she gazed intently along the limbs and torso of this mysterious decapitated ‘Marie Antoinette. What aim in a persistent dream of possible attainment of a chance of fame and fortune through possible stardom had she though worth the price of her own publicly distributed degradation? Somehow the pondering of such possible avenues sparking motivation was a key to a door that she had herself not dared to allow unlocked for some time now. How vile and vulnerable to have indifferent others peer into the medium in transport of your soul and command it then use it like a dirty dishrag. The star looked upon the facsimile of the representation of her own facial expression pasted so artfully on this pictorial xenomorph trying to determine from what particular event and tabloid that it hailed from? Some overly motivated snot nosed paparazzi verging forth for an instant from amidst all the other Diptera to snap her displeasure at playing the retreating fox to their voracious hounds. The combination of expression and contrasting bodily attitude leaving the ringing impression of some foul snickering locker room mockery. It seemed to sting her eyes as they poured repeatedly over it. The more she saw of it there before her exhibiting its gross shameless abandon the more nauseated she felt. It was all she could do to not throw the computer with its offending imagery from the desk. She pushed to chair back loosing a loud sharp stuttering cry of protest. It was time to pop a couple Lyrica and retire to her bedroom. There was a five AM call the next morning and she had to compose herself as her costar being some new discovery of the producer was at least seven years her younger. That disposed head caught in the moment of long forgotten pique bidding her farewell as the screen went suddenly dark to leave her with her demons and fears that her access to it might to soon disappear as well.
Where am I? It is so gray and misty outside that I can barely see about a quarter of a mile before the mist begins to dematerialize the horizon. Please get me the volume down format the shelf and tell me in the numerology section what the significance of 2049 is? Thirteen? Change? Where am I? Chicago? Or Los Angeles, the cardboard two dimensional cutout of Indonesian shadow puppet play? Well the current rule is the bigger the movie franchise the more exotic and unique the effect’s treatment for the distributor’s logo must be! Someone just dropped an ancient big leather book volume down the middle of a stairwell and its echo is booming across the room! Oh, that’s the film! Slow over modulated sliding trumpets? Coronets? Horns! It must be the Blade Runner sequel I went into this movie auditorium to view!
OK, I am not going to try to not make too many snotty overly clever snarky comments from this point on. I saw the original in the theater on June 25th 1982 downtown when I was in a suburb of Chicago. The first theatrical version. I didn’t like it then! Too bizarre for the tastes of my time. Crowded, claustrophobic, morally dystopic? Lacking the level of adventure or positive forward thinking of a future that I personally wanted to participate in. And the heavy emphasis on what would eventually thirty years become state sponsored Politically Correct race guilt transposed in such a cumbersome speech plagued manner to what essentially would be called surrogates for what is now commonly derogatorily referred to as ‘whitey’ left me flat. Does it mean anything that Ridley Scott had to reedit some seven different versions until he got it right? The last one blissfully absent of the PC preachy narrative.
But! Here we are! Hundreds of space opera’s and post-apocalyptic scenarios later the viewing audience is in the same place. The ‘white’ viewing audience, of my people, I should say! For given the current crash in the fortunes of big budget overruns in Hollywood productions over the last five years plus, their stilted PC morality tainted big screen products all seem to die a still birth. Thank God the studios say for the Asian market! But in fact with the exception of two persons of the classic negro persuasion, who play their race at its worst, the world as re-imagined by its Canadian director and typical Jewish hegemony approved production team, is all ‘white’. It seems that the script writers must have jumped all over the less savory portions of “The Man In The High Castle” also penned by the same original author [that ‘Dick’!]. Phillip had this thing in big time for bashing Nazi’s. That obviously impressed the bigwigs in Hollywood since day one. Since, of course, Hollywood has a hard-on to disparage anything ‘white’ these days, he furnished plenty of anti Aryan seed material at that nice price that Jews always love [posthumously]. Gone are those star studded clever fast talking stage talent ridden musicals from the genius of their great-grandfathers who were ever ‘hat in hand‘ waiting for entrance to the all ‘white’ country club gate just before the mid-century! Now they seem to want revenge on all those of European descent bashing the progeny of their all ‘white’ audiences. “No blacks or Hispanics in the auditorium . . . “my God! I can’t recall a time not hearing a single cellphone conversations throughout an entire film!”
