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Monday, October 2, 2017

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2017-Day 2: HATCHET-Director's Cut (2006)

The southern-fried charm of Victor Crowley, aka Hatchetface. It's always a fun time when there's a malformed homicidal maniac running around the swamp.

Mardi Gras just isn't happening for Ben (Joel Moore), who's heartbroken after a bad breakup with his girlfriend, and no amount of boozing and ogling naked tits with his buddies can lift him from his funk. Accompanied by his friend Marcus (Deon Richmond), Ben instead seeks out a reportedly excellent haunted swamp tour and ends up on a questionable boat piloted by a douchey tour guide — described as "Uncle Remus meets Bruce Lee" — with an amateur pornographer, his two moronic would-be starlets, a middle-aged tourist couple, and the markedly unfriendly Marybeth (Tamara Feldman) along for the ride. But what none of the riders know is that the tour is being conducted illegally and its route takes it into the territory of Victor Crowley (Kane Hodder, best known as Jaon Voorhees in four of the FRIDAY THE 13th films), a powerful, deformed maniac known locally as "Hatchetface," thanks to his dad having once nailed him in the face with the titular implement. Not noticing the warning provided by a drunk who hangs out near the swamp, the group embarks on a doomed journey during which they must contend with alligators, getting lost in the rain-soaked nighttime bayou, and an inhumanly strong and homicidal killer.   

Very much a throwback and love letter to the slasher films of the 1980's, HATCHET plays in very familiar and quite tired territory, but it dishes out all of the expected genre tropes with a sense of liveliness and fun that most others in the slasher genre lack. Coming some twenty years after the slasher heyday works to the film's advantage and at no point does it come off like one of the legion of by the numbers, cookie cutter, assembly line gorefests of yore. It knows what it is and it's damned proud of it, so its creators made the most of this modest little shocker. The story is serviceable, with a rather tongue-in-cheek script, and the performances are better than anyone has any right to expect from what amounts to a bloody campfire yarn.

It's moments like this that remind one of the magic of the cinematic art form.

I can't speak for the theatrical cut, but if it were up to me the gore effects in this film would have been allowed to pass with an R-rating. Yeah, they're gory as hell, but it's all obviously make believe and the audience paying to see it certainly didn't put their asses in seats in hope of witnessing some newly-unearthed work by Paddy Chayefsky. What we get here are some very memorable, blood-spraying kills, and as such they are quite crowd-pleasing.

While not an instant classic, HATCHET is certainly worth your time if you have an appreciation for better-than-average backwoods slasher fare. If I had tween daughters who were having a slumber party, this is exactly the kind of DVD I would hand to them so they could traumatize their sleepover guests. I cannot, however, vouch for its sequels...


An excellent tag line.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2017-Day 1: THE BRAIN FROM PLANET AROUS (1957)

One of the things I mourn most since the advent and proliferation of cable TV is the death of the local sci-fi/horror movie showcase that was a beloved fixture on television stations of any given American region. Here in the Tri-State area we had several: CREATURE FEATURES (not to be confused with the exceptional Californian version hosted by Bob Wilkins), FRIGHT NIGHT, SCIENCE FICTION THEATER, THE 4:30 MOVIE and CHILLER THEATER, to name but a few. Those programs gave me and like-minded kids quite an education on the classics and not-so-classics of the genre and one can only find the flicks they once ran on sometimes obscure DVD or if you happen to get lucky with Turner Classic Movies. But wherever they may turn up, those cheesy old sci-fi and horror time-wasters often had items of raw imagination and wonder/horror that stuck for life with the kids who watched them and in my case one of the most indelible is 1957's totally ridiculous and insane THE BRAIN FROM PLANET AROUS (or "Planet Arouse," as a certain former lady friend once snarkily referred to it).

When two scientists investigate mysterious radiation readings on "Mystery Mountain" (*snicker*), they get more than they bargained for when they enter a previously non-existent cave and discover Gor, a humongous floating brain with glowing eyes and a streak of towering assholism a mile wide. One scientist is killed by Gor's radiation powers while the other, Steve (played by Fifties sci-fi mainstay John Agar), ends up possessed by the villainous gray matter since it cannot survive on Earth without a host. Y'see, Gor's a fugitive criminal from the planet Arous ("Arouse!" as a former lady friend of mine once amusingly observed) and he intends to enslave the Earth with his super-intellect and bitchin' radiation powers, build a spaceship so he can haul ass (?) back home and then take over the known universe.

