What do you get when you mix a gangly Jamaicanesque hunter, a pack of rabid parasitoids and an average small American town? You get a pointless butchering of two Science Fiction franchise icons with assorted plot-holes and miss-steps. Imagine Britney Spear’s comeback performance at the VMA’s, but with acid-spitting Aliens, Yanks and a gender confused Yautja to clean up the mess.
To call this jumble ‘bad‘ would be a disservice to Laurence Tureaud, who made a living being bad. ‘Dreadfull’ is too good, and ‘Stupid‘ would insult the Irish. Instead, imagine a film that’s so unbelievably bad that it makes Paul W. S. Anderson look like Wes Anderson.
Colin and Greg Strause or the “Brothers Strause” as they would like to be known direct this train wreck of a movie in their debut as “directors”. I use quotations because these boys have no skill as “directors” and should have stayed in special effects where they belong. This film is full of directorial faux pas, from the beginning to end. Take the opening credits for example. The film starts off with the sound effect from the Motion Trackers in Aliens; a film set a few centuries in the future. This is typical fanboy lingo for “we know it ain’t right but it’s cool and we’re gonna do it… suckahs“. And then there’s the father and son hunting in the woods, who see the Predator space ship crash… which, visually, looks like twenty miles away. In the next shot they’re picking their way through debris and banging on the hull. Bravo.
Oh, and I shouldn’t forget how everyone just starts off thinking there’s just some wierdo running around skinning people (technically true) to “Oh My God! We’ve got to arm ourselves and leave town! Let’s round up a posse! Call in the National Guard!” before they actually see a creepy.
Synopsis
The film starts off where the first one ended. Baby alien spawns, kills Predator crew, ship crashes, people infected and then we move into the trials and tribulations of small town America. The usual social dilemmas and crises of teenagers and… Double-You. Tee. Eff, mate. Who cares? When did we suddenly end up in Dawson’s Creek? All we really want is the Big Rasta Mon to slice and dice all the Big Nasty Alien Dogs. That’s it. If a reformed convict wants come home and find work, or a love struck pizza delivery boy wants to ogle the hottie, blah. Doesn’t matter; we just want to see them eaten. And in this one respect the films fails dismally. Sure, people get killed and gallons of blood and gore splatter the scenery… but all of it just seems secondary to the zit and pom pom brigade.
This film is just full of boring, half-assed, badly acted characters that no one cares about. It’s almost a relief when they’re eaten or diced up into little pieces. The only good thing about this movie is that the yanks get nuked at the end.
The Spiky Gory Bits
This movie is full of all the nasty creepies and monsters from the preceding movies, everything is there and more. They even push the first movie appearance of a Predalien, only they decided to spawn it as a Queen, and not the flaming kind. 
Being the first movie in the crossover franchise to be rated R, and the “Brothers Strause” have gone to great lengths to make sure we don’t forget it. Pregnant women and children are considered fair game in this movie; a stance few other movies dare take. While I have no problem with a few rednecks and their offspring being splattered in the name of world peace, I do have problems with it being done just ‘cos it’s cool.
I Can’t See Sh*t!
Which brings me to my final (major) gripe with this movie. For all the “Special Effects” guruness and whatever I’m sure the siblings have picked up over the years it doesn’t quite come across because all the interesting bits (and there are almost a couple) happen in the frickin’ dark… with a shaky camera that spends most of its time zoomed in. Hey “Bros”, when the Predator is kickin’ ass, I don’t want to be watching a close up of his left nipple by candlelight. I want to see him kickin’ ass. Period.
Avoid this movie if you can. Put a paper bag over your head and rub sandpaper over your tongue for ninety minutes. Same bloody thing.
Post a Comment