Kirsten Dunst greets the apocalypse

“Melancholia” is Lars von Trier’s intelligent, melodramatic, achingly beautiful and wickedly funny new film. It tells the story of Justine (a transcendent Kirsten Dunst), a severe depressive, and her doting and practical sister, Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg). Justine’s depression takes the corporeal shape of a planet called Melancholia, which is on a steady collision course with Earth. In the film’s stunning prologue, Mr. von Trier tactfully relieves the audience of any suspense concerning Earth’s fate, allowing the tone to shift from an end-of-the-world thriller to a character and relationship study. “Melancholia” uses the premise of an apocalypse to expose the frays in familial bonds — specifically, the intricate bonds and dynamic between two sisters; a bond that is both affectionate and cruel, supportive and insensitive.

The film is divided into two parts named after each of the sisters. Although part one is named after Justine, the “melancholic” sister, this section of the film proves to be the most humorously absurd. Mr. von Trier is—gasp—having a bit of fun as we follow Justine through the grand charade of her wedding celebration. He has reined in all of his pals from films past to play members of the wedding party, including Charlotte Rampling and John Hurt as Justine’s backbiting parents, and Udo Kier the prim and fretful wedding planner. And despite Justine’s deep sadness during what is supposed to be the happiest day of her life, Ms. Dunst is luminous. Instead of portraying Justine as incessantly bleak, Dunst’s performance during this half the film is almost sphinxlike in its spontaneity. She does not skulk around in her wedding dress (although she does, at one point, gracefully urinate in it beneath the moonlight), but rather ventures in and out of the festivities like an elusive specter. And because von Trier has revealed the fate of these characters in the first ten minutes, the audience can empathize with Justine as she views her wedding with a growing sense of dread and indifference.

Part two is named for Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), Justine’s pragmatic but anxious older sister. Although Claire grows weary and frustrated with Justine’s erratic behavior, she understands her sister’s illness and knows how to take care of her. Claire’s relationship with Justine becomes increasingly complicated in the film’s second half, as Claire grapples with her own growing anxiety over the path of Melancholia while simultaneously caring for Justine, who has become incapacitated by her depression. In contrast to the darkly sumptuous aesthetic of part one, with an alluring Justine wreaking havoc in a wedding dress, part two is more subdued and more painful to watch; Justine has lost her enigmatic glow, and von Trier, who has long suffered from depression himself, depicts Justine’s descent with alarming candor. It has been suggested that Mr. von Trier uses female characters in his films to represent his own struggles with depression. If “Antichrist” was too vicious and misogynistic, his rendering of Justine’s inner turmoil in “Melancholia” is as upsetting as it is compassionate.

But part two is named “Claire” for a reason. As Melancholia becomes more of a threat, (the planet and the illness) Claire becomes fraught with worry that the end is near, and the sisters’ reactions to the planet begin to diverge. Justine begins to emerge from her depression and becomes more lucid, but is callous towards Claire’s distress. Justine feels a kinship with Melancholia; she embraces the planet as an actual representation and justification for her chronic illness. Yet, just as Claire strove to comfort Justine during her lowest points, Justine’s coldness turns into an intense stoicism, and eventually, into her own display of compassion, especially towards Claire’s son, Leo.

In “Melancholia,” the end of the world is not rendered with mass hysteria or with an overblown sequence of natural disasters, but rather with understated beauty. Bugs creep up from the soil, hail the color of pure white flower buds falls from the sky, all as Melancholia—massively exquisite in itself—looms closer and closer overhead. Despite its morbid theme, bone-rattling soundtrack straight from Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde, and the fact that it’s a Lars von Trier film, the tone of “Melancholia” is almost soothing. Mr. von Trier proposes that the end of the world, like his film, may just be a thing of beauty.

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Vanessa is the press representative/blogger for The Plaza Cinema & Media Arts Center in Patchogue, NY. You can read her blog at stickyourthumbselsewhere.wordpress.com

John Boyega leads a street gang of alien-killers in "Attack the Block"

It’s Guy Fawkes Night, and the South London sky is pulsing with brilliant explosions. In the midst of the celebration, Sam (Jodie Whittaker) is mugged at knife-point by a gang of teen hoodlums. Before they get away with their meager take, however, a flaming object smashes into a nearby car. Moses (John Boyega), the gang’s leader, looks for valuables amidst the wreckage rather than investigating its cause. He’s greeted by a nasty little ball of white fur and teeth, which the gang promptly kills. Soon thereafter dozens more flaming projectiles fill the sky, which arouse in the hoods uncontrollable excitement at the prospect of an intergalactic rumble.