Gor, aka the Brain from Planet Arous, a critter who would have been right at home on a vintage episode of THE OUTER LIMITS.

At that point even at the age of eight I had to stop and say, "Wait a minute. If this brain-thing needs to have human slaves build it a spaceship, how the fuck did it get to the Earth in the first place? And if he's just one of a race of super-brains, doesn't that mean that the other super-brains would be out to either put his ass (?) back in jail or just destroy him outright?" At the time I didn't notice the dodgy special effect meant to represent a crash-landing spaceship, but the other query was soon answered...

Steve makes it back to civilization after having been AWOL for a full week, but his fiancee Sally (Joyce Meadows) thinks nothing of her man disappearing into the desert wilderness with Dan for long periods of time (BROKEBACK BRAIN, anyone?), or rather she doesn't until Steve plants a panty-drenching kiss on her and, when she responds quite favorably, tries to rape her. Luckily what could have been a horrible, alien-possessed felony is interrupted by Sally's faithful pooch George, a big white German Shepherd, and the sex-crazed Steve is driven away. The near-ravishment spurs Sally and her dad to check out the cave on Mystery Mountain for themselves and it is there that they meet Vol, another disembodied brain from Arouse, er, Arous, only this time it's a cop sent to stop Gor before shit gets too thick. Vol manifests at Sally's house and fills her in on his plan: Gor must periodically vacate Steve's body and during that time briefly becomes solid (in order to process oxygen or some such nonsense), at which point it's possible to kill Gor by nailing him in an anatomical bit analogous to the human brain's Fissure of Rolando. But until Gor takes the aforementioned break, Vol decides to stick around and keep an eye on things from within the body of Sally's dog.

I swear I saw something exactly like this the last time I ate a batch of "magic mushrooms."

Meanwhile, Steve goes totally fucking berserk as Gor uses his body to wreak all manner of super-powered, radioactive mayhem, turning his host's eyes silver years before the same thing happened to Gary Lockwood in the original STAR TREK's second pilot, "Where No Man Has Gone Before," a process requiring John Agar to suffer the agonies of a pair of foil contact lenses that were by all accounts painful as hell.

So Steve/Gor is totally insane and Vol awaits the moment when he can swing into action — with an assist from a partner who has hands and arms and is thus able to wield an axe — but how will it all end? You can pretty much guess, especially since the screenplay is not exactly designed to challenge the viewer with a labyrinthine mystery, but it's a hell of a lot of over-the-top fun getting to the denouement, a bit of business that was kind of shocking from an eight-year-old's perspective.

By no means a masterpiece, THE BRAIN FROM PLANET AROUS is nonetheless worth checking out for its kinda-creepy aliens that appear to have been fashioned from papier mache and bob about on lengths of fishing wire with less grace than a piñata obtained from the local Party City.

Geez, talk about foreshadowing...

But as I said at the beginning, this goofy little movie has stuck with me since childhood and I have nothing but love for the brains themselves. In fact so much so that during my brief post-college pre-Marvel Bullpen freelance art career I had business cards printed up with a slimy-looking pinkish-purple brain (with dangling brain stem) emblazoned on them, only with a happenin' pair of Wayfarers obscuring the glowing eyes. So I say add this baby to your to-watch queue, score some righteous buds or your favorite fermented libation, kick back with some friends or a like-minded squeeze and enjoy the sight of one man's spectacular descent into very literal brain-damage.

Saturday, September 30, 2017

31 DAYS OF HORROR 2017-Introduction

Hey, dear and loyal Cine-Miscreants!

October, the month that culminates in the most excellent day that is Halloween, is about to kick off, so you regulars know that means it's time once again for my annual month-long journey through the dark annals of horror cinema (and occasionally television).

