Jurassic World Rebirth

Find in Jurassic World Rebirth two competing plot lines. The first is premised on the kind of pitch-think that sees a real movie star, like Scarlett Johansson, hired to take up an enormous amount of one sheet real estate and play a mercenary hunting for blood samples on an island packed with tooth and claw. The second, and less obviously showy strand, concerns itself with an injured and extremely divorced father attempting to keep his tween and teen daughters, as well as a layabout boyfriend (and eventually a tag-along pet who's the spitting image of Cera from Don Bluth's The Land Before Time), alive after they are shipwrecked in the exact same neighbourhood. So while the more experienced players can set up rope harnesses to descend into Pterosaur lairs or blast hand-held shock guns at thrashing sea creatures, the civilians that are along for the ride, the Delgado family, are able to have separate (and far more entertaining) sequences built around a terrifying jungle expedition. 

Set an enough amount of time following Jurassic World Dominion that the new normal proposed by that fossilized stinker - that mankind must learn to co-exist alongside prehistoric beasts of every stripe - has been jettisoned in favour of an equatorial containment that has dinosaurs only able to thrive on the tropical islands where they were genetically engineered in the first place. Rebirth then, despite the more expansive language used in its title, is far more interested in following up concepts and ideas present in the Park-era, Michael Crichton-adapting instalments. Directed by Gareth Edwards with a returning David Koepp on screenwriting duties, Rebirth underlines this conceptual shift with an ailing Apatosaur being scraped up off the tarmac in New York while tardy commuters grumble. Unlike the more striking, camouflaged examples that appear later in Rebirth, this dinosaur has the flat, grey texture of a lower resolution ancestor and the drooping clumsiness of Winsor McCay's Gertie the Dinosaur. It is, as it dies, marked as both technologically primitive and archaeologically outmoded. 

Although not the totality of a piece that still clings to the misguided notion that audiences demand fresh, mutated creatures and expert contrivance to get themselves engaged (see also: Alien: Romulus) Rebirth is best when the audience are allowed to luxuriate in the company of dinosaurs who are behaving more like curious animals in search of their next meal. A first act sortie involving a massive and highly prized Mosasaurus apportions space to a pack of streaked Spinosaurs who swim in her wake, gobbling up leftovers. Despite Jurassic Park III's big bad being relegated to a scavenger picking up after the real apex predator, this more crocodilian take on Joe Johnston's featured theropod allows Edwards' film to not only correct now discredited takes on antiquated beasts but also to indulge himself in Spielbergian conceits that reach beyond that director's Jurassic predecessors. Briefly, we're in Jaws territory with hurried chatter about astronomical taxonomy and wincing inserts of human blood lapping at uncharted shorelines. Even better still is a creeping interlude in which the sodden Delgado family attempt to retrieve a raft from underneath a slumbering (but not sated) Tyrannosaur, a sequence dreamt up by Crichton for his 1990 hardback but left out of the original Jurassic Park feature. 

Tyrannocon Rex by Rui Onishi

Jurassic World

Jurassic World takes place in an appalling alternative universe in which bratty teenagers are completely numb to the sheer magic of a real-life Tyrannosaurus Rex grinding a goat to mulch. Pre-release press and Universal's ad campaign seemed to share this detached indifference, selling hard on the kind of corporate cynicism that dictates we need a brand new Super Dinosaur and a pack of rehabilitated Velociraptors in we are to enjoy this belated Jurassic Park sequel. JP4's mammal characters then are split between the real fans and the seen-it-all cynics. Gray Mitchell (Ty Simpkins) and raptor handler Owen Grady (Chris Pratt) are the enthusiasts, allowing themselves to be wowed. They react to the animals as they are, rather than how they might want them to be. Gray's older brother Zach (Nick Robinson) and his Auntie Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard), the resort's Operations Manager, understand the dinosaurs as abstracts that confer different kinds of value. Claire sees them as interchangeable assets to be managed; Zach gets to throb around the shrieking girls they attract.