“Attack the Block” is a movie made by people who love movies. First-time director Joe Cornish, with help from Big Talk Prods. (“Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz”) assembles a collection of monster movie, coming-of-age and action flick tropes into a seamless, original work of modern cinema, with equal parts subversive social perceptiveness, indie wit and Hollywood bombast. It’s as if Steven Spielberg, Spike Lee, Quentin Tarantino, Richard Donner, Danny Boyle and John Carpenter got together and decided to create a balanced blend of their respective sensibilities.

The pace is blistering, the humor is tack sharp and the action is clear and exciting. But, the feature that gives “Attack the Block” the advantage over even the best monster flicks of recent years is its creature design. Hairless, slimy, tentacled creatures of the invertebrate variety are a well-worn style. Repulsive insectoid aliens, like those in “District 9,” are also becoming a little tired. Instead, Cornish and his design team have opted for radical simplicity. Deep black fur, an ape-like gait and rows of glowing teeth are about the only distinguishing features of the invaders. This ingenious design feels instantly iconic, and, what’s more, aptly represents the film’s lurking subtext.

Hitting theaters in the wake of London’s recent riots, “Attack the Block” couldn’t have come at a better time. The film’s heroes are the same disillusioned youths accused of instigating the mayhem that brought large swaths of the city to its knees last month. They are the first villains of the film, that is, until an even greater evil falls from the sky. It seems clear that the black, purposeless aliens, bent only on destruction, are meant to symbolize the way in which England’s upper classes, even further removed from the proletariat than in America, view the lower classes. That the invasion is limited to only a few city blocks, and that police are generally oblivious to it, seems to confirm this. And by giving our hoodlums a purpose and a powerful foil, Cornish, without condoning it, helps us understand their misdeeds; a key moment being when Sam finally joins her assailants’ anti-alien attack squad. She presses them on why they would rob a defenseless nurse on her way home from work. They respond by saying they wouldn’t have done it if they had known she lived in the same building that they do. With that 15 seconds of dialogue Cornish elucidates England’s congenital subterranean class warfare, and allows us to root for whom we earlier dismissed as street thugs.

But, for most people, “Attack the Block” will be seen as nothing more than a fantastically entertaining B-movie-style monster flick. And considering how well it does that, everything else is just icing on the cake.

Paul Bettany as the ass-kicking, vampire-slaying "Priest"

Critics can be a fickle bunch. Lavishing this, lambasting that. But with most films it’s relatively easy to predict the critical response. Originality, cohesiveness, perky dialogue and fleshed out characters get the O.K. Convoluted stories, dull characters and shameless wish-fulfillment fantasies are blasted. But since “Jaws” gave birth to the summer blockbuster in 1975, and that genre’s integration with B movie and exploitation sensibilities thereafter, schools of critical thought have diverged radically.

Such is how Justin Lin’s “Fast Five,” a stupid, stupid movie featuring the worst performance of the year, via Paul Walker, can charm critics with its gleeful inanity, but Scott Stewart’s silly but visually interesting “Priest” is readily dismissed with a faint, collective, critical shrug.

Considering their altogether different cinematic aim from serious artistic efforts, should we subject B movies and summer blockbusters to the same scrutiny? Modern critical theory says no. So do I. But the wild inconsistency in the evaluation of these films is baffling. “Priest” is the superior film artistically, and more successful in pandering to its intended audience.

Paul Bettany (“A Beautiful Mind,” “Legion”) is the titular “Priest,” one of a superhuman race of pious vampire-slaying warriors — a less mystical, but more overtly religious version of the Jedi in “Star Wars.” He lives in a muddled future world mash-up of Western, sci-fi, medieval and fantasy elements. With the help of his kind, humans have ostensibly won the ancient battle against savage, eyeless vampires. That is, until a half-priest, half-vampire, all cowboy super villain (Karl Urban) kidnaps a rural family’s daughter to bait Priest into embarking on a reckless rescue mission.

If you’ve seen John Ford’s 1956 Western classic “The Searchers” you know the story already. In fact, if you’ve seen a movie before, you should have no trouble predicting every plot turn. But “Priest,” which is an adaptation of a Korean graphic novel and revels in genre cliché, isn’t about originality. It’s about interesting landscapes, badass heroes fighting badass villains and cool special effects. All of which it delivers. And despite the silly dialogue and sometimes unbearable melodrama, it more than fulfills the measure of its creation. It even dares, albeit briefly and without much sophistication, to question the rationality of theocratic government. Good luck finding that in a “Fast” movie.

“Priest” is a B movie through and through. It’s got cheap thrills, train fights, beheadings, a Bible full of throwing stars and a cowboy-vampire-priest. What more could you possibly want?

