Fallout Flaw

(Fallout 4 Review By Neamo)

It's been a long time since I've sat to do a review, and I've no excuses. So, now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's get to it.

The Fallout series is one steeped in nostalgia, and boasts a deep legacy of beloved and acclaimed titles that build upon it's lore. I, having only played Fallout 4, do not buy into this and instead shall review Fallout 4 as it is without trying to apologize or even cover it's flaws for the love of previous titles. In many ways, this review shall be one more frank and earnest about the product at hand than many you will see, and likewise, many subtle nuances that would delight will utterly evade me. If you are a fan of the game and the series as a whole, I shall wish you well and invite you not to read further, as nothing good lies within. For those willing to trudge onward, a few things I need you to note are that I am reviewing the game as it is, with no allowance for mods to sway my experience, and no open ends for what I'm sure will be additional content patches. Furthermore, I write, as any critic would, about the things that I looked for, and my own concerns, and there are most certainly topics missed or abbreviated in lieu of things you the reader may not care for. If you disagree or feel I've missed an important point, I look forward to reading your own lengthy review on the matter, so please link me to any carefully crafted articles below. Now, let's get started.

One of the big draws to this particular game, aside from the promise of an open world to explore and the inherent adventure within was the settlement mechanic, a system for building better and brighter new things within the wastes that you could claim your own. My interest was piqued, a bold fusion of Minecraft and The Witcher 3 beneath the glow of a thousand radiation tubes? "How could this possibly go wrong?" I asked. The answer of course became evident almost immediately. In your arsenal of tools to build a better and brighter world, you are given the workbench. Able to scrap a fallen building in an instant, or a cluster of trees in but a moment, you are tasked with clearing your homestead of the debris of two centuries of nuclear winter to give you a foundation to build upon. To note, I shall use Sanctuary, your starter as an example although I'm well aware of the other locations. After scrapping that which can be scrapped, the tires, burned out cars and fallen through houses, you are left with a clearer space. It's filthy of course, covered in leaves, detritus and rotting matter that no amount of coaxing can convince your later arriving settlers to clean, but it's clear. Well, almost. The 'structures', and I say it loosely for they no longer hold any structural integrity, that remain are indissoluble, unmovable and irreplaceable eyesores that continue to haunt any project you might venture forth. The only way past that is of course to accept that perfection is beyond your limited means.

Once you've moved past that particular disappointment, it's on to making lemonade out of lemons and placing down walls for your new fortress. This is where the buggy and otherwise unyielding mechanics of building come into play. With terrible snapping detection, poor collision avoidance and a limited palate of hobo-clique articles to splatter and spatter your new kingdom with, after several hours of rifling through every trash can in Boston, you too, with a lot of invested time and effort can make your own redneck motel. I say that disparagingly of course, well knowing that the aesthetic of the game is meant to lean toward the hobbled together ruined world, but when every wall has holes, every ceiling leaks and you are limited to building squared boxes of cobbled together crap, what your accumulative effort and energies afford you is a home that you would be ashamed to show Jed Clampett. I'm not entirely sure I want to live in that world. Surely things will be improved once you invite some new blood to tend your shanty town, right? Well in order to do so, you must finagle your way through the game's power system with no prior explanation and build a beacon, and in doing so, the cavalry will come and help restore order!

On to the settlers! At last, they've arrived, and once you've managed to herd and collectively pen in your motley assortment of thugs and vagrants, you can militarize them! That's right, lured by the siren song of a beacon hobbled together from garbage and wishes, your settlement can attract the denizens of the radioactive new world. Surely to survive such a world before your arrival, they must have garnered and cultivated the skills to endure, each with their own backstory of struggle and victory through the nuclear hell-scape that surrounds them? Well, no. Not exactly. As it turns out, those wily globe trotters can't be lured by the promise of your meager offerings and have all set themselves against you. Instead, you can summon the rejects of the wastes, the invalids. That's right, that's where this particular criticism lays. Like an armada of tamagotchi, they exist purely for their own purposes adding almost no benefit to your otherwise meager existence. Unable to improvise and unwilling to aid, they will without direct supervision languish in their own feces. It's one of the area's that for me felt the most lacking in building a settlement, that after you've trekked into the wastes hoarding anything you can find, from mugs to tin cans, and hauled them back to attempt to forge your empire, it serves the same purpose as an animal pen. Your denizens, capable of following only the most basic of tasks will never help you in any real way, other than repelling invaders that only appear in the wake of said settlers, or farming food, which you can if you should obtain a surplus, turn into adhesive in order to make more things for the settlers. One could argue about the shop function and the idea of using them to make bottle caps, and you'd be right, but the agonizing sloth and set up around that makes the entire affair a fanciful whimsy of misplaced passions. It all feels like a wasted avenue of the game.

I could talk at length about the hideous character models, the drab and faded textures and the overall lackluster world of Fallout 4, but it's been done at length by others and, well, it's plain to see. While some may speak of it being a non issue in the face of modders, it shouldn't be up to outside parties to add polish to your product. While excuses have been made, namely that it was done to make the game accessible over a wider array of gaming machines, I remain dubious in the face of the products and indeed the mods currently available. Add to that character models that look like Leatherface's sex dolls and you've got a remarkably ugly end product for a triple A title! Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I didn't buy this for the sparkling sunsets or lush vista's, so consider this a minor gripe, albeit a bitter one, so instead I'll move directly on to the exploration.

