Alan Tudyk reveals that TRANSFORMERS 3 will have pointless comic relief just like the first two
Aug 05
Alan Tudyk, from cult favourites like Serenity and Death At A Funeral (the, er, white version) is set to appear in Transformers. Literally dozens of people all over the world were holding their collective breath in anticipation, wondering when his role in the picture would be revealed. Survivors may now exhale, for the horse has spoken:
“I’m a fellow agent of [Agent Simmons', played by John Turturro], that is sort of his assistant and weapons expert, computer hacker, cyber sleuth.”
Agent Simmons was one of many, many, varied and numerous characters introduced in Transformers (the first) that served little to no purpose: he goes right alongside that Australian girl and her loud American friend, whatever the hell character Jon Voight was supposed to be playing, Bernie Mac‘s character, Sam Witwicky’s parents, Jazz the Autobot, most of the Decepticons, and all those army dudes led by Josh Duhamel; he’ll will fit nicely with all the other superfluous characters introduced in the sequel, too: that Australian girl with the tail, Sam’s obnoxious college buddy, that really old cranky Decepticon, and — yes, I’m gonna go there — the Twins. Simmons is obnoxious enough as it is, does he really need someone to back his inanity up?
Sometimes I think DreamWorks needs to hire someone to look over Michael Bay‘s shoulder and stop him every time he goes to introduce a new character to the franchise, possibly murming “Sir, there are already more than a dozen central characters, and dozens more with speaking roles; you don’t need one more.” Enough is never enough for Michael Bay.
Transformers The Third will be born some time in Winter next year (1 July 2011, to be precise) in all three perceptible dimensions.
The “leave your brain at the door” argument, and why it’s wrong
Aug 03
You hear it all the time, often wailed in defence of Michael Bay’s latest crime against humanity: “you just need to leave your brain at the door of the theatre, and then you’ll have the time of your life.”
It’s spoken (or written) in a friendly but ultimately condescending manner, and is often followed up (especially online) with the suggestion that “you should get off your high horse,” “you should stop being so sensitive,” and, ultimately, “you should stop watching movies.”
That last one is dropped like some kind of clincher, like the author just hit the Win Button and is now allowed to swagger out of the room, put their sunglasses on, and ride off into the sunset in the vehicle of their choice, and that the conversation is forever dead and buried.
"Leave your BRAINSSSS at the door!"
It implies that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m going about the business of watching frames flicker on a wall entirely incorrectly, that what I’m doing is uncool, lame, for dweebs or geeks, and doesn’t advance the social cause of being Awesome™. To me, it sounds a lot like “Shut up so I can concentrate on ignoring this movie better.”
A man by the name of Samuel Taylor Coleridge coined the phrase “willing suspension of disbelief.” When we approach an artistic medium – such as poetry, literature, or film – we understand the tropes and limitations of that particular medium, and we agree to give the author(s) a particular margin of artistic leeway, in order to get the most out of the experience.
Suspension of disbelief has been vital to storytelling ever since its inception. Looking back to the Greek “hero myths,” the one thing most of those heroes had in common was that the gods gave them superpowers. The gods were known to Greek audiences; they accepted the use of the “gods did it” device in the process of storytelling, so they could get to the cathartic bits about chopping off dragons’ heads and ravaging virtuous virgins.
That idea carries over into cinema. You know, when you watch a movie with Bruce Willis in it, that he doesn’t have to worry about firing a gun in public, he never runs out of ammo, that he can jump 20-foot gaps with ease, and that a single well-aimed bullet from his 9mm pistol is enough to cause any vehicle in the street to spontaneously combust. The source of Bruce Willis’ powers lies in the library of cinema leading up to this particular movie; you’ve seen it before, enough times (kind of like “the gods did it”), and exploding cars adds so much to this action scene, that you don’t mind the fact that it’s physically impossible.
It is, of course, possible to push the suspension of disbelief too far. When this happens, a movie’s credibility flees the cinema at the speed of light: think of that bit in Indiana Jones 4 where Indy gets in a fridge to survive a nuclear explosion, or that bit in The Quick And The Dead where the sun shines through a bullet wound, or that bit in Twilight where anyone says or does anything; after that happens, you get a creeping sense of disappointment, like the filmmakers think you’re really stupid.