What would it be like if Alfred Hitchcock directed an episode of “Quantum Leap” with a script based on “Groundhog Day”? Well, it wouldn’t turn out exactly like “Source Code,” but it’d be pretty close.

Duncan Jones (or Zowie Bowie if you prefer) wowed audiences lucky enough to catch his debut sci-fi thriller “Moon” (2009) during its short theatrical run. His technical wizardry and philosophical maturity helped him quickly escape the shadow of his superstar father. And now with Summit Entertainment’s “Source Code” Jones steps into the big time with a big budget, a big star and big studio pressure.

So how did he do? Don’t let the above description fool you. “Source Code” is a success.

After Captain Colter Stevens (Jake Gyllenhaal), a helicopter pilot serving in Afghanistan, flies into enemy gunfire he awakens on a Chicago-bound train with no memory of how he got there. He feverishly tries to figure out why he’s there and, after seeing a strange face in the mirror, who he is. But just as he starts to put the pieces together the train explodes, killing everyone on board. This time, he wakes up in a small, dark capsule, receiving mission instructions from a woman (Vera Farmiga) in a military uniform via video monitor.

Stevens slowly learns that he is the centerpiece in an experimental counter-terrorism program called Source Code, which allows his consciousness to be inserted into the last eight minutes of another person’s memory preserved in a computer program after they die. His task is to search this dead person’s lingering consciousness to find the identity of the terrorist who bombed the train before a bigger attack hits Chicago in real life.

If any of that sounds gimmicky, that’s because it is. Even though I count “Moon” as one of the best films of 2009, I had low expectations for Jones’s second effort. Something about the big budget polish, ultra high concept and pseudo-science air of the promotional materials turned me off. But “Source Code,” as much as it’s tangled up in that world, is ultimately a human story wrapped up in a sophisticated philosophical dilemma.

Beneath the quantum mechanics and theoretical physics gobbledygook is an age old ethical problem, which pits the rights and autonomy of the individual against the welfare and safety of the population at large. You see, Stevens (spoiler alert!) is actually dead. He was killed in action in Afghanistan. His consciousness, however, is being kept alive by machines so that he can execute the Source Code program and ostensibly save the lives of countless Chicagoans. The problem is that he basically has no choice in the matter. Disembodied consciousnesses tend to have limited options in the physical world. And, since his body is already dead, he doesn’t even have the option of suicide.

Jones, who holds a bachelor’s degree in philosophy, handles this dilemma with incredible awareness and skill throughout most of the film. The motives of all the players are clear and valid.

The film’s biggest problems stem from the myriad plot holes and logical inconsistencies of its concept. If Stevens is inserted into another person’s memories, how is he able to change things? or is he entering an alternate reality each time he enters the Source Code? But if that’s the case then how is he able to send an email to Vera Farmiga’s character in the current reality from a different reality? And what about the ending? Why is Stevens suddenly able to remain in the Source Code (or alternate reality) when he was unable to before? And is he seriously just going to take over the other guy’s life and live as Sean Fentress forever? That seems a little strange. Fraudulent even.

But the logic challenges of its concept seem irrelevant when “Source Code” really gets cooking. Jones makes sure its human core carries it across the finish line.

Graeme (Pegg) and Clive (Frost) are longtime friends fulfilling their shared dream of going to San Diego’s Comic Con, and then touring, via RV, every major UFO-related site in the western United States. On the highway just outside infamous Area 51 they encounter Paul, a real alien who has escaped the secretive military base looking to phone home and get off the planet. After various demonstrations of movie surprise (wetting themselves, fainting, etc.) they agree to drive him to his contact point and hide him from the authorities.

The bulk of the film sees Paul (voiced by Seth Rogen) behaving like a human. That’s the whole joke. In fact, virtually every joke in the movie is an addendum in some way to that central gag. Paul wears flip-flops and low-slung cargo shorts, and he smokes whatever he can find. He’s also lazy, foul-mouthed and kind of an asshole. In other words, he acts pretty much how Seth Rogen does in every Seth Rogen movie. So why not just cast Seth Rogen in a live-action role? Beats me. It would have made a lot more sense.

“Paul” is basically “E.T.” but without the charm, childlike wonder, internal consistency and fictional plausibility. But the most striking contrast to be drawn from this analogy is in the way both films handle the concept of an alien life form interacting with humans. The reason “E.T.” is so effective is because it explores the differences, big and small, between two intelligent species, and in so doing, amplifies the significance of their similarities. “Paul” is oblivious to this and neutralizes the only point of interest inherent in a film about an alien encounter.