In being an open world game, or rather one where you have free reign to explore off of the beaten path, Fallout 4 succeeds in inspiring a certain wanderlust. What lays beyond that mountain? Is there more garbage? Will I find a semi casual reference to an earlier title or some form of meme? The desire to roam is endless and one without bounds or measure. What if I move slightly to the left of my settlement? Is that a cave? Where did those mole rats come from? The rewards are endless. Endless, and yet as you've probably noted from the dripping cynicism I've written this with, largely hollow. Certainly, should you wander in any given direction you will find something, some forgotten furrow of the wasteland that on the surface seems deeply interesting, but as you dig your way within it quickly becomes evident that it's either a hoarding spot with others teased at on repetitively hacked computer terminals, or a junk dump filled with mutated stragglers. At first, that's wonderful! After all, the game boasted of it's dazzling array of weapons and touted it's unique crafting system, of course you need the targets and materials! And yet, hours into the game having trekked to yonder shore, aside from the flat and lusterless new visuals of a meme based structure, what are you left with? Where is the intrigue or impetus to continue? There are of course rare examples of something new being dangled before you, an immortal doctor possessed by an alien headdress, a crashed UFO and a 'haunted' house naming just a few examples, and they do add shreds of variety until their conclusions where each is a quickly dispatched foe and a new gimmicky weapon without any form of lasting impact. Hardly something to laud, and more a distraction from the general monotony of countless hours hamming it up with a propane torch stapled to a katana I'm afraid. That's my main problem with the overall reward of this exploration, that you could spend literal months scouring the well crafted map for new locations and hidden secrets, for little to no reward and no impact other than bragging rights to yourself for having the largest and shiniest bullet dispenser in a single player game with no real story line, like a budget and stretched out Borderlands, without the chuckles.

One of the main failings of the game, and I say this knowing full well that I may receive flak from apologists of the series, is that the main story, the impetus for you to crawl from the cryo-pod and venture forth into the irradiated land ahead, is garbage. I realize that some will argue that the age old quest to save a child and avenge a lover is one tried and true, but it was a story executed without prowess or skill. Introducing your soon to be departed loved one only through a gender selection screen and a series of scant compliments, the child and indeed beloved are taken within the first few moments of the opening act. While that allows us to get to the meat and potatoes of the game ahead at a brusque pace, it leaves nothing to invest upon in terms of story. No one cares, nor should they. It's about the most impersonal and rushed story mechanic in the world with no real ties, and in all honesty has very little to do with the game at hand. The game, bar a few small deflections for choice alternatives, would be no different had you toddled into the vault on your lonesome. That's an awful thing to say when in the face of a plot that in most instances would have far deeper implications. It was badly told, and left me with absolutely no desire to scour the wasteland for my missing son, instead leaving the only real motive to play that I can shoot things and pick up broken desk fans for gears. It turns what is meant to be an RPG into a single player open world sandbox in but a moment, and destroys any canonical interest in any story within. To make things worse are the laughable companion romances that you can cultivate by changing your actions to effectively woo your rabble. That's right, mere days after escaping the vault, lovingly prying a ring off of your lovers cold dead hand and embarking on a quest of family honor, you too can mack with a stranger for perks. Who was Shaun again? Do you care?

Something that instilled ire within me through this game was the illusion of choice. What I mean by that is the idea that you, the player, can make decisions of consequence and lead the story through your own initiative in any meaningful manner, all the while being hemmed in to one of a handful of very suspect conclusions. For instance, while it says you are the 'lone wanderer' that has been so heavily tagged throughout this installment, you will of course, naturally, have to sidle up to one of four misguided groups striving for the betterment of the new world for perks and general progression. Unable to progress without sidling up to bigotry, you are effectively pigeon holed into picking your own racist overlord to appease; be it the slavery endorsed megalomania of the Institute whose missions resemble lynchings of the KKK, the gentle Nazi parody of the Brotherhood of Steel, the ever feral anti humanism of The Railroad which drifts into the darker realms of the Black Panther movement, or the feckless Minutemen who more resemble the last march of a communist trope than the Minutemen of old. Surely however such a dubious selection, and such moral fragility would leave you the choice to join up with the raiders or progress on your own steam? No dice. You must forever play the good guy who joins a morally bankrupt group to progress the story down one of four avenues of unrewarding and unremarkable player 'choices', forever rounding down to what is basically the same conclusion.

And so now we come to the voice acting, the game's control system and those things that make it tick. I am a console peasant, not a member of the PC master race, so I feel any notes I try to make on the controls of this game will largely fall to parody or deaf ears, but suffice it to say that when I tried to aim my gun, my character aimed his. I shot, and he shot. It was a very standard affair that moved quickly. The dialogue system of course is broken, displaying the ghost of text options past, and when attempting to make small talk I often found myself saying the worst possible things guided by the barest of clip notes, but it's not that large of a flaw in the grand scheme of things. The inventory system is bare bones and clunky in places, and the AI for this game regarding companions, settlers and monsters in general is hideous, but having learned to suffer Dogmeat as my companion, I moved past it in my stride. It's what I should expect from those bred from desperate stragglers after two hundred years of nuclear wind and rain. The voice acting was generally sub par, with the exceptions being Nick Valentine and Codsworth, who should have starred in this game as he was the only real focus of any emotion other than disdain. Overall, it played as I expected, it just didn't gift me with the experience I paid for.

In brief summation, and note I'm reviewing the base game and not the mods or additional content, Fallout 4 markets itself as an open world RPG and rapidly turns into a kleptomania simulator with less replay value than Paris Hilton's sex tape. I'd advise picking up the original Bioshock if you're a lover of the retro-ruin aesthetic, or the Witcher 3, if you want an open world with variety and actual story craft.

Tedious Town

(Ghost Town Review By Neamo)

I'm sure that greater minds than my own have looked over this film and found a wealth of things to talk of. Perhaps some intangible subtlety otherwise missed or a hidden nugget of delight sitting within plain sight. I'm sure of that, and while I'm pleased that someone undoubtedly will find something good to say of this film, I am not that man. Like the visual delights of the color white, the vibrant flavor of tofu or the scintillating read that is the phone book, this film will stand the test of time as being one of those truly bland experiences.
 

Following the adventures of a constipated English dentist, we see a premise for the worlds most unlikable man fall like stepping stones leading us across a dreary pool. Unloved and unloving, Bertram Pinkus played by Ricky Gervais, aside from earning the award for the worst name in history, falls foul of a rogue colonoscopy, and dies on the table from a reaction to the general anesthetic. Revived minutes later, Bert can to his chagrin now see ghosts, and is roped into the recently deceased machinations of Frank played by a rather slimy Greg Kinnear. Agreeing to aid in Frank's plans of alienating his wife from her potential new love interest, Bert ultimately begins to fall for the maligned Gwen portrayed by Téa Leoni. Worming his way into her affections, Bert ultimately slithers into a corner he can't back out of when he has to explain knowledge of the deceased, and the two abruptly part ways. After a brief reunion, he dies, is revived once more and the two bond over the idea of Egyptian corpses. Oh, and for a few minutes Bert helps the resident spooks of New York, Sixth Sense style. A happy event for all.

