Showing posts with label Gale Anne Hurd. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gale Anne Hurd. Show all posts

Tuesday, 10 January 2023

Battle Beyond the Stars



A space opera remake of Akira Kurosawa's Seven Samurai, made in the wake of the all-conquering Star Wars, that uses the disparate identities of its hired mercenaries as an excuse to chart several distinct passes at scratch-built starfighters. So while the sozzled earthling played by George Peppard gets to sit upfront in the landing craft portion of an intergalactic eighteen wheeler, Robert Vaughn's morose assassin Gelt pilots something closer to an Italian concept car while protecting his peaceful alien employers. Famously, James Cameron - credited here as one of the art directors, a director of photography and as a member of the miniature special effects department - made his big splash at Roger Corman's New World Pictures by designing the lead craft in Battle Beyond the Stars. 

Cameron's more organic take on a interstellar fighter garnered executive-level attention thanks to the two enormous breasts he attached to its undercarriage. The design that so captured Corman's imagination goes further than this anecdotal mammoplasty though. The body of the craft is the colour of clay, moulded in the shape of a muscled sphinx, while the face is an enormous uterus; its two horned tubes holding laser cannons (rather than, say, ovaries) either side of its pilot, The Waltons' Richard Thomas, who sits inside an armoured womb. A shot of the ship resting on a dead, smoke-filled planet seems to indicate that Cameron's design concept is that of a living, feminine answer to the dried-out, fossilised derelict seen in Ridley Scott's Alien. 

Director Jimmy T Murakami handles Battle's non-special effects photography like television, the film closer to a Battlestar Galactica or a Buck Rogers in the 25th Century episode than George Lucas' (admittedly far more costly) space adventures. Characters largely sit in their little boxes, chatting away to thin air, while the audience collectively yearn for yet another adoring appraisal of a gimcrack battle cruiser. In fairness though the film's highlight does occur inside an airlocked area. John Saxon's space pirate Sador, having captured one of the tranquil Nestor clones helping his gentle quarry, decides he wants to transplant the pearlescent android's arm onto his own body. Following a successful operation the remainder of the clones (one of whom is played by the late Earl Boen) command the appendage, from across the galaxy, to strangle its new owner, forcing Sador's panicking doctor to fire up a surgical chainsaw. 

Friday, 1 August 2014

Armageddon



Armageddon is maximum ugly. Aside from the lionised heroes at NASA, there's a concerted effort to portray every single human being as revolting. Case in point, an ancient astronomer lives in a magnificent telescope, the blubbery human bullet at the base of this gigantic space cannon. When disturbed he shrieks hideously at his neglected spouse, apparently unable to rouse his crumbling bones long enough to go over and clock her one.

Pre-cataclysm, New York citizens argue in the street over neutered (no dorsal spines) Godzilla merchandise because fuck that radioactive lizard, he's this Summer's competition. When the cosmic debris finally hits, the Big Apple descends into a smog free, petrol pumped inferno. The Empire State catches a particularly large chunk, collapsing into a primitive jumble of rictus CG debris and chroma-keyed falling men. It's a Faces of Death image catapulted at the screen, flanked by flames.

Hero To All Mankind Bruce Willis twats golf balls at a Greenpeace barge for daring to protest his divine right to drill. Perhaps reeling from a preview screening note, there's even an aside to soothe this nasty behaviour. They don't want you to get the wrong idea about Bruno. He's not evil, he's just right! Everybody else screams aggressively all the time. You either accept it or you kick the fucking screen in.

Armageddon is a good sixty minute movie about men training in impossibly expensive artificial caves rolled into a two and a half hour epilepsy simulation. One of the nine writers probably thought he was writing The Dirty Dozen. Another might've been trying to see how far he could push this snarling cockfight. Picture him, a coked up giggler bouncing around on set serving up dialogue passes for Bay that read like YouTube comments. Dare the cast to take it further Mikey! Make 'em improv! Keep doing take after take until Liv Tyler caves and just fucking bites someone!

Armageddon is pure id filmmaking. Generously, it's Michael Bay's thesis on the emotional instability of humans working in high pressure situations. After my most recent viewing I felt like I'd been watching some epic, alien sport. Gridiron football scaled up to include rocket ships and an asteroid that strikes like a serial killer. Worldwide reaction shots swiped from Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey. It's not about humanity coming to terms with their emotional response to extinction, it's about a musclebound collective proving their gut instincts trump book learning. Armageddon is impulsive, Neanderthal stupidity triumphing over rational thought.