The movie occasionally strays off the beaten, banal path, however, and makes things interesting with a bit of polarizing satire. In one of the film’s funnier sequences, the trio runs into a Bible-thumping, shotgun-toting redneck (John Carroll Lynch) and his one-eyed, Jesus-freak daughter, Ruth (Kristen Wiig). Religion is skewered mercilessly as Ruth tries to defend her irrational, Bronze Age beliefs in the face of Paul’s highly advanced, intergalactic intellect. It’s the type of daring stance that most films are afraid to take for fear of diminished box office receipts. But director Greg Mottola (“Superbad,” “Adventureland”) approaches it with disarming humor, allowing it to slide into the flow of the film without drawing undue attention to that part of the film.

Still, there are more misses than hits, making “Paul” an uncharacteristic misstep for a duo that seemed incapable of anything but hits.

Philosophers have wrestled with variations of this problem for centuries. Philosophies like incompatibilism, dualism, hard determinism and compatibilism have arisen to explain the nature of our autonomy, or lack thereof.

“The Adjustment Bureau,” George Nolfi’s loose adaptation of an early Philip K. Dick story, removes the internal struggle altogether and places control of human behavior in the hands of other, more advanced beings tasked with saving humans from our own stupidity and irrationality.

This makes for an interesting view of the age old debate. The film shifts the question away from the biological and metaphysical and toward the moral. In effect, humans don’t have free will because they haven’t earned it yet. It’s a fascinating paradox, to be sure, and one that makes for good post-viewing conversation.

But the philosophical and science fiction elements of the film are mere garnishing on the plate of the real meat — an old fashioned love story.

David Norris (Matt Damon) is a young, trending politician known for his energy and authenticity. After losing his bid for a US Senate seat he has a chance meeting with Elise (Emily Blunt), a beautiful, charismatic ballerina. They fall for each other instantly, almost as if it was meant to be.

Unfortunately for David and Elise, a longterm relationship is not in “the plan” for them. So members of the mysterious bureau, dressed like hardboiled 1940s film noir detectives, make slight alterations of reality and tweak their reasoning processes just enough to keep them apart. You see, everything must go according to “the plan.” Whose plan? The Chairman’s plan. He’s the big boss, the guy (literally) upstairs. God is never mentioned in the film, and the tone is decidedly non-religious, but the metaphors are obvious.

After David repeatedly refuses to follow “the plan” he is given a choice. If he continues to pursue Elise he’ll ruin her chance to become one of the world’s greatest choreographers. And he’ll also destroy his own path to the White House. If he truly loves her, the bureau says, he’ll let her go so they can both live out their dreams according to “the plan.” I won’t reveal his decision here, but the film’s tone gives away the ending from the beginning.

At its core, “The Adjustment Bureau” is a breezy, optimistic romance. The film’s only real philosophy is that love conquers all. Take that however you like.

Oscar (Nathaniel Brown) is a young, soft-spoken American drug dealer who moves about almost exclusively in the nighttime of Tokyo’s neon jungle. Caught in the middle of a bad deal, he is singled out and shot to death by police. Oscar’s spirit leaves his body, and for the rest of film, floats through walls, soars above skyscrapers and powers into the minds of his still-living friends and relatives.

“Enter the Void” brims with gorgeous, psychedelic visuals and shocking depictions of horrific and taboo happenings, daring you to flinch. If you know anything about Gaspar Noé and his other films, “I Stand Alone” (1998) and “Irréversible” (2002), then you won’t be surprised by many of the interesting choices the director makes, like the one to shoot the entire film from the first person subjective point of view, or to shoot a pivotal sex scene, including ejaculation and fertilization, from inside the vagina.

But Noé’s approach, part shock-jock, part avant-garde artiste and part armchair philosopher, leaves him well short of the bar set by his idol, the great Stanley Kubrick. He’s far more interesting and worthy of serious analysis than your average Hollywood journeyman, but his juvenile philosophical ruminations and tiresome self-indulgence leave much to be desired.

“Enter the Void” is a personal picture, but it’s not a subtle one. And as much as it excites and fascinates technically, it frustrates and spins its tires intellectually. What insights does Oscar gather from his spiritual voyeurism other than the banal fact that everyone has problems?  And the fantastic visceral effect of a realistic and cataclysmic car wreck is almost completely diluted by the third or fourth time we see it.

Compounding the problem are the performances.  Though we rarely see the face of first time actor, Nathaniel Brown, his dialogue is delivered poorly to the point of distraction. And Paz de la Huerta, the often topless actress who plays his directionless sister, offers little more than a raspy monotone and a generous helping of eye candy.