The truth is, when all is said and done I'm left overwhelmingly unenthused by the entire sensation. That doesn't connote that it was bad in of itself, although it certainly remains drab and lackluster, but it leaves me with a great void or chasm of things to discuss. This isn't so much a movie as it is an amalgamation of poor ghost fiction that allows Ricky Gervais to front his mainstay as the most annoying man in the world, and while everyone enjoys a good bastard now and again, the laughs don't support the screenplay. It's possible I've been desensitized to that particular brand of comedy, it's also possible that I lack a sense of humor, but for the life of me I can't understand how it's been branded as a funny film. With little to no comedic timing and a wealth of awkwardness in it's stead, each gag either overplays or falls tragically short, aiding only in the feeling of general ineptitude. The romance that sparks between Gervais and Leoni feels forced and without any on screen chemistry, and ultimately the film just fizzles to an anticlimax. Any other plot cohesion falls flat in the face of his Scrooge like emotional rebirth, and while I can see many would compare this to Scrooge, I would argue that Ebenezer was inherently interesting and this wasn't.

The acting of this film was fairly mediocre. I feel that might come across negatively, and while that isn't my intent it remains the best statement of pooled talent within. Greg Kinnear remains a friendly face and soothing voice, despite his dysfunctional and sleazy portrayal of a shameless womanizer. Perhaps it stands only in contrast to the other lead, but he remains an identifiable source of comfort in a film otherwise destitute of easy viewing. Téa Leoni in slightly less favorable tones portrays a woman who, while beautiful, is just weird enough that you could conceive a world where Ricky Gervais stands a chance. I'm not overstating it, that is the point of her entire character development as an Egyptologist. Ricky Gervais is Ricky Gervais. The sentence ends as it begins and reveals all whilst saying nothing. With harks back to obsessive compulsive disorder, social anxiety and perhaps a knowing nod to autistic tendencies, the accrued sum of his portrayal stands alone- as a portrayal of Ricky Gervais. If it weren't for the laughable special effects and rare humanizing moments delivered with the tender subtlety of a muggers fist, I would swear blindly that he had no idea he was being filmed.

Of gripes I have few. It was tired, yes, and it was dull, but I've mentioned those things at length throughout. The only other things I could truly pick apart were the laughable attempts at redemption by Gervais in which he solves the problems of a handful of spooks. Throughout the entire film he had been haunted by ghosts asking for his aid, and in a three minute montage he solved their earthly woes, allowing them to pass on. It felt cheap and insulting, frankly, like a writer attempting to plug a literary hole.

In summation, Ghost Town lingers only as a pale emulation other movies. Tedious, humorless and generally unmentionable, it's a film that will be forgotten in moments, as well it should be. Don't watch Ghost Town, watch Ghost.

The Books Grief

(The Book Thief Review By Neamo)

I'd like to start with an explanation as to why I'm reviewing this film rather than the promised critique of Ghost Town. If I'm entirely honest, I felt it might be insensitive on my part to review a film entitled such just after writing a memorial for an actor I held in high esteem. It might seem overtly cautious, but it's simply a mark of my own respect. As such I'll complete that review at another time, and lead on with my take on The Book Thief in it's stead.

Opening in the pale of winter, our narrator, Death, takes us on a whimsical and light hearted journey into the depths of Nazi Germany in order to tell us in tones of drawl nostalgia of a member of the Hitler youth he became enraptured with. Liesel, played by Sophie Nélisse, is a girl of communist parents who serves as our titular protagonist, the book thief, and lives alongside the jovial Hans played by Geoffrey Rush and the staunch Rosa portrayed by Emily Watson. Encouraging Liesel to come out of her shell by teaching the girl how to read, Hans ultimately feeds a literary fire within the impressionable Liesel, who in warming to the magic of the snow draped swastika's takes it upon herself to fuel her passion where-ever available. Befriending an Aryan sprint racer with a penchant for black face, Liesel's foster family pay an old debt in taking a Jewish refugee into their house, and life goes on as it may with the sickly but carefree fellow. As time passes, ultimately her friend Max is forced to leave in the increasing pressure of house searches, and Hans too is drafted into war, and while I would like to tell you the crux of this story is of how Liesel steals books, it isn't. It's a bomb. I'm not joking. In a segment that breaks through all traditional story telling rapture of five minutes, a bomb falls on their house killing all but Liesel. Liesel, momentarily filled with despair and ennui, is delighted to find a book after walking past her perfectly preserved friends and family, shrouded by their ruined homes of rubble and splintered timber. Cutting forward, Liesel meets up with Max once more who strides in looking decidedly more debonair than is to have been expected, and it's all finished with a happy and heart warming monologue from the Grim Reaper. It's a family film.

I'm more than a little conflicted in reviewing the plot of this film. I have been assured that the book this originated from portrays the story with the depth this seems to yearn for, but as I haven't read the book I shall have to take those words at face value. Feeling much like a thing of grandeur pulped down for the sake of being concise, the film consistently brings red herrings into the foray in order to build tension, only to let them wane and fade away. Max and his introduction? Merely a footnote. The book given to Liesel, inscribed with Hebrew? A momentary flutter of the imagination. Even the principle act of stealing books builds to nothing as no repercussion save brief scolding amounts of it, and it leaves a man feeling dour. I'm certain these thematic elements were better placed and more deeply drawn within the pages of the original book, but on film it feels like random tangents designed to fill space until the ending act. When the film is entitled the book thief, and aside from a love of literature it has no deep bearing on the plot, one can be forgiven for feeling decidedly misanthropic about the entire affair. The film instead showed a girl's coming of age and development within Nazi Germany, nothing more and nothing less.