Director Colin Trevorrow falls in with the enthusiasts, elevating the special effects to featured players with personality detailing that actually rivals the human characters' admittedly slim pickings. Owen and Claire are, you understand, closer to premises than fully-rounded people. Their interactions have a similar irritated frisson as Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone, but that's about it. Claire's big character moment is outrunning an apex predator in the heels she has stubbornly refused to relinquish, while Owen is an all-purpose action man relegated to the role of babysitter for the finale. Claire and Owen's relationship never really adds up to anything more important than a way for the filmmakers to ape an iconic shot from Raiders of the Lost Ark. The real stars then are, obviously, the dinosaurs. Jurassic World's latest attraction is the Indominus Rex, a committee shaped chimera that gobbles up its siblings and is blessed with a suite of camouflage techniques on loan from Michael Crichton's barely adapted The Lost World. 

There's an open contempt at work in how Indominus has been designed, her outline is essentially that of a Tyrannosaur but with muscular talons replacing that species' puny, vestigial arms. Owen, speaking with the authority of God, describes the Indominus as being the prehistoric equivalent of a psychopath. She isn't just isolated, she knowingly resides outside any prescribed social order. She's never existed before so she doesn't know any limits. It's an interesting point about the resumption of sociological roles in completely new, modern contexts. Is it expected that these resurrected beasts are functioning with a race memory? Do they instinctively slot themselves into the food chain or are they remembering these hierarchies from their original, pre-extinction lives? In this sense, it's easy to enjoy the Indominus' rampage. The park scientists cooked up a truly satanic dinosaur in an attempt to impress Verizon Wireless enough to part with some eye-watering amount of money. Everyone expects it to play ball, being just threatening enough that the communication giant's executives are pleased to be associated with this monster via sponsorship. 

Indominus should therefore be a product that confers a sense of phony dynamism. Instead it's a crocodile mawed hag that rends anything it comes into contact with. She's not even defending herself from the shock her new environment, she's actively, aggressively seeking conflict. How's that for a company mascot? Glimpsed as pliant missiles tracking alongside Chris Pratt's motorcycle in early trailers, JP4's raptors are, thankfully, very far from being domesticated. The crackpot plan to use them as bloodhounds to track the Indominus, of course, fails miserably, handing the Indominus a pack of stooges to take the fall while she makes her bone-strewn escape. This solves one of the bigger conceptual hurdles Jurassic World has to mantle: there can be no good or bad dinosaurs, they should all instead be barbed mouths that flex and snap for chaotic reasons. Fortunately, Trevorrow and his special effects teams approach the feature monsters with a sense of reverence. The Tyrannosaurus Rex in particular is treated with the kind of awe and affection you'd expect for an ageing star. It's not unlike how Terminator: Salvation presented its digital Arnold Schwarzenegger: an indefatigable icon that shoulders some truly tremendous punishment because these filmmakers know that they have a great idea on loan from a much better film.

Jurassic Park III

The Jurassic Park films have real issues mounting a satisfying finale. Each is apparently operating under an undisclosed agreement to never actually have the humans and dinosaurs go claw-to-claw. Instead the tiny, pathetic fleshlings must mantle obstacles and flee. Few of these characters ever think to pack a gun when jetting off to any of the series' dinosaur islands, even if they do it's usually junked before they can unload on any advancing threat. Either this is an attempt at an animal rights informed, conservation angle or the filmmakers just really want to keep their adventurers forever on the back foot. Mind you, it's not like you could blow the arm off a raptor and still maintain a family friendly certificate. Not in 2001 when Jurassic Park III was released anyway. 

Director Joe Johnston continues this passive trend with an airless finale that sees the malevolent new apex threat frightened off by the brief whoosh of petrol igniting. Similarly, a pack of Velociraptors are placated with, essentially, a flute. Johnston is fine when it comes to arranging the specifics of hazard-based action but a little lacking when the time comes to go in for the kill. Unlike Spielberg who, let's face it, is a bloodthirsty savage, Johnston is just not particularly interested in the gruesome, consumptive details. Dismemberment is handled politely and usually completely obscured then. Several deaths even involve some of the casual neck-twisting usually seen in America's more roided-up action films. This strange sense of decorum jibes badly with a 90 minute screenplay going full speed ahead. JP3 might be plotted like a state-of-the-art B picture but, on the day, the film itself is executed with all the excess of one of Disney's True-Life Adventures.