But you’re not stupid. Do you want to know how I can tell? Because there are billions and billions of human beings all over the world who share 99.9% of each other’s DNA. You may be stupid, then, but you’re no stupider than me; you’re capable of using your brain just as well (or badly) as I am. So why do I get these “stop watching” comments from people?
"Whoops -- there goes our credibility."
Once upon a time, art and literature were esoteric pursuits reserved only for the most snobbish, upper-class echelons of society. The obstacle between the lower classes and art was the written language. Now that everyone (at least in this part of the world) is expected to be able to read, the prestige associated with art has been erased, opening the floodgates for more accessible (and sometimes better for it) works. Still, prejudice against classically “prestigious” forms of art remains, like the bitter memories of a jaded lover, and this hurts people’s appreciation of some media.
Adding to this is the 21st century obsession with instant gratification. Where music used to be a 60-minute story told with a full orchestra in the town hall, rich in content and complex in delivery, music now is a 3-minute pop song that goes verse-chorus-verse-chorus, piped conveniently through the speakers in your car: it’s still music, but it’s music distilled to its most basic, lowest-common-denominator form.
Human beings now want (and expect) everything ready for them on a silver platter by the time they’ve asked for it. That desire extends to music, literature (think of those shallow-yet-thrilling page-turners by the likes of Crichton, King, Clancy and Rowling) and, sadly enough, film.
Consider dance music, a genre devoted solely to invoking the ancient ritual of shaking one’s body to a steady rhythm. Studies have shown that ritualistic movements like this stimulate particular parts of the brain, giving the dancer a sense of satisfaction (which explains why everyone loves dancing so much). Dance music is the ultimate in instant gratification – you don’t even have to think; all you have to do is hear the music and do what comes naturally and you get an emotional kick out of it.
The same holds true for movies. A movie like GI Joe or Twilight is like a dance song. It hits the beats, packs all the explosions and / or lingering looks you want, and tickles the aesthetic, ritualistic part of your brain, without providing a lasting experience you can savour for the rest of your life. But I want more — why shouldn’t film strive to echo the greatest sonatas or arias or ballads? Besides, film already has its equivalent to dance: comedy (a genre devoted to evoking immediate physical responses in the audience).
NOT PICTURED: comedy.
There is much pleasure to be derived from using your noggin. Great amounts of joy and awe can be gained from exploiting the curiosity / satisfaction loop in our mammalian brains. Rather than being treated as a second-class citizen of the brain, shouldn’t this loop be given more to do? Why shouldn’t it be treated like the wonderful, glorious adaptation that it is?
Movies can stimulate that loop as well as Mozart’s greatest works, while also banging the primal drum of dance music to fire the veins. It’s a one-two punch to our brains, targeting both the reptilian ritual-centre and the mammalian curiosity-centre lurking in our skulls; it’s a great thing when it works in concert, and the best film example I can think of to explain it is 2001: A Space Odyssey.
In 2001, the viewer is often left without any skerrick of explanation or plot for vast tracts of time. For some people this becomes tedious and their disbelief is no longer suspended; it’s boring, it’s too realistic, the spaceships move too slowly, the actors’ voices are funny, etc.
If, instead of immediately switching off when the experience doesn’t meet your quick demands, you start feeding these questions into your brain – why are we still in the plains of Africa? Why is that bone so important? What does this jump-cut signify? – you’ll start to get answers. You won’t get all the answers, that’s not the point; the point is that you get enough answers to suspend your disbelief and keep your eyes glued to the screen. The pleasure derived from answering these questions becomes the driving force of the movie, outweighing the modest visual thrills provided by Kubrick’s hallmark coldness, and providing a unique and resonant film experience.
At the opposite end of the spectrum is Transformers. The movie is loud and flashy, bludgeoning your brain with information so that it’s too stifled to think. If you could think, what questions would you ask? “Why are they going here?” To get to the action scene. “Why are they doing this?” To set up the kiss at the end. “What is the point of this character?” To act as cannon fodder for the enemy.