Scary stories have been around as long as there have been storytellers, and a sizable segment of this planet's sentients eat up spine-chilling tales like a rapacious werewolf devours the tender flesh of an unlucky woodland wanderer, so it comes as no surprise that the horror genre has been a staple of global entertainment and has grown and thrived as the means to enthrall audiences with narratives that evolved along with us. Horror as a motion picture genre goes back to the dawn of the movies and it's been over a century since the first moving images silently flickered across the screen in the darkness as the public absorbed the wondrous diversions that unspooled. While comedies, dramas, romances, and adventure narratives held moviegoers riveted, darker, more sinister material also lurked in the indoor twilight and filmmakers were quick to realize that such chillers were a rich lode to be mined. From there the genre grew like Topsy and filled the silver screen with hordes of shambling revenants, thirsting nosferatu, eldritch demoniacal entities conjured through the wielding of forbidden rites, unrestful spectres, blasphemous man-made creatures, other-worldly wigglies that the mere sight of which drives the most stalwart of men to states of gibbering madness, medical nightmares in which our own bodies become our enemies or the healers who are supposed to grant us their aid turn their skills to dire pursuits, seemingly indestructible wielders of kitchen implements and power tools who stalk remote back-woods to prey upon randy youths, primordial throwbacks that defied extinction to terrorize swimwear-clad nubile young maidens, and even that most seemingly-mundane of threats, the unhinged murderer who walks among us and blends in while committing atrocities that would make veteran homicide detectives blanch and fall to their hands and knees while voiding the contents of their stomachs. All of those and more can be found in a richly-fetid cornucopia that often slyly reflects the needs and climate of the given era of production and examines areas of the human condition that may otherwise be un-broachable if not cloaked in shadow.

But enough of all that flowery film school yakkety-blah-blah-blah. If you've bothered to read this far, it's plain that you care about scary movies and are here to see what baleful chronicles of fright Yer Bunche will dredge up from the celluloid depths for the year of two-thousand and seventeen. As in previous years, there is no real rhyme or reason behind my choices, though there will be the occasional thematic overlap and comparison/contrast of certain sub-groups within the genre. I will also take pains to point out that stories that are ostensibly viewed as examples of other flavors — comedy, science-fiction, "thrillers," and non-supernatural drama — can quite easily be revealed as horror to the very core, and that horror can function equally well as art or junk food for the imagination.

So sharpen your axe, dust off the Necronomicon, apply fresh lipstick to grandma's mummified corpse, and make sure your homemade shroud of supple human skin is properly secured to your febrile pate. 'Tis once again the month of All Hallows' Eve and we are nothing if not prepared...

Sunday, September 10, 2017

BOSS NIGGER (1975)

NOTE: This was originally written for my main blog back in 2008, but I have added a few tweaks since then.

Finally available in a legitimate DVD release, 1975’s BOSS NIGGER has (as previously bitched about on this here blog) indeed been retitled as the far more P.C. “BOSS,” but I’m happy to say that title is purely for the purposes of display on store shelves. The film itself has been altered in no way whatsoever, preserving both the title and the infamous theme song — sing along, kiddies: “They call him Boss…Boss Nigger!!!” — but introduced with the following disclaimer by writer/star Fred “The Hammer” Williamson himself:

In 1972 I had just completed “The Legend of Nigger Charley” and “The Soul of Nigger Charley.” I made this sequel that you are about to see. I used the “N” word to create sensationalism at the box office, and all three films were a success.

You have to remember that all who used that word against me in those films regretted it.

Enjoy the movie. I approve the title and the song with the dialogue intact.

Fred “The Hammer” Williamson, 2008 


I’ve previously railed against the perceived need to retitle the film and am glad to see the film itself left as it was originally seen, but in this climate where the word “nigger” is nearly ubiquitous in popular rap music (enjoyed across every ethnic group) and just about any R-rated film featuring black men, I find the need for any kind of disclaimer, even one so obviously well-intentioned, kind of ridiculous. Plus the film went out as BOSS NIGGER thirty-three years ago without apology, but whatever; those were the days when Richard Pryor won a Grammy for an album entitled “That Nigger’s Crazy” and no one batted an eye, so different time, different mindset I suppose.