The Lost World - Jurassic Park

The Lost World - Jurassic Park is a nastier, more overtly comedic second instalment that cuts the dimwit awe of the original film to jampack itself with queasy set-pieces. Framed as an expedition straight out of King Kong, Steven Spielberg's follow-up also takes a few basic structural cues from Aliens. As with James Cameron's sequel our lead is a reluctant survivor, in this case Jeff Goldblum's Dr Ian Malcolm, being forced back into the fray. Like Ripley, Malcolm is (eventually) flanked by a team of experts armed with military hardware that also kind of looks like lightly dressed filmmaking equipment.

Spielberg's tonal approach is largely and, I suppose, refreshingly impartial. The Dinosaurs aren't demonised, no matter who they gobble up. It is understood that the humans are trespassers wandering, uninvited, into the habitat of these animals. That makes them fair game. Spielberg and screenwriter David Koepp construct a never-ending attack factory that quickly whittles this army of extras down to something more dramatically manageable. So, while Jurassic Park had action sequences that revolved around surviving in close proximity to prehistoric monsters with Spielberg playing the moment, trusting that the effects were a big enough presence to maintain interest, the Lost World presumes that this element of surprise has been forfeited. These dinosaurs are therefore demoted to a further, spikier layer of threat in a series of minutely composed catastrophes, often including upended machinery.

Consequently, The Lost World's joys are more to do with pure filmmaking technique than anything specifically organic. These characters may have arcs but for some reason they all terminate around the 100 minute mark. The San Diego finale that follows this resolution therefore feels completely tacked on. Key characters, such as Vince Vaughn's photographer, are absent for no stated reason and the two leads have picked up incongruent action abilities between scenes. Spielberg's film also stops dead in its tracks for several minutes while we cycle through some lame suburban skit about night terrors. Lost World's best stretch comes earlier then: a breathless charge towards an extraction point that caps the second act. During this gauntlet the dwindling survivors have to dodge both a pack of Velociraptors and the two vengeful Tyrannosaurs.

Pete Postlethwaite's Roland Tembo is an interesting presence in this section, another Great White Hunter explicitly testing himself against these ancient titans. Tembo lugs around a double-barrelled cannon and, like centuries of forebears who cannot abide massive animals living undisturbed lives, he hopes to blast a hole in the Bull Rex. Though when he does finally fells his quarry, Tembo quickly slips into a depressive funk. He may have successfully brought down the greatest apex predator in history but he's lost too many friends along the way. Tembo doesn't feel this victory, he's burnt himself out. Simultaneously, Malcolm and pals are scrambling all over a dilapidated communications hot-spot, pursued by drooling Deinonychi. Although they haven't really clashed, at this point every major character has had their personal objectives converge then conclude. It's a shame that there's another twenty minutes of The Lost World to go. Still, if nothing else, those superfluous minutes do offer the audience a chance to see a crowd of millionaires experiencing a collective concussion as the genetic horrors they've cultivated make landfall in the United States. 

Jurassic Park

Jurassic Park puts us in the company of a succession of flawed, grasping men struggling with their place in the world. Their default coping mechanisms tend towards career, above all else. Whether through intent or just plain slightness of writing (screenwriters Michael Crichton and David Koepp adapting the former's best-selling novel), the vast majority of the men in Steven Spielberg's film are explicitly defined by their work. We have a couple of scientists, several corporate climbers, and even a Great White Hunter. Each, in turn, is proven flawed or even expendable. These men fail in Jurassic Park because they have no underlying responsibility, their skill sets are defined purely by ego and therefore found wanting. The only specimen to transcend this holding pattern is Sam Neill's Dr Alan Grant, a grumpy palaeontologist. 

We are introduced to Grant in his professional capacity as a Dinosaur Dig Supervisor, with the good doctor wandering around upsetting computers and frightening children with his vivid descriptions of their consumption. Dr Grant is in a relationship with Laura Dern's Dr Ellie Sattler, a much younger palaeobotanist. The difference in age suggests a kind of conspiratorial impropriety between the two, perhaps beginning in a University setting? Anyway, she wants him to settle down and have children. He'd rather poke around with fossilised bones. It's a poor start for this action hero. Grant has greatness thrust open him when the titular resort goes into meltdown leaving him stranded in the Tyrannosaurus paddock with two children in tow. Grant had been alarmed by the idea of offspring: they'd ruin his fun and probably smell. All in all, they represent an extra responsibility that he just doesn't want. Nevertheless, Grant warms to the youngsters quickly. 

