When one is forced to go to that special place deep inside one’s psyche as an attempt at self preservation when faced with abominable instances in life, sometimes one can unfortunately remember crystal-clear, pristine details that lead to further scarring of the soul. In order to circumlocute a further adulteration of my quintessential being, I thought perhaps it would be best to pen a short review of one of the many lamentable tragedies scampering about America’s pop-cultural miasma still commonly referred to as Hollywood, that I was fated to ingest. Yes, that film was G.I. Joe: Rise of the Cobra, patronizingly treating audiences to a bloated running time of nearly two hours, the most daring feat of the film.
Of course, when the basis of a film happens to be from a line of children’s toys created in the 1960’s and then relaunched in the 1980’s, who should be surprised that the end result is bit lackluster? Since the term “action figure” was coined from this line of Hasbro toys, as well as a real time cultural reference used as a generic term to describe all US soldiers, I suppose I was hoping for something a little more iconic and a little less like a dubious excuse to blow shit up. Word on the street is, however, that G.I. Joe manages to be a more cohesive film than this summer’s Transformers sequel (and methinks the only way I will ever be watching a Transformers film will be if I’m tied down Clockwork Orange style with my eyelids stapled open).
Opening in 1614 France, we are forced to watch the punishment of a nasty, Scottish arms-dealer, who had sold weapons to both sides during some such skirmish. No one is speaking French, mind you. Immediately following, set in the “not too distant future,” we are introduced haphazardly to our main characters, Channing Tatum and Marlon Wayans. A man of words, I somehow can’t find anything scathingly adequate to describe how boringly awful these two performances are. Mr. Tatum is ludicrously, benignly, stupid while Wayans is saddled with being the black comic relief---except he never gets anything funny to say. Moving along, Tatum’s crew is charged with driving some nano-technology warheads through the desert (no, I don’t care to explain---it’s just all BS anyway). However, in the midst of their journey, they are ambushed by a woman known as the Baroness and her evil crew, played by a brunette Sienna Miller, who looks like an oiled, greasy gypsy with a fright-store wig. Sidenote: Every other time we see Ms. Miller on screen, a pounding techno beat engulfs you , I would imagine so Ms. Miller doesn’t look quite as silly tramping around in her heels while her hips revolve like wheels on a track. It turns out, ludicrously, that Miller is Tatum’s ex-fiancee from four years ago. She used to be a blonde. When Miller’s character ends up incarcerated, I wondered if they thought to add to the plot a prison hairdresser because that bitch’s roots are going to be coming through real soon.
Whatever, whatever, whatever, turns out the creator of the warheads is just like his Scottish ancestor in France in 1614—a dirty double crosser. Then, it’s up to the “Joes,” the eponymous boobs of our narrative, a pan-cultural team of soldiers that “when all else fails, we don’t,” to save us. Oh, whatever. Led by the increasingly hammy Dennis Quaid (whose recent performance in straight to DVD fare like Horsemen makes me think he’s not reading scripts or his recent childbearing has motivated him to get out of his house at any price), the Joes also include our favorite ethnic Arab, Said Taghmaoui (La Haine, 1995) and Rachel Nichols, sporting Kool-Aid hair and indescribably awful acting chops. Oh, plus we have a “cameo” appearance from Brendan Fraser (who fits right in the soldier scene with his large, bucket sized head) and British actor Jonathan Pryce as the US President (who is more out of place here than he was in Evita, 1996). Between mile a minute explosions, discomforting dialogue and hammy patriotism (not to mention an action sequence in the streets of Paris that is eerily reminiscent of Team America: World Police, 2004) and you have a film that makes little sense and is built on a lack of style, substance, or anything worthy of mention or intrigue. And yet, here I have some 300 words bitching about it. And yes, people were audibly enjoying the film in the theater with me. And did I mention Joseph Gordon-Levitt? Well, I suppose he grew up with the toys, so perhaps we’ll forget he was ever in this mess. There’s so much wrong with every aspect of G.I. Joe, it’s difficult to decide who to blame. In the end, I should give myself 40 lashes. I was the one foolish enough to see it. Oh, director Stephen Sommers, responsible for all those Mummy films that made Brendan Fraser a certifiable star---what other travesties do you have in store for our cinemas? And yeah, he directed Van Helsing (2004)----never before have I thought I would prefer to watch that again. Lovers of G.I. Joe should be forced to watch The Hurt Locker (2008) with it as a double feature---maybe then, others will feel as emotionally drained and dead inside as I.