BOSS NIGGER has been somewhat rightly described as BLAZING SADDLES without the comedy, and that’s true up to a point but not wholly accurate as the film is an uneven (though entertaining) blending of straight Western tropes and a tongue-in-cheek attitude. Bounty hunters Boss (Williamson, whose character’s surname is never revealed; it's a good bet it probably isn’t “Nigger”) and Amos (D’Urville Martin, perhaps best known as villain Willie Green in the first DOLEMITE flick) ride into a remote town and set themselves up as sheriff and deputy — much to the open consternation and disapproval of the townspeople —, knowing that wanted outlaw Jed Clayton (William Smith, also known as Conan the Barbarian’s sword-making dad) and his gang of marauding assholes/rapists/thieves are holed up somewhere nearby. Unbeknownst to the townsfolk, the crooked mayor (R.G. Armstrong) is sort of in cahoots with Clayton (it’s never made clear just what the mayor gets out of this arrangement other than not being rendered suddenly dead), and the entire town are such a bunch of pussies that even though they considerably outnumber the outlaws and apparently possess weapons and ammo they do nothing whatsoever to stand up for themselves, allowing the bad guys to ride into town and rape and pillage like the bandits in SEVEN SAMURAI, so it’s up to Boss and Amos to do it for them.

When not killing, jailing or generally humiliating Clayton’s thugs, Boss and Amos (especially Amos) enthusiastically enforce laws they make up on the spot, ordinances such as use of the “N” word or general rudeness directed at either of them being punishable by a twenty-dollar fine or two days behind bars and other such similar penalties, leading to what amusingly amounts to an endless source of cash for the two bounty hunters. Between clashes with assholish white folks and the stereotypical outlaw contingent, our heroes prove to be champions of the local downtrodden (translation: Mexicans) and find themselves on the receiving end of the attentions of a variety of interested females (Amos is pursued by a horny Mexican washerwoman whom he defended from abuse by rednecks the second he entered town, while Boss is fancied by two lovelies: a cute black chick whom he and Amos rescued from bushwhackers, and the local school marm, a white chick whose bloomers become quite humid at the sight of the stylish and handsome black-clad gunfighter). But all good things must eventually come to an end and the end here comes when Clayton finally gets off his ass and takes the fight to Boss, first by running over with a horse a Mexican child Boss had saved from starvation, then kidnapping (and raping offscreen) the cute black chick, and lastly by ambushing Boss, beating the shit out of him while he’s held in place by some henchmen and tying him to a post in the full-on desert heat. Amos rescues Boss and the cute black chick and takes them back to town for a brief rest before the inevitable showdown with Clayton, and when that final battle arrives the next morning the town becomes a low budget would-be Peckinpah-esque shootout, resulting in heaps of bodies before our heroes take possession of Clayton’s corpse and ride off to turn it in for a hefty bounty.

Directed by Jack Arnold — who, believe it or not, also helmed IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE, CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON, RETURN OF THE CREATURE, TARANTULA, THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN, MONSTER ON CAMPUS and HIGH SCHOOL CONFIDENTIAL, just to name a few —, BOSS NIGGER is a decent enough Western that greatly benefits from Fred Williamson’s trademark cooler-than-polar-bear-shit personality coupled with a wry sense of humor and genuine acting chops, aspects that endeared him to genre fans from the second he hit the movie screen and set him apart from many of the leading men who were his contemporaries; Richard Roundtree, Ron O’Neal and Jim Kelly were all fun presences, but there was only one Fred Williamson and those of us who appreciated his work knew we were on to something unique and consequently his legend endures with a tenacity that few, if any, can match. In BOSS NIGGER he offers a reality-based analog to Cleavon Little’s fully-humorous Sheriff Bart in Mel Brooks’s BLAZING SADDLES and he’s a pleasure to watch as he outmaneuvers his adversaries and takes no shit from anybody, ably assisted by the late D’Urville Martin who takes what could have been a huge zero of a sidekick role and milks it for all it’s worth, playing ex-slave Amos as both capable and dependable while displaying undisguised glee at flagrantly fucking with obnoxious white people. (NOTE: there are some nice white people in the town and they do not get the treatment from Boss and Amos.)

Other than the occasional lapse into pacing more suited for a B-grade TV show (which is unsurprising as Arnold did a lot of TV work), the only thing that annoyed me about BOSS NIGGER was its soundtrack, a wildly inappropriate and strictly by the numbers generic blaxploitation score heavy with “wakka jawakka” electric guitar, and its lazily-written themesong that comes off more as a list of the hero’s attributes than an actual song, and the sumbitch doesn’t even have the decency to rhyme. But if that’s the only gripe that I can voice about this blaxploitation Western — other than it being PG-rated and not the R that would have allowed it to go totally apeshit with graphic violence, sex, cussing and the general sleazy offensiveness that made blaxploitation flicks so much fun in the first place —, it’s a small quibble indeed, so TRUST YER BUNCHE and give the long-unseen BOSS NIGGER (or BOSS, if you insist) a shot.

