Q- What could be more painful than sitting through Michael Bay’s Soylent Green/ Matrix/ Gattaca mash-up, The Island, a painful bit of quasi-philosophical twaddle which takes place in a “What if?” world where a stem-cell mad John Kerry/ Christopher Reeves ticket won the 2004 election; a movie whose dress code-as-signal-of-mass conformity vision might’ve meant something in, say, 1928’s The Crowd, at the dawn of brownshirt fascism, but which is just about as un-nuanced, irrelevant, and revolutionary in this more subtly insidious “business casual” era as, well, the Nike “Revolution” campaign.
A- Hearing John Frankenheimer’s smirking bastard spawn after his latest massive dump has sunk, whining that his vision was too dark or complex for John Q. Popcorn.
“Audiences just aren’t ready for the places I can take them”
I just know this scenario is playing out in a beach house somewhere.