(By Zombie Boy and Angela Mac)

There is a lake near my home which teems with humanity during the annual forty-five days of Sun Visit to Michigan. It puzzles me. For instance, just last week, the lake appeared churned with mud (and whatever other putrescence can be found in its already murky depths). Every year, I encounter sufferers of Swimmer’s Itch while in line at the drug store. The lake’s restrooms are putrid (though it was mighty Christian of the town council to allow local blind children to paint the decorations on the restrooms’ outer walls. I’m guessing), the ice cream parlor/pizzeria at the beach’s edge has long been relegated to high school age workers who are, to put it kindly, largely incompetent (no, really – I once ordered a “banana split – in a cup, please” since it was take-out. And put it in a cup, they did! Eight of them, in fact. One for each scoop, one for each topping. I don’t dare order fries). Yet, people horde at the water. But why??

I suspect, because it’s the thing to do. Flip-flop clad, tanned people spy others doing it, and think, “maybe if I do it, it’ll work out for me, too!” 

 Ah, summer. The time of “It doesn’t matter if the sun is bleaching your brain, as long as you look good.”

Incidentally, it is also high time we rolled out some sort of Summer Blockbuster excursion. So, rather than force feed you another hit list of who is getting blown up, donning a cape or going incognito to slap some street fu down upon the nearest nuclear arms dealer, we’re going to focus on a couple cinematic, beach-going shirt-tailers.

The Leeches.

Or Wankwads, if you will.

 Without further adieu, Zombie Boy tackles the guy who fumbled the Metal:

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Fuck you, McG.

Seriously.

I have a good idea: why don’t you be the first guy to turn in a boring Terminator film. Why don’t you piss all over a seemingly unbreakable concept: robots blowing shit up. Why don’t you deliver a drab, washed out, soulless dystopian future film that marginalizes the main character, hides the talent of great actors, and shoves the mythology of a well-loved franchise up its own ass.

Great job, dummy.

Terminator Salvation begins with a thud. Instead of dropping us into the story, throwing us into the action and letting us either run with it or get trampled under the sheer coolness of John Connor telling Skynet which way the motherfucking wind blows, we get a protracted prologue that vomits the story into our laps for us to lick up, like the dogs McG thinks we are. It is sloppy storytelling, and sets the whole shebang up for failure. It is maudlin and sentimental, and not at all the awesomosity that we needed to let us know that the director is on our side, is a fellow geek devoted to honoring the source material while making the story his own at the same time (*cough*JJ Abrams*cough*).

The rest of the movie is just an exercise in watching cinematography so desaturated that it looks like they shot it on cardboard instead of film, while Christian Bale, Bryce Howard, and Michael “My Face Can Crack Walnuts” Ironside sit around with nothing to do. Instead we focus on this cyborg who doesn’t know he is a cyborg, but we do, because it was in the trailer, and it was telegraphed by Samuel Morse himself in the prologue. He is human, no he isn’t, but he is a good guy, but maybe he isn’t. We get it. Stop cramming it down our fucking throats, you hack. He does things that make no sense with his character, because he is a mere cipher for the heavily patronizing and lazy script.

The original T-800 robots are milked for all the mileage they can get (which isn’t much) and the other robots look like the ones that Michael Bay cut out of Transformers. The only bright spot in the whole film is Anton Yelchin as the young Kyle Reese, but he can’t shoulder the entire weight of this onerous and simply bad movie. Hey, McG: you know the stuff in the script about the humans being captured and brought to an interment camp? That was supposed to be an allegory to the concentration camps of World War II. Maybe read a history book, so next time you won’t short-change a delicious metaphor like that again. And while we are on the subject, why is the guard Terminator wearing a headband? And why is a Terminator earlier in the film wearing boots? I mean, what the fuck?

Please turn down the T5 gig, and go make Charlie’s Angels 3. Please. Your shithead prowess actually works for you there. Strong narrative films are not your forte.

Now go fuck yourself.

----

Onto Fran:

“I hope it’s cool,” said Joss Whedon, in regards to Fran and Kaz Kubuiz’s ludicrous notion to relaunch the Vampire Slayer… without Whedon.

But what else can he say? Years ago, with only scripts to Roseanne and Parenthood to his credit, Whedon wanted to see his Buffy: The Vampire Slayer screenplay brought to life. Ever since, director Fran Kubuiz and her producer husband have been feeding off the Buffyverse cash cow.