Without threatening to disclose what is a very, very, very, slow motion ‘onion‘ style unraveling plot that routinely drops plot points like more massive 18th century library volumes solidly hitting the echo chamber floor, it is enough to say that one is expected to sit back and test the mettle of one’s eyelids. Not for the Voight Kampff test to determine not if you are in fact a replicant. But rather if you have almost fallen asleep several times in the course of the Turkish taffee-like flow. I think that I just saw a caterpillar crawl by at top speed. The overly ear crashing Blade Runner sounds are unfortunately a very poor ersatz imitation of the original score composed by Vangelis. One of the few big flops in my opinion for composer Hans Zimmer. Who must by now still be in therapy from becoming hooked on over-driven “Bwaaaah” sounds. The endless super loud echo chamber choking out long horn slurs and reverbrant canceling shoe drop echoes cannot compare with the original genius of the man who tempered the mix of his arrangements much better. I have to say that what was drawn out over long in overall running time could have been neatly approached in literally half the time. Unless one wishes to participate in some mass downer. I haven’t been so down since wading through the interminable “Intersteller!” The character highlights include an unstoppable super maniacal robotic Wallace Corporation version of the current chairman of the National Organization for Women. Her son or brother or something sporting ‘uber-sized’ eye cataracts having an unshakeable serial killer fetish. A cluster of very street tough and mean tiny Borstal lads that seem to be on loan from the last gritty version of ‘Oliver’, And, of course! A very very old duopoly of two of the originals stars. One who now passes for ‘white’ yet retains his prowess in Origami. And the other that ever irascible Jewish adventure hero wet-dream being one of the tribe himself, “Introducing for another victory lap, Mr. ‘Indiana Jones‘”. “Hey! It’s Harrison Ford folks!” “Cheer up!” “You know how great he always is playing himself!”
But as is the case with everything Hollywood these days, it is the special effects salted liberally with a little ‘tits and ass’ that shines above all. The current penchant for that failing fleet of “Titanic” overblown ledger book expense big budgets is to cram every audience memorable scene of old reconfigured, effect, chapter and verse. All into one overloaded carriage that is savagely whipped till the ‘horse meat’ posing as plot along until it drops a load in the last reel. [Hey pal! No reels anymore! This is the digital age!] Quite frankly I got tired of Ryan Gosling ‘larping‘ about before the first half. Robin Wright still remained the studios ‘poorboy ‘ answer to Sigourney Weaver. The other two dames might best consider a career as secretaries in the front office. The meaner one on the fast track to becoming a studio executive head. The fact that the setting of Las Vegas shown ‘grittily‘ destroyed in the past tense make a good case that the entertainment industry is connected somehow to the banking industrial military complex’s false flag ops given the immediate timing of national events. Was it bad? Wast it Good? I can’t judge! It is no longer my era. And what I desire in the escape of several hours within a darkened auditorium is I am sure completely dated by current standards. There are no such things as real heroes these days in popular fiction. Just losers and malcontents that shake their fists and cause further destruction. Just endless uneasy relationships with indifferent sometimes brutal parenting. Why else would such a dysfunctional world exist? May be that is the key to it all! Bad parenting creates monsters. And it sure seems that we are in no short supply of those these days!
Anna Karena, the ex-sow of Godard. Her eyes so reminiscent of a silent star. Or just the makeup? Louise Brooks was alas too old and as now in so may wasps too dead. Titles were at lease as important as that silent recurring moment of contemplation. Hiroshima Mon Amour anyone? Short enigmatic speeches repeated without apparent reason being the order of the day. The barrier of the great sadness also known as emptiness. Plenty of ennui in important French films. A gimmick of impossible interest of audience being left out of the joke and having to summon their own ideas of possible impossible forms of importance. The unwashed safe from ridicule in the forest of the unwashed. An impossible context to assault by any save for these that place upon themselves the proper aires. Ah ha! The foggy reflection is recognized in the mirror just beyond. Philosophie!