The ending of the film is perhaps my largest gripe, and it's also the source of my inner struggle. It's garbage. I know I'll piss off some of the story's more ardent fans who will applaud that it keeps true to character, and shows that death may come for any at a moment's notice. I'm not denying that, nor am I denying the validity considering it's setting. The reason this ending is garbage is entirely involved in it's set up and aftermath. The bomb wipes out the town, and abandoning all reason now that those countless plot devices and mechanisms built carefully from before are now lain to waste, we are left back at square one. That would be fairly bad, but I could live with her clambering from the wreckage and perhaps the ending scene there. Instead after a moment or two of grief we are treated to a sickly sweet reunion and monologue finish in the expanse of five minutes. I felt cheated. Deservedly so. I had felt the tension of the prior moments, and felt eager for the plot to build and gather pace, but it didn't. It simply ended, after an event that was by all other measures an act of deus ex machina. I'm flabbergasted that this was the agreed screenplay, and while the ride til this point had been faintly enjoyable, I quickly regretted investing any time in it.

To talk of the acting, it is for the most part masterfully executed. While I didn't attach to Liesel's dry and rather listless performance as the most ignorant girl on Earth, it wasn't wholly unbelievable. To speak of the girl as an actress however feels to be too much of a kindness, and I would instead compare her to a talking prop. Overtly harsh? Possibly, but she truly gave the weakest performance of the principle cast, and she was the lead protagonist. Geoffrey Rush and Emily Watson's performances in turn however were things of beauty, as beneath the kindness both seem tired and drawn. In each scene a haunted expression lurks beneath a down trodden smile, or a furtive glance to each tender gesture that otherwise betrays a prior history only hinted at on screen, and it adds true character depth. Ben Schnetzer gives a fair performance as the sickly Max, and although the plot remains a little contrived over the issue, he remained a presence. Nico Liersch gave one of if not the best performances of the film however as Rudy. Proving that children can act in the wake of the lauded but lackluster lead performance, Nico's character remains one of the films true moral centers, and assists in the immersion of the viewer. Oh, and where would I be if I didn't mention Death? Voiced by the legendary Roger Allam, it's a voice that I both instantly recognized and held favor to. A good casting decision.

The music and mise en scene are appropriate to the era. I can't say I was blown away by the setting, but it was a snow capped village in Nazi Germany, and it was never going to be a festival of light and sound. For the large part the music evaded me, save for the juxtaposition of one beautifully shot scene where a choir of the Nazi Youth are singing soft and lilting tones to the cut overture of the Kristallnacht and the horrors therein. I also noted the original German national anthem being sung at the burning of books, which while entirely appropriate became quickly drawn out. It was as it was.

I can't recommend this film with an open heart or ease. For the most part it's fairly unoffensive and actually provides very decent performances from it's leads. It's set well, and the ride though infuriating can provide some satisfaction. It ends however not with a bang, but a whimper. I'd suggest Schindler's List if you are looking for something of that time period that actually provides depth. Or perhaps The Boy In The Striped Pajamas. Watch something else.

Pacific Grim

 (Pacific Rim Review And Rant By Neamo)

Complimenting a film when it's good is a fine and noble thing to do. This is a film that inspires no such nobility in me, nor does it's director. Prepare yourselves, it's about to get bitter.

With the world in ruin after the emergence of Kaiju's, Cthulian horrors that if left to their own devices would make a straight and steady beeline for Japan, emerge one after the other from a rift beneath the ocean and wreathe international havoc upon any nation in their path. To combat this new threat, all of the nations of the world unite to produce the most stereotypical and impractical defense form this world has ever seen, mecha's, or to the blissfully ignorant of you, enormous humanoid robots piloted by the young and emotionally damaged. Created in order to manhandle the beasts without conventional bullets for fear of their toxin filled blood seeping into the ocean below, these hulking titans of advanced engineering are powered by on board nuclear reactors, and wade into battle with all the grace and durability of rock-em sock-em robots, a flaw not missed by detractors. When our would be hero, Raleigh Becket boards the ineptly named Gipsy Danger, with his brother who we'll refer to as meat, we see a world far changed from the golden age of hope and prosperity. We also see why. Requiring two pilots in order to balance the strain of the mecha, or jaeger's AI system, it lurches predictably forward, swinging it's fists like a pair of glorified pillows against the armed rapist of it's tentacled foe, and while trickery is engaged, meat is quickly cleaved free from his brother in a scene so predictable and vapid that it could have been penned in crayon. A ladle of angst and a hasty government closure later, we see Raleigh working as a new age navvy on an international coastal wall, soon to be rubble. Can things end here? Of course not. Re-opening the jaeger project, a government official drags Raleigh back into the chair, and finds him an Asian co-pilot who quickly becomes the female love interest of our traumatized hero. With a rebuilt Gipsy Danger ready to breach the shore and take on the abyssal horrors, a plot is devised to nuke the breach, something before untested, and while a smaller sub plot involving a scientist mentally linking himself to the Kaiju appears, it ultimately goes nowhere and panders to nothing. There is a side 'villain' in the aggressive Australian, who dies predictably in a moment of redemption, and ultimately Gipsy Danger must swan dive into the void riding a Kaiju, which it does before detonating it's nuclear reactor. Earth's victory is secured.