Still, “Enter the Void” is undeniably innovative. The complex astral crane shots and pulsing computer-generated blooms of drug trip beauty are, pardon the pun, intoxicating. For the first 45 minutes this uncompromising and unique work approaches sublimity. And though it falls apart thereafter, “Enter the Void” packs enough imagination and excitement for any serious cinephile to take notice.

I always expect quite a lot from directors: one of the reasons you so look forward to meeting them is that they are usually brimming with additional information that deepens your understanding of the film’s themes and provides interesting insights into how the film was made. Most directors convey such a strong impression of deep personal investment in their film, and optimism about its potential impact. Faced with such vulnerability, earnestness and hope, you feel a bit guilty for thinking that the result is not that great. But just as it is the director’s job to make films, it is the commentator’s job to give an honest opinion: to tell potential viewers what they are in for, to share observations about the film with those who have already seen it, and to tell directors what they could have done better. If you acknowledge where a film succeeds, you must also point out where it fails: many of us have had the experience of setting out with the best of intentions, trying to communicate a certain message and finding that our message has not been received in the way it was intended. When I read press material about the films I have seen, sometimes the director’s explanation of his intentions highlights something about the film that I simply missed, either through inattention or because I just hadn’t thought about the film in that way. At other times, though, the director’s intentions and the resulting film are so far apart that I wonder if they ever bothered getting a fresh opinion from someone outside the production process, to check that the film would really achieve its intended effect.

Mark Romanek did not seem too worried about his film, and why should he be? It is based on a novel by a prize-winning writer, it stars Keira Knightley, and it has been selected as the opening night film for the London Film Festival. Clearly, Never Let Me Go has a lot going for it. Most of the questions at the press conference were directed at the actors, but when Romanek did get a question, he seemed slightly bored as he answered it, and his answers were just as boring as his demeanour. This instantly makes me suspicious: although you can’t expect every director to also be a philosopher, you hope that directors give a lot of thought to every decision that has to be made in a film. Not all directors will find it easy to talk about their motivations, and if a choice is good, there is not always a need for a rational explanation. But Romanek gave the impression of a journeyman who gets the job done without worrying too much about anything. If you had not seen the film, you would be surprised that someone with such a dull demeanour could make such a lyrical film. His most interesting remark at the conference was that he learned that Ishiguro was influenced by Japanese cinema when he wrote Never Let Me Go (strangely, Romanek discovered this from a magazine interview with Ishiguro rather than directly from the author). So, Romanek says, he watched ‘a lot of Japanese cinema’ in preparation for making this movie. In spite of being in a room full of people who watch films for a living, he didn’t bother to name a single Japanese film or director who had influenced him, nor did Ishiguro intervene to expand on this point. I believe that Romanek was talking in terms of the film’s aesthetic, but if he hadn’t mentioned it, I would not have guessed that there was any Japanese cinematic influence there.

Strangely, though, this film did remind me of one Japanese film in particular, but it was through similarity of theme and emotional impact rather than visuals. The film in question was Ikigami by Tomoyuki Takimoto, set in a dystopia where school-age children are given injections, one in 1000 of which contains a particle which will kill the child when it reaches early adulthood. The government keeps records of which children have received the fatal particle, and an agent is sent to give them notice of their final 24 hours (which are usually spent in anguished attempts at hedonism). The film’s bleakness left me open-mouthed, and I have not seen another film that was this depressing until now. If you want to be surprised by Never Let Me Go, you should stop reading now, as I’m going to give away the film’s big secret. Like the hapless young adults in Ikigami’s brave new world, the stars of Never Let Me Go are also headed for an inexorable early demise. Whereas only a tiny fraction of Ikigami’s school children are ill-fated, however, at the boarding school in Never Let Me Go, every one of the pupils is a clone who, as a grown-up, will gradually have their organs harvested for the benefit of the rest of society. One could argue that in Ikigami, there is less purpose to the random deaths: in the film, the government’s reasoning is that if people know that they might die young, they will have a greater appreciation for life, and thus Japan’s problem with suicide and a low birth rate could be resolved. In Never Let Me Go, by contrast, some good will come of the clones’ deaths: they will be helping regular members of society to escape fatal illnesses. Yet there is something much more humane about Ikigami’s early mortality: although death is inescapable for the unlucky few, they don’t learn about it until the day before it occurs, and death comes quickly. In Never Let Me Go, the clones have to live with their fate for the whole of their short lives, and death comes slowly, the result of chillingly rational extractions of vital organs.