Past identity the ruse goes on. Mystery not revealed beyond the familiarity of the few with the credits. Only when they play the game do we have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of their unmasked faces. No big in the tit department but adept at the slink she takes what she has got and ignores it on purpose. So what do we have but an audience o voyeurs. Which after all is what M. Godard desires. The camera moves back and forth stopping at the next shot passing the mundane. Waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen before the big characteristic pan.
Roy could see it coming from miles away. All his life it was the same? Sitting in a movie theater by himself he felt normal. Once he stepped out intuit he light of day he was lost. It didn’t matter what the movie was a bout or the stars that were in it. Of course, like anyone else, he had his favorites. The world outside of that gave him palpitations. He could feel his heart pumping through his ears. The sheets would be wet from sweat each morning. No matter what he tried he was always back on the same old merry go round. He couldn’t hold down a job. Sooner of later he would get laid off. Not because he was a slacker! But perhaps, he took it so damn seriously enough that he would piss off his fellow coworkers because they didn’t. And that threw them off their game. But once he got back to the shack and shoved a VHS or DVD into the slot he relaxed upon one of this overstuffed threadbare ‘Barqa-loungers’ he was back in a pleasant limbo of another person’s life and not his own. Of course, that person did not exist. It was a very expensive patch of the collective minds and efforts of scores if not hundreds of others. It was always a strange mental calculation to add up the number of movies he had and multiply them by an average cost that was taken from sources that chronicled their making. If one took the number of films that a given production entity handled per year and multiplied that further against the result already arrived at then you might get an idea of what these characters were worth individually speaking. A useless mental calculation to be sure.
It had of late come down to a point of desperation as Roy’s peculiarities had been getting the better of him. Though he had never allowed himself to go so far as adopting the style and dress of any of the current movie avatars that came and went each half decade he would ten to adopt their scripted mindsets. It might be said this made Roy in line with a favored technique of getting into character. But society did not look favorably upon those who reached too far into the collective fictional narrative other that did not truly exist. The average employer wanted workers that were mentally uneventful, slow and steady whose greatest aspirations in life was to show up on time and work blissfully towards that day at the end of a week when they would gratefully received their paycheck taxes deducted. Those were the only waking dreams allowed by the current culture. All others were shown to the exit doors. That shared manifest destiny of the cataclysmic antihero might work on the page but stayed perpetually unemployed. The unintended consequence of this condition being that any lasting relationship with women was removed from possibility. The modern female too independent in her needs unlike the railroad track prone maidens of a century or more past. A solid home powered by a good steady paycheck was all the romance that most women sought though some considered that though all romance was dead in the current era it was no fault of their own. A fit male for breeding their fondest desires should come pre-equipped in both stamina to endure the most tedious of daily regimens and them return home reliably at the prescribed hour with mouthing more than the needs of his spouse predominately filling his universe. To Roy’s current mental mindset, another futile mental calculation.
The daily procedure of life degenerated into one where at a certain point the imagination of Hollywood having gone brain dead for the possibility of producing anything particularly novel that hadn’t been serialized in some was too many times previous had come to an effective halt. The invigorating feeling of stumbling back out into the light of day of old where one was fresh with plot heavy ideas posed in the corollary of the theme of the particular afternoon matinee needed no further mental energy. Too many of the same gambits explored by the big flickering of movie screen illumination. Where was the former bond of vision that he in the audience had once shared without he director in figuring out the novel plot line and being truly amazed or sometimes alternately disturbed by it stultifying implications? Now the cinema was merely a steady heartbeat of explosions on demand anchored betwixt hackneyed dialogue and a reliable twist int he end where the nemesis was reliably scheduled to by some incomprehensible means return back essentially unscathed bearing an increased amount of enmity for a go at round two of essentially the exact same thing. Imagine if in could bearing children that were cookie cutter copies of the first that you have born and raised but differentiated only by suspiciously similar names?