What's that? I skipped and skimmed through the plot? Well frankly, I had to. It's a complicated, boring and trite affair that climbs the footholds of classic anime like a drunk baby supported by a guide wire, and while it covers a lot of ground, none of it is new. It's a mess, frankly. Boring for the most part, particularly in the exploratory quest for a Kaiju brain which leads to a half assed Ron Pearlman experiment, the only real joy to be garnered from the spouting nonsense is in the fight scenes, and they themselves make little to no sense. With fists that damage little, these shambling hulks of steel have no agility in water, and the only effective weapon shown is a sword that snaps out at the literal last moment. It begs the question, why not just wield your fucking sword from the offset? Why indulge in this fetishistic foreplay with the minions of the under dark when you have a light saber at your disposal? Why in fact not make the machines to be run by the computers that so clearly bear the reticent bulk of their creation and have them be controlled remotely? If we want to go further, why the hell would we go with mecha's to begin with, in lieu of other more effective methods of disposal, such as a seething cloud of swarming drones? I asked this, and I must refer to an answer stated rather plainly by someone trying to defend the film and it's premise. 'Well, having giant robots fight giant monsters is pretty much the only way to have a movie about giant robots fighting giant monsters.' That's it in a nutshell. That is why I am frankly disinterested in the plot and the premise, and it's a beautiful summation. This was never a film, and for all the plot points it attempts to tout and references to promote, this abortion of cinematic values holds no sway. This film in it's entirely is about Guillermo del Toro attempting to show all and sundry his sketchbook in an act of unintelligent, self serving hedonism that proclaims itself a love letter to something greater. It isn't, it's balderdash.

The acting of this film is difficult to gauge, mainly because there is little to be seen of it anywhere. As such I'm not going to talk of it. I can't find it. There is no believable raw emotion, and every actor who took part in this sham should feel utterly ashamed of themselves for such blatant fan service in the face of actual performance. Instead I'm going to talk of the CGI. The CGI is good, certainly. It wasn't the magnificent leap of engineering I had heard it touted to be, that mark lays firmly with Avatar which to this day remains the most visually impressive computer generated film, though sadly it too is woefully lacking in all other areas. It looks decent enough, the water looked much as water does, the mecha's looked a little like Michael Bay rejects and the monsters like rubbery children's drawings, but they were rendered well, so there's that. The sound track might as well have been non existent to me for the impact it had, and likewise all other assets of the film simply weren't memorable. I know these were things that existed, just as I know there were indeed actors of flesh and bone who drifted lazily on screen, but that is the extent of my care of the matter.

Guillermo Del Toro is a director of whom frankly you should expect more. Able to work well with a lesser budget, he has produced some of the most fascinating films I've ever seen, in their conception and production. I must admit, these are Spanish films that were made on virtual shoestrings, but they are good in of themselves, fantastic to watch and a treat of general magnificence, The Devil's Backbone and Pan's Labyrinth amongst them. While not all of his films are hits, he has the spark of brilliance in him, so to see him direct and write something like this is much akin to seeing a drunken Beethoven shit in his own piano, to raucous applause I'm horrified to say.

If I were given the chance to see this film again, I would choose not to. When I say I would rather be publicly castrated than have to endure it or it's smirking and self satisfied fans, I am not overstating. Watch Pan's Labyrinth or The Devil's Backbone instead.

No Shit Sherlock

(Sherlock Critique By Neamo) 

Sherlock has been very difficult to review or critique, and it has taken the better part of a day and some in depth conversations for me to pinpoint why. While I will be the first to praise the virtues of the show and it's production, certain aspects have left me with an inner turmoil that has bled into writers block, and it may show in this summation of thoughts and feelings. I had not expected such difficulty concerning it, especially considering I have in the past professed adoration, but as is often the case, deeper reflection leads to unanswerable questions and rebuttals, and it is this untangled mass of emotional yarn that I shall attempt to pluck apart below. I am using bullet points, partly to help separate my musing rants from the general commotion of cumulative thought, and stop me veering too steeply into tangents otherwise better left unexplored.

•  Acting : The acting of Sherlock is impeccable. With the ever likable but erstwhile sincere Martin Freeman providing a genuinely warm and distinct voice in Watson, it balances well to the sardonically misanthropic edge provided in Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock. I am told, though I haven't indulged myself, that the books are written in much the same manner, with Watson providing the grounding force to Holmes and his eccentricities, and while that would stunt the growth of ordinary characters, what we are rapidly introduced to is the notion that neither character is ordinary. There is an on screen chemistry between the two that I'm assured was written to give a deeper affection to their relationship, and while at times it can verge on the homoerotic, their bromance and the connection within gives the piece deeper meaning. Mark Gatiss too portrays a fine Mycroft, with the subtle nuances of Cumberbatch's performance reflected in his own though with far more reservation, and the rest of the ensemble cast perform well as aides to the central cast, Rupert Graves providing a likable and human Lestrade and Louise Brealey a muted but perfect performance as the queen of the friendzone. I would be remiss however if I did not take a moment to appreciate the staggering performance of Andrew Scott as James Moriarty. Bringing a wild eccentricity to it that had little been expected by critic and viewer alike, his on screen moments are as dauntingly electric as they are unnervingly sinister, stealing the scenes entirely from beneath the nose of the lead, a feat not easily accomplished.

 

•  Writing : The writing of Sherlock isn't something I can shower it with universal acclaim for however. In a point that will ultimately tie in fully with one of my gripes, Sherlock is at it's best sporadic in approach to the quality, as I can easily discern season for season the weaker episodes, episodes that whilst serving and appeasing fans add nothing to the overall canon it attempts to build, and otherwise serve as gentle but meaningless filler. The episode for instance entitled 'The Blind Banker' clearly remained as an attempt to appease, with notes lifted from a Doyle story. Now, I understand fully that when playing with a well established franchise and attempting to bring it into the modern certain structures must be adhered to, but in many places things simply defy translation, and the faintly racist portrayal of the Asian syndicate, followed by the loose but otherwise camped plot and danger within speak volumes. Likewise 'The Hounds of the Baskerville' episode seemed forced, it's explanation and science sitting uneasily as it raised more questions in conclusion than it posed, and while I understand these are meant to build the idea of Holmes and his case repertoire, the open and shut mention of it left little but hollow feelings in it's wake. I'm not saying each episode should continue a thematic plot, or be linked to one central figure as life doesn't work that way, Moriarty couldn't have played a hand in 'Baskerville' anymore than he could have in the Jack the Ripper murders. What I am saying is if an episode begins and ends with no lasting change or effects, we are left in the territory of poor television. That isn't to say all of the writing is poor, the 'The Reichenbach Fall' is an example of both fantastic portrayal and excellent execution, leaving fans both hungry for more and puzzled, and while Season 3 by and large remains disappointing as a following act, this episode and the lead to it over the coarse of two seasons show fantastic skill that is difficult to argue in the face of. A little more consistency would be desirable.