ADDENDUM: In 2010, I attended the Chiller Theatre convention in New Jersey and got to meet several of my heroes from the blaxploitation boom, including the one and only Fred Williamson, so I made sure to bring a photo from this movie for him to sign, which he gladly did. He was still the coolest of dudes and I wish him nothing but the best.


With the Boss himself.


The uninspired and rather chickenshit packaging for the DVD release.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

All-Time Favorite Movies: A PATCH OF BLUE (1965)

 Home is where the heart is...NOT.


In an effort to take my mind off of my current medical woes, I'm going to start posting capsule looks at my favorite movies of all time, in no particular order. Hopefully, you will find some items that interest you enough to check them out. 

Today we start with A PATCH OF BLUE (1965), a sweet but jarring and tragic tale of the friendship between Sidney Poitier, in yet another of his "perfect negro" roles, and Elizabeth Hartman as the blind, isolated, and abused daughter of aging whore Shelley Winters. (Winters won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for this performance and deserved every ounce of it.) It's Hartman's journey from an abused adolescent to blossoming womanhood as her friend (Poitier) teaches her how to become self-sufficient in the sighted world during daily visits to the local park, a world her horrible mother has intentionally kept her unprepared for. As the pair become close, the young woman develops deep romantic feelings for her friend and intends to act on them, but he kindly keeps her at bay due to her age and innocence. 

Life lessons in the park.

But as the narrative progresses, he and the audience learn just how unspeakably horrible the young woman's life was until she met him, a tale involving her witnessing her mother's work as a low-rent whore in their apartment, her being blinded by acid thrown at her father during a vicious spat between her parents, and getting raped by one of her mother's customers while her mother had stepped out for some reason, a scene made all the more terrifying because we experience it from the girl's blind and uncomprehending point of view. Seeing her friend as a way out of her hellish life with her mother, she tries to convince him to take her in as his willing lover, which she says is alright because she's "already been done over." She relates all of this in a matter-of-fact way that communicates that she has accepted such violence as just the way life is, so her relationship with her friend/desired lover is something she never considered as possible. (The appalled look on Poitier's face after her recounting of her sexual assault is like being hit in the face with a hammer.) 

The film's sole decent man holds in his horror and disgust as our blinded and abused heroine nonchalantly recounts being sexually assaulted by one of her mother's vile clients.


And things are further complicated when the evil prostitute mother gets wind of her daughter's friendship with a black man who intends to honorably save the girl and enroll her in a school for the blind, but mom thinks his plans are more lecherous, which does not sit well with her nigger-hatin' attitudes. And worst of all, the mother plans to retire from hooking and open her own brothel, pressing her innocent blind daughter into unwilling service as her first deployed whore. It's a gripping study of world-class family dysfunction and a touching tale of a damaged young girl blossoming to womanhood under the most adverse conditions possible. A hardcore tear-jearker if ever there was one, and hands down my favorite drama from the 1960's, HIGHEST RECOMMENDATION.


 Poster from the original theatrical release.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

IN DEFENSE OF BATMAN AND ROBIN (1997)

Time to commit credibility suicide: I have recently come to the horrifying realization that I actually like Joel Schumacher's much-reviled BATMAN AND ROBIN (1997). 

Yes, BATMAN AND ROBIN is bad, even terrible, but my reason for coming to like it following the shock of seeing it in the theater during its initial release has everything to do with the film simply not giving a fuck and operating on five-year-old "kid logic." It's pretty much a Batman movie that I would have made if I were five years old, had a collection of colorful Batman toys, and a camera. The dialogue is ludicrous, the plot equally so, the visuals look like a fever dream as tempered (or not) by heavy doses of illegal Jamaican cough medicine, and the performances are like what you'd likely get if the aforementioned toys came to life and emoted. It's a child's skewed vision of adventures in Gotham city and god damn me if I don't find it as charming as a particularly dumb and lovable puppy.