The rhythm of life for most was conducted by amazingly simple standards of routine behavior. There really wasn’t much complexity when one eliminated the inner workings of the assigned tasks each portion of society fell into. Each operated by he demands of inter connectivity to produce a complete organism of a cellular composition that heeded only the demands of the greater collective. Resources were doled out accordingly to a pyramid system in which those who took an active role keeping surveillance over their fellows in terms of monitoring the constancy of behavior and weeding out the deviants was considered of prime importance to keep the great worm of society inching forward rather thank stalling. The macrocosm of same mirroring any given particular example of the species that was in essence descended from successive direct parentage of a similar species over the eons under the phylum of plumbing dependent. The human body a maze of interconnecting pipes and open spaces where the balance of hydraulics reigns supreme. Any tampering with flow leading to a stoppage or inequality of expected pressure having to be resolved. Thus the ‘bread and circuses’ management of social diversion being key to the husbandry of the species. Where the Romans might have solved a problem on terms of the vitality of their empire by providing unwanted captives to die in the arena as a public spectacle. The modern era provided perpetual reliable boredom as an element of fostering both the flow of goods and the dumbing down of the aspirations of the viewer. By the sixth of seventh decades of existence given the perpetual burden of ennui, most were ready to fall away like dead leaves to make way for their children’s children to take up the dully flicking torch of meaningless existence. Given this reality, Roy felt that it was not unreasonable for him to demand a certain base level of entertainment on the fringes. The truth was that you could only bore everybody so far without occasionally adding a little spice to the same old stew.
The dark halls of public amphitheaters suited the nature of a personalized solitary enjoyment of common cultural celebration of the same old same old without endangering the whole with mutual contact. Isolation was after all the best way to hobble and possibility of deviating from the main game plan. So Roy felt as if he was being carried along in a great river of others that like the current of water of a great tributary was rapidly being him towards the inevitability of the falls. He had to wonder to himself how many others like himself in these auditoriums were as fully aware of this fact as he was. The big budget spectaculars were assessed with care based upon the likelihood of their trailers being too suspiciously as a blatant repeat of the same old well worn franchise waypoints of story and plot. Occasionally one might be surprised but the apogee of the reigning superstar too often leaked the fact of the ingrained repetitiveness to be warily avoided. Even the occasional foreign epic that could sneak through the tight network of distribution too often turned out to be a veiled variety of the expected pattern. It was inevitable that the only choice that this discriminating movie viewer had control over was the repetitive recitation of the lines of favored characters that were too often renewed again, and again and again. Roy sensed his psyche was unwinding slowly losing power like a windup toy. There was only this society to contend with or its total absence. Something that could not implicitly be shared with others because of course everyone had been crafted into the same state of hive-like mind. A consciousness that could only be escaped by the extreme poles of death or complete and total chaos. Not much of a choice feeling ones ever chained to that same old set in the twilight of the cave wall.
WARNING: This is by no means an attempt to make a full movies review. I just want to spout a little spleen on a few key points.
So, let us start with a very frenetic remake of “Sahara.” Not the 1943 WW2 Libyan desert German hating epic with Humphrey Bogart, but the one with Matthew McConaghey where the loyal but ever recalcitrant sidekick pokes the ribs of the hero for bad puns and then shivers terrified beside their ever invincible hero partner. In this case, the action packed super hero, Tom Cruise. Marvel, the graphic novel happy moguls, are sticking their nose into the production of this one sniffing the possibility of future Shekels! Utilizing the generally box office ‘gold‘ Tom Cruise persona for their new sobriquet to launch yet another limbic cortex cartoon adventure series. One that potentially will keep as many old name value ‘has been’ big name actors on the payroll. And hopefully introduce this latest hodgepodge to the hearts and minds of the youngest end limit of Z-generation families. The initial ‘mumbo jumbo‘ so exactingly lifted verbatim from those previous three films of the 1990’s “Mummy” franchise wrought by Stephan Sommers. Liberalism Hollywood styles demands that we grab as much as we can from a previous moneymaker not to mention plundering ideas from the Carl Laemmle Universal archive of famous monster films. The audience’s feet firmly planted in the usual action bullshit of massive explosions and sinkhole we continue the first act with this misadventure of a rebellious self-empowered egocentric alpha male who breaks all the rules for the sake of conducting a personal treasure hunt. And of course the Globalist social agenda of reaffirming that all white males need to be done away with. He then runs into the ‘one two punch’ of a Political Correct stereotypical duo. The first an “I could careless what you think white boys!” African American authority figure followed up by a skinny bitchy ball busting dishwater blonde acting like he had left her to pay the tab for last night’s dinner. Oh boy do I know that this is NOT going to be as story intelligent as another Tom Cruise vehicle, “Live, Die, Repeat!” We are just ‘ass packing’ cliches one behind the other, Hollywood style! Oh, Oh, here come the pedantic flashbacks that are taken verbatim from the movie’s initial sequences. What? Did they ran out of production money to stick in something new?