At the press conference, the first question was from a journalist who said that the film had really shaken her. In a trembling voice she recounted her own experience as an asthmatic participating in medical research. She asked whether the film’s creators had taken into account people like her, who put their lives at risk for the sake of scientific advancement, or whether they thought about those who donate organs for money. The moderator of the conference, perhaps uncomfortable with the journalist’s emotion, asked if anyone had a response to this, and without waiting for an answer said ‘let’s move on’. Thankfully, Andrew Garfield proved himself a gentleman and a humanitarian, intervening to thank the woman for sharing this experience. Ishiguro then echoed his appreciation, but said that he was not thinking specifically in these terms when he wrote the novel. He did say, though, that that the situation of the clones could serve as a metaphor for the way in which many aspects of Western life come at the expense of the welfare of people in developing nations, many of whom die at an early age.

As a viewer, I quickly began to look for a higher meaning to justify the story of Never Let Me Go, which otherwise seemed only to be of morbid interest: watching schoolchildren grow up into healthy young adults destined for a fate which would be heartlessly meted out to them. In the context of the film’s brave new world, this situation is acceptable not just because it is the result of scientific advances, but because the clones have been created for the purpose of organ donation. However, physically and emotionally the clones appear no different from regular humans, and for this reason their fate was unacceptable to me. It held the horror of a holocaust: humans regarding other humans as inferior and expendable, and coldly killing them. Although unlike ethnic cleansing, the clones’ death has a justifiable purpose, as it saves the lives of others, the destruction of the clones is worse because nobody speaks out to say it is wrong. Sally Hawkins plays a non-conformist teacher who is clearly disturbed by the children’s fate, and the workmen who come to the school appear to be troubled by what is going on, but there is no straightforward denunciation of the practice. My interpretation of this film, from the beginning, was that it was an Orwellian cautionary tale: in the face of any revolutionary new idea, we need a dose of humanity alongside reason, and must always question the human impact of an abstract idea. This interpretation is unsatisfying, however: if the film is an argument against two-tiered societies and institutionalised exploitation, then surely there would be a character in power who would make a greater effort to rebel, or one of the clones would attempt to escape. What is so maddening about this film is that the clones are so passive. It is to the credit of the actors performance and Romanek’s (as he puts it) ‘romantic and aesthetically pleasing’ approach that the audience will still feel great sympathy for the clones, and find it unbearable to see them being taken advantage of. They don’t have microchips implanted under their skin, but wear security bracelets which they could remove. They are not kept in prisons but in schools and cottages with open doors. They have ample opportunity to run away, but never even try. Although the central male character, Tommy, screams and shouts against his fate on one occasion, this is the lone example of rage: the characters all ‘go gentle into that good night’.

It is interesting that one of the child actors, Izzy Meikle-Small, used the term ‘gentle’ to describe the film’s protagonists, and to explain her fondness for them. Her colleague, Ella Purnell, astutely observed that in the modern world we have become unaccustomed to the idea of simply accepting our fate. Towards the end of the film, just before it was explicitly formulated by one of the characters, I wondered whether the film’s theme might be mortality: like the clones, we all have a fate that, as Larkin put it, ‘we can’t escape yet can’t accept’. However, a number of key details on a literal level block this metaphorical reading: as Sally Hawkins’ character points out, other children grow up with diverse possibilities for their future, whereas the clones’ future is precisely limited. Even the short life that they do have is markedly inferior to that of the average human being: they are primarily restricted to a limited society of fellow clones, they have few possessions, and know very little of the pleasures of the outside world. Although every human being has a relatively short lifespan, many at least have a chance of living to old age, possess a certain degree of autonomy, and are able to enjoy life’s variety while they are alive. For this reason, the clones don’t work especially well as representatives of the everyman. They would work better as a metaphor for the underclass in Britain’s increasingly segregated society, a class of people who are exploited by the rich, have very few choices in life, and little chance of ever changing their position. Keira Knightley said that someone she knew thought that Ishiguro’s novel ‘summed up our generation’: while Knightley laughingly said she hoped this wasn’t true, it may be the most apt interpretation of the film. If the clones represent an underclass, their passivity remains problematic. Surely an increased ability to change our fate is one of the greatest advancements of the modern age, and we should promote this ability, rather than romanticising passive acceptance of a fate imposed on us from above.

Roddy Piper’s fabled career spans more than three decades.  Splitting his time between the wrestling ring and the silver screen, Roddy was the Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson of his day with prominent roles in cult favorites like Robert Boris’ “Buy & Cell” (1987) and John Carpenter’s “They Live” (1988).  And, while not my favorite Piper film, “Hell Comes to Frogtown” is a perfect case study of how a film achieves cult classic status.