•  General Positives : You can see a pattern here, that I am discussing things I can heap joy upon in this review's forefront in order to save my criticism and bile for the latter, and this is represents the last vestige of compliments. The theme tune and musical score are both complementary and elegant, and certainly help to ease the passage of each episode. I also on another note enjoyed the internal mapping and graphing technique used to show us the unique but tangible analytical thoughts of our lead mastermind, as they skillfully both allow us an inner look but at the same time distance us with the dazzling array of genius, both making him relatable and alienating him at once. It's a skill that frankly leaves me a little jealous in my awe, but remains none the less an impressive piece of direction.

• Gripes :  And here we enter the tangled mass of thoughts otherwise known as my negative thoughts. I spent much time questioning what I didn't like, and why this couldn't be an easy review, and there are several things I could mention to note certainly. I don't, for instance, like the fact that Sherlock has been shown to have total social ineptitude, but that he seems to have slept with most of the men that drift lazily past as Molly's love interests. It seems strange that a man who refuses to go out gets around so much, to be frank and rather blunt about it. Likewise I don't like the concessions made in writing for the fan base, Sherlock's monologue about his revival and indeed the 3rd season in it's entirety seeming more like a series of personally indulgent messages to it's fans than legitimate plot. I could talk of that, and more I'm sure, but my true gripe I feel lays with the fans, and with Steven Moffat. To those who don't know, I am not a fan of Moffat's writing. I've seen it in Dr Who and the influence brought there, and I remain unappreciative and resentful to his abuse of it's canon and auto fellating tropes. While that on the face has no tie to Sherlock, Moffat is credited as co-creator and one of the three writers, and I'm sure has brought something positive to the table, but what he has also brought is a legion of rabid fans, and it is the fans of Sherlock that I take offense to. Comprised of Cumberbitches, a collective of Benedict fetishists, New Whovians, an abhorrent growth of mock sci-fi fans who take themselves too seriously by far, and traditionalist Conan Doyle puritans, the fan base of Sherlock is both frightening and abhorrent. Loud, unintelligible at the best of times and unintelligent at the worst, they represent the worst aspects of a community and show little of it's virtues, and frankly make me like the finished product less by proxy.

 
So, what else can I say of the show? Not a lot if I'm honest. It's good, certainly worth watching and its performances are for the most part inspired, but for gods sake, stay away from the fan base.

Lukewarm Bodies

 (Warm Bodies Review By Neamo)

In reference to yesterday and it's lack of update, I feel I must apologize. Without going into too great a detail I had been otherwise incapacitated by a bout of illness that had left me unprepared with fresh content to provide to you, the silent but vigilant viewers of my blog. It's an unfortunate but inevitable side effect of life, and one that I shall do my very best to prepare for with 'filler' content, reviews and the like I am able to shelve until needed in a moment of frailty. As such this review too is a little late, and once again I can only apologize for it's tardiness, but as self flagellation doesn't come naturally to me I shall proceed onward into brighter territory. Warm Bodies is a film I have fair to mixed views upon, and if I'm entirely honest it doesn't strike home as a traditional movie in of itself. Taking riffs from parodies of bygone era's over this generation's penchant for the sickly sweet and angst inspired drivel, this film serves as a mockery to the established fans of teenage angst and faux fantasy, and that is something I can firmly get behind.

Our film starts with our lead protagonist, a teenage heartthrob without a throbbing heart of his own, who quickly introduces us into the magical world of the macabre, and the social interactions of the freshly dead. Though the film doesn't really touch on decomposition, these nubile and otherwise preserved corpses are a far cry from the fetid remains that pop culture has led us to rightly believe they would be, all trace of stagnation replaced with a faint sheen of glitter, or a dab of well placed mascara. The only real sign of rot that we are introduced to is in the skinless husks lovingly named Boneys, zombies that have otherwise lost their way and in doing so have decided to ritualistically abandon their flesh. Fast, agile and menacing, it feels superficial for me to glibly inform you that in a film where zombies are our real protagonists, super zombies are the enemy, but that's essentially it in a nutshell. 'R', our protagonist of few words aside from his inner monologue informs us quickly that life for zombies normally revolves around finding a person and consuming their brain for the stimulating chemicals within. Consuming brains wherever possible, those bland lumps of human flesh allow the zombie to re-live the memories of their owner and remain a prized delicacy in a world of no sensation, so when our lead protagonist devours the brain of the boyfriend of our lead heroine, you can quickly see where the lines in the sand pool and gather. Kidnapping and protecting that delicious but beautiful morsel of his dreams, 'R' quickly begins to reveal a softer side, and beguiles and bewitches his happy go lucky captive with stories of the old world, trinkets, and delightful insights of how her boyfriend's brain tasted. I am not joking. Returning to the humans, Julie then proceeds to tell all and sundry of the virtue of the undead, and being the daughter of the human resistance commander is told in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up in the same breaths. Distraught, it is only with 'R's reappearance that her heart is set to flutter once more, and after deciding to give her playful corpse a makeover brings him to meet the resistance leader. He see's through the sham immediately, and remains furious. Shit goes down, the humans go on the hunt, and the zombies aid the humans in killing Boneys, the 'REAL' threat. Unlike the delightful skull crunching companions. It is then found that with love and attention, zombies return to life once more, and that the entire war had been unnecessary, and the walls are broken down in an ending that makes Twilight seem gritty by comparison.

In that plot you can see why I do not truly consider it a film, it isn't one. The fact of the matter is, the acting performances are passable at best with John Malkovich providing a wafer thin patriarchal villain, Teresa Palmer also failing to shine as our lead actress. In the same way that Wall-E became more annoying with the introduction of creatures that could vocalize, this film too suffered from that same problem, far more preferable when confined to the realms of grunts. The best performances of this movie? Nicholas Hoult provided an unrealistic and decidedly angst ridden zombie that would have been unbearable were it not for the witty and gripping monologue, but Rob Corddry's performance as 'M' was a pure joy to behold. The classic bar buddy, if undead, his shambling and general listlessness added intrigue to the zombie father figure and mentor that I hadn't expected until this point, and I quickly found myself wishing for more scenes with him to appear.