The answers are so quick to your mind, so familiar and uninspired, that the thinking loop becomes unrewarding, and you stop using it. You rely on the visual and auditory stimulation to provide your pleasure, a pleasure that is big but hollow, kind of like a dance beat that never changes. It delivers the emotional impact you crave, but it’s a stopgap rather than a long-term solution, kind of like choosing a chocolate bar over a three-course meal.
Maybe it’s time we all took pride in the delightful firing of neurons that stirs such storms of joy and fascination in us, instead of continuing to pretend that ignorance is Awesome™, thinking is gay, music is for dancin’ and books are for burnin,’ and that movies are just $100 million babysitters with delusions of grandeur.
Don’t sell yourself short; you’re better than that – I know this because we share the same brain. Maybe we should stop ignoring it and learn to use it. Until that happens, I’m not going to leave my brain at the door; I have too much fun with the thing to let it go.
PANDORUM review
Jul 26
Pandorum is a mess. Nothing that transpires carries any sense of consistency or coherence. The plot is a random jumble of sci-fi story threads, directionless and vague at best. The characters are shallow and generic, spouting outrageous movie-isms at the drop of a hat. The conclusion is foregone, obvious from the first act, and the tension is noticeable by its absence.
The setup is effective enough, using the time-honoured plot devices of amnesia and a lights-out haunted mansion in space, and some of the early scenes are – almost – pretty good. But then the monsters show up, and any semblance of entertainment or originality is violently drained from the picture like vital organs yanked from the monsters’ victims.
The monsters make sounds like the Predator and have ornery spinal projections like the Alien. They are filmed like the orcs in Lord Of The Rings – close-ups of gnashing teeth, etc. – and bear remarkable similarities with the grey-skinned beasts from The Descent. A brief explanation for their existence is reluctantly offered up, but it sounds an awful lot like “We wanted to have some teeth-gnashing Alien / Predator monsters in our movie, so we put them in, even though they don’t belong.” The monsters are entirely tangential to the plot, and the movie suffers for their presence.
What is the movie about? The question still lingers, hours after the movie’s ended. Pandorum syndrome is apparently a kind of star-sickness that makes your nose bleed and causes you to eject every living crewmember from your ship. The Earth exploded, or disappeared, and the Elysium – the ship our heroes find themselves on – is the last remaining bastion of civilisation. It’s plummeting inexorably towards an Earth-like planet, intended for colonisation, but something went wrong mid-flight and now everybody’s in deep monster offal.
As a diehard lover of all things science fiction, Pandorum offended me on levels usually reserved for the latest Michael Bay or Paul W S Anderson movie. In fact, when Anderson’s name appeared in the credits, like a turd hiding amongst chocolate bars, I felt a sudden sense of realisation. Of course he was involved, at some level. It carries all his hallmarks: shoddy characters, pretensions to science fiction, underlit wire-fu heavy-shutter action scenes – it’s all in Pandorum, and it all sucks just as much even without Anderson in the director’s chair.
The characters are your standard space horror gang: the trusted leader who is actually the primary antagonist, but forgot; the young mechanic with a wife back home who just wants to make it out alive; the jabbering foreigner who is physically fit but otherwise useless; the German girl with glistening oil spread liberally over her person; and the crazy old black guy who just wants to kill everyone and eat them. Performances range from okay (the leads) to abysmal (bit-parts and voiceovers – the voiceovers are especially bad).
The film moves quickly enough, but it doesn’t engage on any level, so it feels lethargic and hollow. Unsure of how to proceed, the film smash-cuts out of scenes it can’t properly finish, giving a stilted, unfinished feel to the narrative. Its focus is always in question – is it about Pandorum? Is it about the monsters? Is it about the ship, the planet, the crew? – and the twisted ending shocks only with its inanity.
