Let us always remember those Americans enlisted in the United States Army, Marines, Navy and Air Force who died in the defense of our nation. Most of my recent war-themed articles are reviews of movies about those who served in the sacrificial military incursions initiated after the 9/11 attack on America. But there are a few others, including this 2000 book review of Breakout, by U.S. Marine Martin Russ, about a campaign in the Korean War, and this 2004 op-ed about a turning point in the so-called war in Iraq. Anyone who has fought for the United States of America knows we have lost many men and women and they are well worth remembering.
Stripping the science fiction series to its essentials and returning humanistic characters to its core, the latest Hollywood rehash—Terminator Salvation—succeeds on every level. Directed by McG (that’s his name), who directed the powerful sports drama, We Are Marshall, this movie’s an action-packed thriller about a band of rogue individualists uniting against a mechanical stand-in for a slave state.
They do it with brains, not brawn, with an emphasis on life—as against the nihilism underlying most movies in this horror-driven sci-fi genre. Humanity’s legendary savior, John Connor, is played by grim-faced Christian Bale, who is fine, though upstaged by Sam Worthington as Marcus Wright, a man with a criminal past and a questionable future. In plot layer after layer, Terminator Salvation is his story.
As in We Are Marshall, McG is impeccable in using small, subtle details to show that man masters the machine and gives it meaning, featuring antiquated cassette tapes, keypads, and helicopters in post-apocalyptic 2018, when the faceless bureaucracy Skynet has destroyed civilization by misusing machines as a weapon against man. One by one, man, woman and child unite against mighty machines that imprison humans in mechanized camps intended for mass extermination.
Past Terminator pictures expressed an anti-technology theme. McG uses the fourth movie as a springboard for warning against tyranny, not against technology as such. In isolated moments of human connection—an old woman’s generosity; a man’s helping hand, contrasted with an independent woman’s soft landing; a radio broadcast urging listeners to fight that which targets the individual—with each representing the human spirit, McG sets the parts in motion. His Terminator never lets up.
This is predictable, and therefore somewhat anti-climactic, and Bryce Dallas Howard as Mrs. John Connor is woefully miscast, but there’s masterful filmmaking here in strong, fiercely American archetypes. When the humans first bond, Connor’s teen-aged father in tow, and escape the indestructibly motorized killing machines, the action moves breathtakingly toward a half-demolished bridge. In scene after scene, the thuds and creaks all but scoop you out of the seat into a sense of awe—not at the horror, for a change, but at the men and women who come at the bastards again and again and again.
They have simple names like Blair, Star, and Kyle and they bring passion to the cause of man. Testing and applying John Connor’s theory about disconnecting the enemy weak spot, the resistance infiltrates the enemy compound at San Francisco—teeming with enslaved humans and militarized to the hilt—until the movie sort of peters out with a return to series form in a factory with the usual one on one contest between man and machine—and a thoroughly foreseeable ending.
But with an excellent cast, especially Worthington and Eight Below’s Moon Bloodgood once again as a pilot, and McG’s lighting, overhead shots and juxtapositions—desert silence, the sound of a lone, buzzing rotor and a series of screams, no jerky cameras or indistinguishable action—Terminator Salvation posits an Iron Giant-like theme that, in times of desperation, when some people will believe anything they are told, man can be saved—all one has to do, to paraphrase Leonard Peikoff, is think.
An interesting silent film series is being screened at New York City’s Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) on West 53rd Street. The Machine Age: Mack Sennett vs. Henry Ford, presented at 4 p.m. on Monday, June 1, includes Lizzies of the Field (1924, directed by Del Lord, with Billy Bevan), His Bread and Butter (1916, directed by Edward Cline, with Hank Mann and Slim Summerville), Get Out and Get Under (1920, directed by Hal Roach, with Harold Lloyd), Squeaks and Squawks (1920, directed by Noel M. Smith, with Jimmy Aubrey and Oliver Hardy), and Neck and Neck (1924, directed by Fred Hibbard, with Lige Conley). Each movie is approximately 18 minutes and MOMA will provide piano accompaniment by film historian and pianist Ben Model.
After all the anti-abortion protests surrounding supposedly pro-choice Barack Obama’s honorary degree and speech this week, the upshot of President Obama’s commencement address at the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana, is a religious idea: you are thy brother’s keeper. Shoulder the burdens of your fellow citizen, Obama told Notre Dame’s graduates (his wife, Michelle Obama, addressing graduates at the University of California at Merced, said the same thing). Self-sacrifice, the Obama presidency’s essential principle, is the opposite of what made America great. This nation’s greatness lies in its founding principle that each individual has the right to life, liberty, property and the pursuit of happiness. The moral premise of individual rights is: selfishness. Telling young college graduates as they embark on a career that they exist for the sake of others (Mrs. Obama’s wicked guilt trip has to be heard to be believed) is explicitly anti-American. It is also inherently religious. Obama’s Judeo-Christian opponents, take note: Barack Obama is one of yours.
After seeing director Ron Howard’s sharp Frost/Nixon—and his Cinderella Man (a movie for these times)—I admit I had higher expectations for his new picture, Angels and Demons. I have not read the religious mystery novels by Dan Brown, and I do not plan to read them, upon which this sequel to Mr. Howard’s The Da Vinci Code is based.
Both pictures star Tom Hanks as Professor Robert Langdon, who apparently hasn’t learned much since he took on the Pope in tracing Jesus Christ’s ancestry in the first movie, a middling whodunit that made a mint. The plot here is more focused, notched to a time-sensitive conspiracy to destroy the Catholic city-state known as the Vatican. But Angels and Demons sounds more exciting than it is.
Adopting the same agnostic theme that essentially sanctions faith over reason in a Catholic-themed crime thriller, the Sony picture—opposed by the Vatican like the first movie—is another slog.
After the Pope dies, Dr. Langdon, an instantly forgettable female Italian scientist, and various Roman and Vatican policemen race against time to solve the puzzle—never mind why the perpetrator leaves a trail—save the most likely men to become Pope, and stop the supposedly secular villains from blowing up the Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s Square and everything nearby. The powers that be call upon the professor to help amid shifty, cigarette-smoking cops and cardinals (this is Rome after all, where it seems like everyone smokes). By the time it’s over, the plot has had it every which way—going back and forth between condemning and condoning the Catholic Church, which has denounced and persecuted men of reason for centuries.
The Hanks character is reduced to spotting symbols without providing intelligible context and observing the obvious, such as a statue pointing east as the clue to head east. That he risks his own life without so much as a nickel—let alone access to the Vatican archives to finish his latest work—strains credulity and undermines his status. Without much of a protagonist, despite a thrilling church shootout, an exciting climax and good turns by Stellan Skarsgard, Ewan McGregor, and Pierfranceso Favino, Angels and Demons is in dire need of action and a reason to exist. Watching people, including the prof, preach that faith is a gift amid a string of interesting but unrelated facts—such as the secular origins of Christmas and English as the language of “radicals”—is ultimately neither angelic nor demonic enough to engage the imagination.
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