Like himself, Joseph Mazzello's Tim is a walking dinosaur encyclopaedia; Ariana Richards' Lex is blonde and forthright like Dr Sattler. The children are a leavening influence on Grant then, not only do they force him to become stable and emotional available they even eke out his latent sense-of-humour. In a way these children are an instant, fully-formed representation of the kind of family that Sattler and Grant might (eventually) expect to have. Neill's palaeontologist has instantly understood that he has to take a very specific role in this situation: he must be strong and calm, towering above any danger the gang might find themselves in. In order to keep the children from becoming catatonic Grant must be their rock. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger's T-800 in Terminator 2: Judgment Day, Dr Grant has become a surrogate father. Maybe this is why the film struck such a chord with its young audience? Set aside the perennial prehistoric favourites and you have a piece that treats children as precious commodities that intrinsically confer purpose.

DINOSAURS ATTACK!

Just in case you're not sold, here's another Jurassic World trailer that blows all the big moments. Still, taken as a two minute audio / visual assault this ad scratches that Dinosaurs Attack! itch Tim Burton left us dangling with.

SUPER BOWL SPOTS - Jurassic World

In stark contrast to the new Terminator, which looks worse and worse the more I see of it, Jurassic World improves with every tease. It helps that the main selling point, the insanely detailed dinosaur renders, improve immeasurably the closer we get to release. Although I'm still disappointed every single dinosaur has evolved bleach bypass camouflage, the Awesomesaurus Rox is shaping up to be something reliably nasty. I especially liked his charging, gaping maw attack and the exposition designed to get us thinking this thing is malevolently evil rather than just a predator. I've read that it also has a chameleon ability on loan from the Carnotaurus in Michael Crichton's The Lost World novel too.

CLEVER GIRL

Last weekend I trudged around London's Natural History Museum looking at all their monster bones. Despite a lack of Tyrannosaurus rex (the King is only completely present as a twitchy robot replica) the exhibit was fun. They had wrought iron replicas commissioned by Princes, remains of all the big hitter herbivores, and even a G1 Grimlock and some Black Zoids tucked away in a glass display case. This last detail felt especially emblematic of a tour rooted explicitly in a late-80s idea of pre-history, something Jurassic World seems to absolutely revel in.

Based on these glimpses, Trevorrow's terrible lizards are boringly classicist. Drab olives and greys for skin, zero spines or feathers, and, because they don't trust the material, a monstrous gene spliced threat inherited from an 'extreme!' 1990s toyline. Jurassic World was an opportunity to throw around some new information and challenge the preconceived ideas people have about dinosaurs. We could have had a dangerous, omnivore Triceratops gobbling up kids or a Tyrannosaur covered in barbed, downy feathers.

That last one could have been especially great. Introduce the Rex as a bashful thing, almost ashamed of what we've found out about it. Then, as soon as the Park falls apart, sell incredibly hard on the idea that this thing is the most terrifying beast on the planet. Every other scene should be Rex triumphing over some puny contender. Instead of replaying Spielberg beats for nostalgia money, the filmmakers should've sat down and gobbled up some monster-as-protagonist fiction. World's Tyrannosaur should be as visually distinctive as Ricardo Delgado's Age of Reptiles, as Machiavellian as Pat Mills and Mike McMahon's Satanus, and as invincible in a straight fight as Shusuke Kaneko's apex heel Godzilla.

Jurassic Park by Aaron Horkey

Devil Beast triumphant! Peep the blue wash variant of Mondo's new 70s rock flyer flavoured Jurassic Park pin-up. Thanks Inside The Rock Poster Frame!

Jurassic Park Theme (1000% Slower) by birdfeeder

James Bond recommended! Thanks to George Lazenby's Twitter feed; enjoy birdfeeder's dirge-slow recalibration of John Williams's Jurassic Park Theme. It's an hour of negative space and soaring Vangelis synthetic buzzes.

Frank Miller's Spinosaurus

Frank Miller's variant cover for IDW's Jurassic Park: Redemption #1.