The script was well written, plot aside. I've mentioned the inner monologue a few times now, if not in a repeated mantra, and I believe I must continue to do so in order to impress upon you that the film is worth watching if for nothing else but that. Witty, sharp and concise, the writing isn't flawless but it certainly takes japes and potshots at genres otherwise abandoned in a dark abyss, and I can't fault that. The scenery wasn't laudable, and I would imagine it reflected a shallower budget than intended, as too did the special effects. I remember little of the music.

If I'm entirely honest I can't without a heavy heart advise you watch this film. It's clever, and has some witty insight, but in that respect I do not consider it to be a film. If you are able to cleave away the storyline, and look at it objectively it's very amusing, but it certainly isn't perfect. I enjoyed it, but it's certainly not to everyone's taste.

Sponge-Odd Thomas

(Odd Thomas Review By Neamo)

Last night whilst attempting to soothe the raw nerve exposed in my Need For Speed Review, I received a film recommendation from a person whom I hold in some esteem. I had before that point never heard of the name Odd Thomas, I had seen nothing in cinematic trailers which now act as more of a budgetary sounding board than anything else, never heard of the title mentioned on the websites I frequent or indeed heard anyone mention anything of the strange and whimsical title in any context. This warranted further investigation! Donning both deerstalker and pipe I quickly found that pressing legal suites and unfavorable reviews had buried this movie before it had left the metaphorical nest, and as such it has been left unseen and generally unmentioned to all who do not follow Dean Koontz. It was intriguing but I must admit that when it comes to films, the hype behind them often reveals much of the inherent value within, and while that isn't always the case, the fact of the matter is until that moment I had heard nothing, either positive of negative of this unusually titled piece. Choosing to ignore my instincts to flee to the grounds of comfort, and still melancholic from my newly unbound suppressed memories of a film that makes my inner child wretch, I decided to abandon reason and delve into a film I was sure would be a straight to DVD monstrosity. I'm glad I did watch it, however, while reviewing this film I can find myself making a conscious effort to substitute the description odd for others, and considering it's a title that by and large fits it's name exceptionally well, you can consider this review an enormous pain in the ass. Not to the flaying depths of Need For Speed of course, but it's irritating none the less.

Odd Thomas revolves around it's titular character, Odd Thomas. While there is a brief and banal description within the film to try and explain how a boy can be rightly given the name Odd, it still seems a near act of infanticide on the remaining parents part to allow a child with that name to go to a public school. We learn within the space of less than a minute that Odd had been raised with his highly psychotic and abusive mother, his father leaving the fray for better things, and that Odd's mother has the same gift as he. When I say we learn this of course, I mean only in the sense that we are given one or two rather peppy but otherwise concise sentences on the issue, a psychiatric flip book of images, and it is never raised again. Odd is respected the town over, as being a twenty year old fry cook, Sponge-Odd knows everyone within the hick and small town of California. I'm sorry, that was facetious of me, within the small town of Pico Mundo, a town otherwise cut off from the main cities of California. With a girlfriend called Stormy whose name is given no dose of explanation, only that she's a rebel ice cream vendor with blue streaked hair, we see them frolic and playfully flirt as soul devouring aliens from the void pour into this world through the nexus of all evil, that Sponge-Odd can see lurking around every corner. I would call them ghosts or demonic spirits, but the fact of the matter is there is something rather strange and alien about the whole affair, not only in looks but in their actions, so I shall call it as I see it. With apocalyptic events brewing and no suspicion attached to his name throughout the entirety of the movie, Sponge-Odd battles with a harbinger known as the fungus man for his oddly colored hair, and is aided by his devout believers, his girlfriend and the chief of police, Wyatt. Slowly piecing the puzzle together that leads to the death of his loved one and the salvation of a mall, it's a journey of friends, fry cooks and forensic ineptitude that will leave you questioning why you enjoyed it so much.

I have to admit I do tend to overly despoil and otherwise mar a plot that I find laughable. If there are numerous holes, it is an exercise in restraint not to pull at them and otherwise stretch them to tearing point immediately, and I often do as is made evident by this summation, don't have the will power to hold myself back. We see almost nothing of Odd's troubles before these events, and aside from a few placid cut scenes, one involving a fortune telling machine and the other involving his mothers psychiatric incarceration we learn little of our protagonist. Strange, well mannered, witty and ultimately kind, he lacks any form of an edge to his character, portrayed as a flawless fry cook who aside from being considered weird by his peers acts as a shining beacon of what a person should be. While that would appeal to many, for me and my personal love of the Byronic hero, his every man protagonist attempt at trying to appease all tastes fills me with utter disdain. His gift and the plot suggestions within hint that he is a man who has not only seen death, he has grown so used to it that it holds none of the macabre sway, and he is constantly plagued by these horrors. While one could argue that time would cause you to grow numb to them, he seems naive if only for the sake of the plot. It begs the question, how has he survived this long?

The acting is okay. It's not awful, and in that same vein it deserves no awards or accolades either. It would seem in poor taste of me to say it was of a television mini drama quality considering that I've seen some exceptional mini drama's recently, but it certainly strode leagues above the crippled husk of the film I had reviewed prior. Dafoe's performance ultimately remained my focus of interest, and Dafoe remained Dafoe. I was certainly appeased to a greater extent. The acting is not however the saving grace of this film. While I have mentioned it was a pleasant experience for me, until this point you've seen no praise, and the praise shall come in the place of the scripted dialogue and direction. I am not going to mention music or set pieces, I simply can't remember them, nor do I remember much else from the film. What I do remember is the feeling of enjoyment. It felt smooth, with a production value that seemed to exceed the meager budget I rightly assumed it had been given. Fluid camera movements, eased transitions and an overall great direction held the piece in a higher esteem, giving it a true vehicle for it's script. Funny, well written, witty and occasionally biting, the lines for the most part save a few horrifying attempts at romanticism gave an authenticity I hadn't expected.