A film can only be as good as its storyline.  Despite significant setbacks like poor acting or an insufficient budget, a movie can still be a huge success with a powerful story that captures the imagination. On the other hand, all the best actors and special effects artists in the world can’t turn a rotten script into an Academy Award winner.  ”Hell Comes to Frogtown” is a little of both.

As the film begins, we are introduced to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. We learn that World War III has taken place, which has almost entirely destroyed the human race.  As the story progresses, we are introduced to Sam Hell (Roddy Piper) who is chained to a chair in a dark room.  He is being interrogated and beaten with glass bottles when two nurses enter the room. The interrogator is informed that Sam has impregnated a woman, which appears to be shocking news to them all.  He is taken by the nurses, who are employees of Med-Tech, and offered a new life if he will help them with a special project.  He is informed that the nuclear war eradicated over half the male population leaving the rest sterile. Apparently Sam is one of the few males left packing a “loaded weapon” and the government is desperate. He agrees to help and signs a consent form. It is only then that he is told of the rules and stipulations that come along with this assignment, chief among them that he is required to wear a chastity belt at all times to protect his now government-owned equipment.

As the film progresses, we follow Sam into the land of the “greeners,” Frogtown. He is taken there on assignment by Nurse Spangle (Sandahl Bergman) and Centinella (Cec Verrell), a tough as nails soldier tasked with protecting Sam. We come to find out that Sam’s ultimate goal is to infiltrate Frogtown, rescue enslaved human women and return to safety so that Sam can perform his “government duty.”

The group arrives in Frogtown where Sam meets an old friend named Looney Tunes. Looney informs Sam that he will be able to set up a meeting to negotiate the release of the enslaved human women, but during the meeting Spangle is taken prisoner by a Frogtown guard.  Sam is attacked and taken prisoner as well. When he wakes up he is greeted by a female frog who confesses her love for him and desire to be with him.  Sam, on the verge of giving in to her seduction (after providing a bag for her to put over her head), then remembers that Spangle is in trouble.  His new frog friend, Arabella, becomes their contact into Frogtown and offers to take Sam to Spangle.

He finds where she is being held and stumbles into a secret meeting with Commander Toty, the leader of the frog people.  Spangle is fastened to an altar surrounded by five women dancing seductively around her.  These are the women that Sam has come to save.  Standing in the way, however, is Commander Toty, who has become smitten with Spangle and intends to use her for his own pleasure.  After a struggle, Sam is able to free Spangle and the girls and make it back to their truck to escape.

Toty’s attempt to pursue them leads to a final showdown between he and Sam.  Toty is defeated, of course, and Sam and his girls head back to the truck.  Spangle says that Med-Tech owes him a lot and promises that once he finishes his assignment she can get him a few weeks off so that they can be alone.  When he finally asks what the assignment is the camera cuts to the five fertile women in the back of the truck.  He then responds that it’s true what they say; a soldier’s work is never done. They drive off into the desert as the credits roll.

To give an idea of how poor the acting in “Frogtown” is, Roddy Piper’s performance was the lone bright spot.  When you cast a professional wrestler as the star of your film, there are going to be issues.

Piper is surprisingly adept considering the little experience he had at the time and for the material he was given to work with. He was coherent and delivered his lines well with a slice of humor and charm.  His performance, while raw, was solid and his character draws the viewer into the narrative.  He manages to mold an arrogant character into someone sympathetic who we can root for.

Aside from Piper, the rest of the cast was less than notable.  Sandahl Bergman, who didn’t add much to the film other than taking up space in most scenes, was the only other cast member with redeeming qualities.

There really isn’t much to say about sound and special effect in this one. I can’t really think of a time that it seemed out of place or hurt the film progression, only because I can’t really remember any musical score at all. The sound effects are classic 80s, a perfect match for “Frogtown.”

With a half decent script, this B-movie adventure may have achieved something more.  Instead, that glaring problem took the film down, crashing and burning. Even in 1988 the post-apocalyptic narrative was tired and worn out. The writers attempted to put a new spin on it having the main character tasked with repopulating the earth, but the novelty wore off about 10 minutes in. If you love Roddy Piper, this film is definitely for you.  It’s entertaining and it’s great to see Piper as a young actor.  If you don’t like Piper or have never heard of him, don’t waste your time — it’s not even bad enough to be funny.

The movie begins with a cold open:  the “camera” casually flies us through the quiet beauties of outer space.  Planets, stars, galaxies and celestial debris float peacefully and gracefully through the great black expanse.  We gradually close in on a small Death Star-like planet bustling with all sorts of alien robotic life forms.  Suddenly, a giant spherical machine, known as Unicron, targets the planet and without warning begins to suck it in like a vacuum, crushing and destroying as it gobbles up everything in its path. The planet’s stunned inhabitants head to a spaceship to escape.  After the planet is thoroughly destroyed, the classic “Transformers” theme, performed by British glam-metal band, Lion, plays over the opening credits, which lists easily the most impressive cast of any animated feature film based on a toy.  More on that later.