I feel obliged to touch on the production design, even though you don’t care. The typeface used throughout this film, in computer consoles and on bulkhead doors, looks like the kind of thing that would impress a 13-year-old designing his first spaceship. It’s distracting and stupid. Likewise the design of blades in the film: they’re all curved and shiny and sleek and useless. The incongruity of their design leaps out of the screen and grabs the viewer by the shoulders and screams “LOOK HOW FREAKING AWESOME I LOOK, DON’T I LOOK AWESOME?” 13-year-olds might find you awesome, yes, but you don’t look very useful. I remember a time when blades used to just be sharp bits of metal. Those were the days, when you could stab a man and not worry about bloodying the fancy design of your weapon.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Right from the start of Pandorum, I felt a creeping sense of déjà vu. As the film progressed, the sense grew stronger, and stronger, until it became an overriding axiom of truth in my brain: Pandorum is exactly like a video game, but with all the gameplay removed.
Video game cutscenes are notoriously bad. It’s like game designers feel obliged to tack some kind of narrative onto the game, to string the gameplay sequences together, so they plumb the depths of cinema for a suitable story and then rip it off wholesale. The result is a patchy, directionless series of animated scenes that clumsily provides exposition, character beats, and monster introductions; nobody really pays attention to them, because they’re usually awful.
The scene where this realisation crystallised for me in Pandorum was when protagonist Bower witnessed a group of monsters scuttling away in the distance. At this point in a video game, after teasing the enemy’s presence, the game would then give control back to the player, leaving you to walk through pitch-black corridors with nothing but a torch and the pause button for protection. Sooner or later, the game would start throwing enemies at the player, and you’d have to fend them off, and it would all be very exciting and make up for the shitty cinematic that preceded it.
But Pandorum cuts from cinematic to cinematic, skipping over the meat in between, the bits that actually provide the entertainment. The protganonist experiences extreme amnesia (a common device in video game storytelling), and receives orders mainly via radio, a mechanic used so frequently in gaming that it’s become something of a joke. Further, the story takes place mostly in corridors – that hallowed staple of uninspired video game design – and the action scenes play like a series of boss fights without the sense of challenge or reward; there’s even a scene dedicated to the sacred video game action of acquiring your first weapon; the list of similarities goes on.
It’s a sad world in which one of the more parasitic media of storytelling – video games – feeds back into the medium it’s leeching off. Pandorum plays like Event Horizon via Dead Space, or Aliens via Resident Evil. The result is a dull, lifeless shell of a film, familiar in trappings but alien in soul.
Pandorum
TRANSFORMERS 3 cannot be avoided: public set images and video
Jul 13
Michael Bay has been busy shooting Transformers 3 on the streets of Chicago and the internet has become riddled with images and videos from among the public crowds gathering to watch the action take place. Optimus Prime has been seen rolling down the road and Megan Fox love interest replacement Rosie Huntington-Whiteley has been spotted strutting her stuff.
Slashfilm have put together a very impressive wrap-up of all the online media from the Chicago shoot, featuring high resolution images and exclusive video. I have posted just a glimpse (believe me) of the goods below.
I must say, considering how dreadful Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen was, I’m continually amazed by how much I am honestly looking forward to Transformers 3, even though I know it will likely be another pile of rubbish– something about my childhood affection for the original cartoon keeps me intrigued. Plus, with all of this online action following the shoot, how can I avoid the damn thing?
Transformers 3 is still about a year away, currently scheduled for release on US screens 1 July, 2011.
Michael Bay, dishonest? Never! TRANSFORMERS 3 being shot in 3D
Jul 03
“The way I shoot is too aggressive for 3D cameras. It’s a time consuming thing,” said Bay. “Who knows… It might be a fad. I’m kinda old school. I’m old school because I like to shoot on film. I like anamorphic lenses, and that is old school.”
“Trying to lay low and do what I do best. We took delivery of the first Alexa cameras for Hugo and have 23 more on the way. Transformers has also signed on to shoot 3D throughout the film …”
That quote is from Vince Pace, who is kind of a big deal in the world of 3D film production. All you and Transformhards who enjoyed the 3D-ness of Avatar will be pleased to hear that Transformers 3 is being shot in native 3D; I suppose Bay has finally gotten over his desperate attempts to legitimise his style by proving it to be “old school.”
Will Bay force the production of an anamorphic 3D lens? Will (irony of ironies) Michael Bay be the one to bridge the aesthetic gap between film and digital? Only time will tell.
OPINIONS COUNT