I’ll admit, the Buffy: The Vampire Slayer film borders on almost being a guilty pleasure. By almost, I mean there were scenes I found genuinely humorous – following a hiatus on Pee-Wee, Paul Rubens was a joy to see again, and David Arquette is just the kind of crazy you wouldn’t mind taking home. However, even if you put the whole Anodyne foray aside, there’s no overlooking the fact Rutger Hauer’s likeness appears on a stamp in Denmark. Kubuiz’s sins in the creation of the movie go well beyond merely pissing upon a writer’s vision. She managed to deliver us Hauer’s most singular, insufferable appearance in cinema.

Fran Kubuiz’s resume of cities of past residence is voluminous – from New York to Tokyo. How, exactly, does one traverse the world, pausing here and there along the way, and never – if only by accident – stumble into self respect? “I realize that I completely bastardized your lovely script – and you spent the next decade illustrating my fumble, but you had such a grand idea… I think I’m going to use it again.”

Seriously?

… shouldn’t she be a teeny bit embarrassed?

Some are suggesting a bit of credit (excuse me, a bit more credit. Both Kubuizes were paid handsomely and listed as “Executive Producer” for every episode of Buffy and Angel, due to the rights situation) is due to the Kubuizes for allowing Whedon to helm the Buffy episodes. Sure, the film grossed twice as much domestically as it cost to make, but $16 Million is far from a box office smash. To critics and many filmgoers alike, Kubuiz’s take on vampirism was a cumbersome ride, and ultimately, only a clumsy stab at campy.

The film made enough, though. Enough to want to launch a television series. Luckily, Whedon had to give his approval – which he did, but only if he could run the show. So… credit? Their choices were clear: sit on the rights, and make nothing – or sit on their laurels and give the annoying, “hey, you’re ruining my script!” writer fellow a chance to garner some cash. Very generous of them to decide to cash checks rather than hording the rights, indeed.

Buffy and the TV gang aren’t on the drawing board for the new movie. The conceived film would be a re-imagining, localized upon the tagline, “There is a Slayer Born to Every Generation.” Kaz Kubuiz has been quoted as saying they haven’t completely ruled out allowing Whedon to be involved.

Allowing.

Allowing the guy who brought us over two hundred episodes of the Buffyverse (not to mention comics and the like) to be further involved in the Buffyverse.

I hope they do ask.

And I hope he tells them to get bent.

And I hope anyone who has ever even considered watching an episode of Buffy refuses to see Kubuiz mangle the mythos for a second time.

Shame on them.

Seventeen years should have been more than enough time for them to come up with their own idea.

------

Zombie Boy and I would like to take this moment to break away from the negativity and bask in a refreshingly non-leeching revamp – Star Trek.

Thank you, JJ Abrams! Thank you, Zachary Quintos! And Simon Pegg and… and… everyone connected with the film, really. I’m getting a little misty just recalling all the Romulan-busting glory.

And a special, deep-place-in-the-heart thanks to Karl Urban. We were really quite worried about Bones – but Urban handled the situation like he was born to do it. Mr. Urban, we might not have noticed you all that much on Xena – but we are *so fucking there* for your next film. Bravo!

See, this is what we’re saying: Star Trek, a universe filled with more episodes, films, and books than Terminator and Buffy put together, was a hell of a bigger tiger to wrangle. The difference is that Abrams wasn’t trying to be bigger, stronger or campier than the rest – he had a sound story to tell, and he simply told it.

Mc G… Kubuiz… our advice? Buy a ticket for a matinee showing and go to church.

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Ben Bussey  - My hats off to you both.   |77.97.109.xxx |2009-06-01 13:24:20 Thank you ZB for helping me make my mind up - I will be skipping T4, and thus not joining the sheep in the dip. It is fascinating how this is another one there seems to be no middle ground on, though - reviews are either a big thumbs up or a huge thumbs down. I'm no huge McG-basher - I must admit, I really liked the first Charlie's Angels. (Yeah, call me what you want. ) But after the McSpaced debacle, and that show Supernatural which I can't stand, I have very little respect for the guy. What you've said here seems to confirm my suspicions. Angela - Buffy was the first horror movie I saw on the big screen. And it bummed me out horribly. Such a great concept, yet such a limp, lifeless, pedestrian execution. I didn't know the Kubuiz's credit on the show was arbitrary, but it doesn't surprise me. Quite right - both parties are complete, total wankers.

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