After the credits, we learn that it is now 2005 — 20 years after the end of the second season, but sometime before the third season. The film was essentially made to bridge the two seasons so that fans of the show would know why their favorite characters would not be in the third season and how they had died.

We learn that the Decepticons are trying to destroy the Autobots’ planet and that the Autobots are preparing to defend it. The Autobots seem eager to attack the Decepticons but their fearless leader, Optimus Prime, informs them that they don’t yet have the requisite energy cubes to launch a full assault. He sends a ship to Autobot City to gather supplies for the imminent battle.

Not much time is wasted before the first fight occurs, which was good move considering their target market was the first generation hit by the ADHD craze.  The Decepticons attack the supply ship and kill Ironhide, Ratchet, Prowl, and Brawn. They in turn invade the earth disguised as the Autobot ship.

Hordes of Decepticon reinforcements arrive and attack Autobot city, leaving it in shambles and the remaining Autobots fearing for their lives. They call for help from Optimus Prime who, upon arriving at the scene, single handedly manhandles the entire lot of Decepticons, until all that’s left is his arch nemesis, Megatron.  After a battle of the titans, Megatron is defeated and begs for mercy, which throws Optimus off long enough for him to grab a gun.  Optimus is made to pay for his mercy with his life.  Before dying, he passes the matrix of leadership on to Ultra Magnus.

The Decepticons discard the broken in their ranks, including Megatron, into the nether regions of space.  They eventually run into Unicron who offers them new bodies and life to do his will. Megatron is rejuvenated and renamed Galvatron, and replacing Frank Welker, is now voiced by none other than Leonard Nimoy.

Unicron then consumes the moons of Cybertron, including Jazz, Bumblebee, Cliffjumper and Spike, who are rescued later.  Ultra Magnus is destroyed and Hot Rod uses the matrix to become Rodimus Prime. He becomes the leader of the Autobots and destroys Unicron while rescuing Jazz, Bumblebee, Cliffjumper and Spike.  The Autobots take control of Cybertron again and the film ends with Unicron’s head orbiting Cybertron like a satellite.  Writer Ron Friedman certainly earned his paycheck on this one.

Now, about that fantastic cast.  Nimoy’s talents are only the tip of the iceberg.  In addition to the large number of voices from the original television cast including Welker, Peter Cullen, Scatman Crothers (in his final role), John Moschitta, Jr. and Casey Kasem, a mish-mash of varied and unbelievable talent came together for this thing.  Judd Nelson, Eric Idle, that kid from “Over the Top,” Robert Stack (“Unsolved Mysteries”), Lionel Stander, Roger C. Carmel, Christopher Collins, Don Messick and last and certainly most impressive, the great Orson Welles in his final performance, all found something in “The Transformers: The Movie” worthy of their talents.  Eat your heart out Michael Bay.

The only real bone I have to pick in this department is with Blurr. I have nothing against John Moschitta, Jr., I just can’t stand his character. It is this man’s opinion that he is one of the most ridiculous and annoying characters ever created, rivaling even the despised Jar Jar Binks for top honors.

Another bright point is the now hopelessly cheesy music.  The opening scene with Lion’s earnestly rocking theme makes it almost impossible not to get excited for what’s to come.  A killer mix of nostalgia, cheese and genuinely blood-pumping 80s hair-metal is hard to ignore, especially for someone whose childhood was defined by such.  The rest of the soundtrack keeps the film moving along nicely with gems like Stan Bush’s classic “The Touch” and “Dare to be Stupid” by Weird Al Yankovic, and a handful of original pieces from Vince DiCola, including the powerful “Death of Optimus Prime.”

Wholly a product of their time, the sound effects are a fantastic time capsule of classic 1980s pop culture. From the weapons firing to the sound it makes when they transform, everything is spot on.  Those sound effects, along with the brilliant cast, irresistible soundtrack and great action, are where this film really shines.  Its only real weaknesses reside in the script’s occasionally convoluted storyline and in the missing bridges between some of the bigger set pieces. Luckily Nelson Shin, Director and Producer, was able to keep the audience drawn in primarily with that soundtrack during the slower, dryer parts of the film.

Overall, 84 minutes feels a bit too long for a “Transformers” cartoon, though a valiant effort by talented people makes “The Transformers: The Movie” more than worthy as a meaningless bit of entertainment and effective dose of nostalgia.