The dinosaurs looked ‘lovely’ and I’m positive they continued to be so throughout this motion picture, but the 25 minutes I managed to endure were a pronounced pain in the arse – boring, derivative, pointless, and I suppose scraping a barrel that was no longer there.
News flash: dinosaurs aren’t interesting, people. Spielberg, once upon a time, made them so for 90 mins. And that’s the end of it.
This was shite. The next dozen will be shite as well.
For all the exceptional talents of Russell Crowe, he is simply wasted here in one of the most unwatchable biopics … ever. It’s a painful experience for many reasons, and the lackluster direction doesn’t help proceedings. The script, though, is fucking mince. The bloke here, John Nash, actually has his mental illness explained away with an imaginary pal in the punchable Paul Bettany and a make-believe government spook in Ed Harris.
If this embarrassing writing wasn’t enough to make you desire to gouge your own eyeballs out (or those of one of the muppets on screen), the movie has our resident genius’ mathematical theory put to the test in a bar scenario, with him and his wankpot pals applying their classroom discipline to pulling the local lassies.
Throw in some romantic schmaltz and a supporting cast of mainly irksome ‘characters’ and you have a really tedious, quite pointless, and completely shite movie that should be forgotten about.
Which makes this review seem quite unnecessary.
The intro could not be more pure ‘80s in its gratuitousness, Rob Lowe puck action synced to cheese. The bloke has not aged in 40 years (paper rounds did not exist for him). Keanu Reeves is in it as the goalie and he hasn’t aged, either. Patrick Swayze features also and he munches on a rose. This is not a metaphor.
The family breakfast scene a few mins in is straight outta A New Hope (1977), almost word for word, action for action; I had to rewind and repeat because, yes, I am that sad.
I don’t know what this movie thinks it is or what the intention was, but it’s an amusing, entertaining breed of shite, a silly primary source from a silly time. But they appear simpler times.
It’s the Mighty Ducks on drugs. Any and all kind of drugs.
Ray Liotta strikes again.
He could never entirely break free of the psycho/gangster/dodgy cop role, but he made the most of what scripts he got.
As Lt. Henry Oak, he’s a less flashy, more jaded and tortured Alonzo Harris in this relentless thriller. The plot is a bit too convoluted for what is meant to be a slice of realism, but it’s not silly and the style – ‘70s docu-style throwback – works.
And the opening is quite the shaky cam with a legit purpose.
This movie was so smug on a brutal level. All it does is throw in your face how successful these lads are, and it’s somehow our privilege to watch these glorious thesps pratfall and offer a surfeit of unremarkable one-liners. A crappy heist caper based on a crappy Rat Pack heist caper, this is another one of those films that should be trivial entertainment to pass the time, but is simply too annoying to enjoy.
There’s no comedy here, no drama, and nothing and no one to like.
Dull multiplex fodder with numerous sequels, I thoroughly hated it and hope you do too.
Hot on the heels of Top Gun: Maverick (2022), here’s another inevitable remake/reboot/belated sequel. Because these are for the most part guaranteed cash cows, you can understand the need for the movie bankers to hedge their bets and continue to pump out ‘distinguished IP’ movies or whatever they’re called – recognised characters and milieus.
Beverly Hills Cop (1984) is a wonderful motion picture of its time and still holds up – funny, thrilling, violent, smart enough, and with a protagonist who would entertain in any 90-minute premise. The sequel is a less good carbon copy but still serviceable and with the added bonus of Brigitte Nielsen yelling at folk to “eat the floor!”. Let’s not discuss the third one in the canon, as it does not exist, much akin to Rocky V (1990).
And here we arrive at Axel F (2024).
It’s not bad at all; moreover, it’s funny. The best part? It isn’t a PG-13.
I went to school with a lad who would scream, “The bridge is out, the bridge is out.” This was conducted at random intervals, my introduction to True Lies (1994).
Ludicrous story but pure entertainment and James Cameron gets away with it, mainly for the esoteric banter that is Bill Paxton. The lad defines enthusiasm and lights up every bit of celluloid he’s in. He has been missed.
It’s coarse and childish and it’s 1994. Stick to Bill Paxton and the action. Skip or mute anything with Tom Arnold.
And marvel at the other Arnold on a horse … in a shopping mall.
2/5.
‘It would require a great philosopher and historian to explain the causes of the famous Seven Years’ War, in which Europe was engaged, and in which Barry’s regiment was now on its way to take part. Let it suffice to say that England and Prussia were allies … and at war against the French, the Swedes, the Russians, and the Austrians.’
^Saved you half an hour on Wikipedia.
Donald Sutherland, above, as Vernon L. Pinkley in The Dirty Dozen (1967), where it all began.
The classics are numerous, the performances consummate and … just unusual and weird in an unearthly way. He excelled at the oddball, and even when he played it straight you kept watching to see twitches of strangeness. Famously, he was never nominated for a Best Actor Academy Award. But what the fuck do they know? Roberto Benigni won that accolade. I mean, wow ….
Also, for years I thought that Donald Sutherland was Irish. He wasn’t.
Talk about intensity (quiet and loud) from two leads – Jackman and Gyllenhaal not so much as going mano a mano but progressively losing their shit over the shared aim of finding the kidnapped.
Suburbia’s manky underbelly gets the full dissection here, law enforcement a rule-bend away from a jeopardised case. A despairing movie full of anguish and desperation, it’s not exactly a date-night gig with pizza and nibbles.
But that’s life.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 