Of course, when the basis of a film happens to be from a line of children’s toys created in the 1960’s and then relaunched in the 1980’s, who should be surprised that the end result is bit lackluster? Since the term “action figure” was coined from this line of Hasbro toys, as well as a real time cultural reference used as a generic term to describe all US soldiers, I suppose I was hoping for something a little more iconic and a little less like a dubious excuse to blow shit up. Word on the street is, however, that G.I. Joe manages to be a more cohesive film than this summer’s Transformers sequel (and methinks the only way I will ever be watching a Transformers film will be if I’m tied down Clockwork Orange style with my eyelids stapled open).
Opening in 1614 France, we are forced to watch the punishment of a nasty, Scottish arms-dealer, who had sold weapons to both sides during some such skirmish. No one is speaking French, mind you. Immediately following, set in the “not too distant future,” we are introduced haphazardly to our main characters, Channing Tatum and Marlon Wayans. A man of words, I somehow can’t find anything scathingly adequate to describe how boringly awful these two performances are. Mr. Tatum is ludicrously, benignly, stupid while Wayans is saddled with being the black comic relief---except he never gets anything funny to say. Moving along, Tatum’s crew is charged with driving some nano-technology warheads through the desert (no, I don’t care to explain---it’s just all BS anyway). However, in the midst of their journey, they are ambushed by a woman known as the Baroness and her evil crew, played by a brunette Sienna Miller, who looks like an oiled, greasy gypsy with a fright-store wig. Sidenote: Every other time we see Ms. Miller on screen, a pounding techno beat engulfs you , I would imagine so Ms. Miller doesn’t look quite as silly tramping around in her heels while her hips revolve like wheels on a track. It turns out, ludicrously, that Miller is Tatum’s ex-fiancee from four years ago. She used to be a blonde. When Miller’s character ends up incarcerated, I wondered if they thought to add to the plot a prison hairdresser because that bitch’s roots are going to be coming through real soon.
Whatever, whatever, whatever, turns out the creator of the warheads is just like his Scottish ancestor in France in 1614—a dirty double crosser. Then, it’s up to the “Joes,” the eponymous boobs of our narrative, a pan-cultural team of soldiers that “when all else fails, we don’t,” to save us. Oh, whatever. Led by the increasingly hammy Dennis Quaid (whose recent performance in straight to DVD fare like Horsemen makes me think he’s not reading scripts or his recent childbearing has motivated him to get out of his house at any price), the Joes also include our favorite ethnic Arab, Said Taghmaoui (La Haine, 1995) and Rachel Nichols, sporting Kool-Aid hair and indescribably awful acting chops. Oh, plus we have a “cameo” appearance from Brendan Fraser (who fits right in the soldier scene with his large, bucket sized head) and British actor Jonathan Pryce as the US President (who is more out of place here than he was in Evita, 1996). Between mile a minute explosions, discomforting dialogue and hammy patriotism (not to mention an action sequence in the streets of Paris that is eerily reminiscent of Team America: World Police, 2004) and you have a film that makes little sense and is built on a lack of style, substance, or anything worthy of mention or intrigue. And yet, here I have some 300 words bitching about it. And yes, people were audibly enjoying the film in the theater with me. And did I mention Joseph Gordon-Levitt? Well, I suppose he grew up with the toys, so perhaps we’ll forget he was ever in this mess. There’s so much wrong with every aspect of G.I. Joe, it’s difficult to decide who to blame. In the end, I should give myself 40 lashes. I was the one foolish enough to see it. Oh, director Stephen Sommers, responsible for all those Mummy films that made Brendan Fraser a certifiable star---what other travesties do you have in store for our cinemas? And yeah, he directed Van Helsing (2004)----never before have I thought I would prefer to watch that again. Lovers of G.I. Joe should be forced to watch The Hurt Locker (2008) with it as a double feature---maybe then, others will feel as emotionally drained and dead inside as I.
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