While I could lazily pluck at my gripes and niggles in this film, the general lack of forensic knowledge, the special effects seemingly ripped from an alien versus predator installment, or even something plot destroying like the fact he can kiss his intangible spirit lover, I won't. I'll not go to the effort of plucking away every shred, as it gave me some genuine laughter and a little feeling toward the end. Instead, I will talk of what I would have changed. I would have liked to have seen a film far removed from the one I had done, the plot stripped away in order to make room for a plot anew. A darker feel than the bright and pastille color palate used, a little more psychological interplay and more focus on his crazy mother might have given the film a dualistic edge, is he crazy, did he kill Fungus? It would certainly have appealed to me at a more personal level.

Another day, another review. This like the former took time as, having recently watched it, thoughts and opinions still were forming and settling into place. The film is a good and lighthearted romp, with a shaky plot but witty protagonist. If you are looking for something deep and soulful, this won't be for you, but if you feel the need to kick back and relax, there are certainly worse films you could be watching. Oh, and as I've enjoyed writing it during the review... Sponge-Odd.

The Need To Impede

(Need For Speed Review And Rant By Neamo)

Returning quickly back to my embittered roots, I shall once more delve into the murky waters of ineptitude with this cosmic horror of a film. The Need For Speed! I will start this by quickly assuring you I had no real desire to watch this film. Racing movies, as a whole tend to be written with the elegance and sophistication of a drunk uncle at a family gathering, racist, crass and generally with little to no basis in truth. Needless to say, I was decidedly unenthused about the entire affair, and would have listened to my gut instinct save for my need to socialize and my endearing and enduring love toward Breaking Bad. How does Breaking Bad, one of the shining achievements of this decade of entertainment, line in to what is essentially a poor clone of The Fast And The Furious? Well it's lead protagonist is played by Aaron Paul, a man who played Jessie Pinkman in one of the most soul rending and at the same time hilarious performances I've ever been privileged to witness, so when I tell you that his name was enough to make me attempt to shelve deeply preconceived notions of film, you will I hope understand. This review took time to complete, and it is late, partly because of the difficulty in writing it but also because of internal struggles that lock into place when I try to criticize an actor who I know full well is capable of far more, and I hope you'll forgive that. With that in mind, let's proceed.

The Need For Speed starts, as does any film involving any form of vehicle nowadays for 'emphasis' in a garage. Tobey Marshall's father has just passed on leaving his son in debt with a gang of misfits friends who act as his mechanics. A mechanic but also a racer, Marshall takes out his frustration in a quick street race, during which he nearly kills a vagrant. That isn't central to the plot of course, and it isn't mentioned afterward save for a joking laugh between he and the onlooking pilot friend of his who serves as the token comic relief in this ensemble group of young adult misfits. When a former girlfriend of Marshall's breezes in to town with her boyfriend Dino Brewster, Brewster has plans for the debt addled mechanic and proposes a deal, a one time job refitting a mythical Shelby Mustang which appears to have been lost to time immemorial. Marshall, though having some unspoken past beef with Brewster agrees to take on the job and once repaired the car is sold. Marshall then bets his stake on his share of the money with Brewster through little coercion in a race, using one of the fabulously wealthy Brewster's imported vehicles. Marshall's friend and brother to the fore mentioned Ex decides to jump in, and acts much like our redshirt in quickly getting himself killed. Brewster leaves the scene and the car crash behind in the sights of his mirror and Marshall returns to the charred remains of his friend to have an angst ridden cry. In a kangaroo court scene that shows no evidence of true forensics, the police then incarcerate Marshall for manslaughter and two years later he walks away free with a new tattoo and a lust for vengeance. Asking to borrow the fixed mustang, the sales agent Julia agrees and arrives with it on the condition that Marshall get into the promised 'big race', a highly illegal but notoriously popularized street race held through some form of podcast. Driving across America and drawing as much attention to himself as possible, he is accepted into the race, bonds with the haughty Julia and after having the Mustang trashed drives to victory in the car that killed his friend, which proves in some way of convenience that Brewster masterminded World War 2. Fireworks.

No. No. I'm not going to talk about the plot. I'm not going to talk about the special effects or the musical score. I'm not even going to delve into the finer points that I would have liked to have seen changed or the nuances of film captured on screen. I won't do it. I'm not being paid for this and I simply refuse. The film was trash, and I have no desire to attempt to give it any form of real critique. I was admittedly saddened by Michael Keaton's performance, but it's something unfortunately I've come to expect of veteran actors who are in need of a quick buck. It certainly wasn't the worst thing in this film but it was not something I felt any real emotion other than disdain for. No, what I shall instead talk about in the form of a personal message is Aaron Paul.
 

I could see immediately that the dialogue wasn't good, and that he himself attempted to give some edge to it or bring the honed skills and persona of Breaking Bad into this festering wagon of shit. I could see it, and yet at the same time there is only so much polish you can put on a turd, given the size and consistency of the manure. The fact of the matter is, no matter how much grit he tried to infuse into his performance, or pressure he exerted into the role itself, it remained too moist and squirted through his fingers to leave a foul trail in it's wake. I don't blame him in this sense, I blame the film. My gripe is with the fact he took the role in the first place. I understand, drug dealer to illegal street racer isn't an enormous leap and I imagine it would have felt like a safe zone for him, but the fact of the matter is he has the talent and hype to select his roles, to choose them carefully and forge a career onward. There are better films and likewise premises for movies, and I have honest to god no fucking idea why anyone in his position would have picked up the script. I'm angry, both for him and for the fact that he is in this film, and while I can put it down to the mistake of an impressionable actor, it will not wash away the stain of disappointment.

In closing, I would like to end this with a heartened plea. Do not watch this film. Don't even pirate it, and increase the stream of downloads. Simply let this... This thing die, and watch Breaking Bad instead. It's a much better investment of your time, and it doesn't promote cancer. I may have burst a blood vessel in my head due to unexpected but sudden rage. Send help.