Well, after ‘Nicking‘ some neat gags from the “Alien” franchise we finally get to what Tom Cruise shines at in a plane crash scene. What is it with this guy and doing his own stunts at high altitudes? After some brainless stupid very badly edited scenes that again summon the less frantic bar scenes from “Jack Reacher” we end up eventually at the reconfigured spacious set that was used in the premiere episode of Captain America. There we see the old gladiator ‘Maximus‘ is looking more like ‘Proximo‘ in girth. Boy do the CG people have a lot of work to do there! The four-thousand year old bad girl steals the scenes, literally, from another old eighties UK Sci Fi classic, “Lifeforce“. “Go ahead, Ahmanet, suck the life out of those rubber dummies gal!” Of course, little bits here and there from Dracula, Bride of Frankenstein, etc., etc., etc. Don’t worry, unlike Disney Corporation most of the material lifted is under perpetual copyright by Universal! What develops over the second act is a supernatural hissy fit prone romantic love triangle that degenerates into a glass shatttering ‘big scene‘ apocalyptic London smoke blowing contest. And , as if more were needed, more very futile attempts at montage from the exact same footage that we saw earlier at the start of the film yet again! God I know that a typical Tom Cruise is not this brain dead! Even though some screenplay driveling moron named him ‘Nick Morton’! A few more of the plagues of Egypt are scaled down to size in order to harass the two mortal portions of this tiring love triangle. All roads leading of course to the big showdown where bad boy Tom on the edge of moral equivalency sacrifices himself by plunging a dagger into himself to assume God-like powers of eternal life as the head of the underworld. Big sacrifice! The blonde is resurrected and lied to as to where her hero ran off to. The black haired bad girl shrivels into a shrew and is given a mercury bath before she is put back to sleep in her big jeweled hope chest. Later, of course, to be resurrected in a future sequel. Dependent on the polling of likes and dislikes of her portrayal at select theaters. A lot of work for what have been very tediously early predawn makeup calls! Dark Universe hero Tommy rides off into the desert on a horse with his resurrected sidekick buddy leaving both dames to their own devices. The absolutely smartest thing his character has done in this whole damn movie! “Go MGTOW, Tom!”
So what is the point of reviewing what is a disappointing film? ‘The Evil’ talked about in the movie is in fact the incompetent direction of Alex Kurtzman who at every chance dumb’s down every scene to the point that even two-year would be bored by its simplicity of pedantic exposition. The overworked music score blasted at full volume to hide his total inability to do anything competent much less creative. Who says that secular Jew boys with big connections in LA are naturally ‘wunderkinds‘? The seven Hollywood legacy babies that each took scissors and shredded it to shit then scotch taped the mess together what might have really been a refreshing take on the old original movie tale by screenwriter John L. Balderson’s who re-crafted from Arthur Conan Doyle’s tale, “The Ring Of Thoth.” It left me giving a dump about any stellar effects scenes outside of the practical elements of the plane crash scene. The usual Marvel Comics dumbed down stupid shit for mental morons who find ‘real meaning’ in the horrendous dialogue that the Anakin Skywalker had to spout! This IS blatant evil of Hollywood’s banality in Byzantine big budget at the sake of the story and one’s actors production (lack of) values. All of course to sell more action figures, rental fees and games. Move on please!
POSTSCIPT: “Tom, do yourself a favor! Stick to your own franchises!”