Perhaps sitting through it a number of times in the hilarious version with the Rifftrax commentary broke me, but maybe not. I've seen all three of the STAR WARS prequels several times with the Rifftrax treatment and I would rather take shotgun blasts to the kneecaps than sit through any of those ever again in their straight versions, but I can sit through BATMAN AND ROBIN and enjoy it as a goofy live-action cartoon. Again, I know with absolute clarity that it's crap, but...

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

ROGUE ONE: A STAR WARS STORY (2016)

ROGUE ONE — sub-headed as "A STAR WARS Story" — is a well-made, visually spectacular, action-packed adventure set in the galaxy far, far away that we all know and love so well. So why didn't I like it? Allow me to explain. 

The first of an announced ongoing series of stand-alone STAR WARS flicks that are not part of the serialized main saga, ROGUE ONE squanders the vast galactic toybox that is the STAR WARS realm by once again relying too much on fannish nostalgia and not moving forward. The basic story has to deal with a group of Rebel heroes stealing the plans for the Death Star, the aftermath of which mission leads immediately into the original STAR WARS (1977, and fuck you if you think I'm going to call it "A New Hope"), so we already go into the film knowing that the heroes succeed in their mission, thus killing what suspense may have been generated. The Death Star is trotted out yet again, thus revealing a certain bankruptcy of ideas, and the heroes who seek to thwart it mostly fail to generate any sort of interest because we're simply thrust into the narrative while getting to know little or nothing about them. 

The protagonist, Jyn Erso (Felicity Jones), is the daughter of the designer of the Death Star, as seen in the opening segments, and when we meet her again as an adult, she's in prison for reasons that are given only the merest scrap of explanation. She's broken out of jail by Rebel forces who want to use her to connect them with a guerrilla leader (Forest Whitaker) who may be able to help them locate her dad, who years earlier was press-ganged into helping the Empire build its "planet-killer" of a battle station. Other than Jyn's longing to be reunited with her father, we know absolutely nothing about who she is as a person or what motivates her actions, so her coming to care about the Rebel cause comes from out of nowhere and carries zero weight toward the growth of her character.

The rest of the Rebels that we meet are basically ciphers about whom we are told nothing, and they are so unmemorable that their individual names are almost instantly forgotten by the audience. Other than a few familiar faces from the original STAR WARS trilogy that were shoehorned in here to little or no narrative effect, Jyn Erso, Imperial weapons developer Krennic (Ben Mendelsohn) and reprogrammed Imperial enforcer droid K-2SO (voiced by Alan Tudyk) are the only characters whose names stuck with me once they were verbally identified. And the only standout among the Rebels that I cared about was the blind warrior Chirutt Imwe, played by my man Donnie Yen, whose character believes strongly in the Force but is notably not a Jedi, despite wielding a stick with speed and skill that makes Stormtroopers his bitches.

 My man Donnie Yen, whom the whole movie should have been about.

Cool though he undeniably was, Yen's character is given very little by way of backstory to explain why some random blind dude who is, again, not a Jedi whips ass with his walking stick like a deep-space Zatoichi. That's a damned shame, because he totally ruled during the moments when he's given something to do, including being given the film's funniest line — in a film sorely in need of some levity — but the real point of his inclusion was so that the film would have a star whose drawing power will put asses in seats in the Chinese market. (A market that famously does not respond to STAR WARS films.)

With no developed characters for us to be invested in, the story trusts in the audience's nostalgia and love for previous STAR WARS movies to do all of the narrative heavy-lifting, which just struck me as lazy. For a film about which much was made of its intent to break new ground and bring audiences a "different" kind of STAR WARS movie, it's basically just more of the same, a soulless piece of corporate product of the type that less-demanding moviegoers will eat up and thus pour billions into the coffers of Das Uber-Disney. I won't presume to speak for most of the audience out there, but I was bored during most of ROGUE ONE and had to resist the urge to check my phone's clock multiple times. It's two hours and fifteen minutes of pretty much watching a filmed version of some kid making up a STAR WARS adventure in his backyard with some action figures and vehicle accessories, and I found its dour, "more realistic" war movie tone to be as dull as dirt. Sure, it looked amazing — the special effects are nothing less than stunning — but where were the characters to engage me? Where was the movie magic that transports the viewer? And, most importantly, where was the fun in all of this? I wish I could tell you, but I got nothin'.

As I left the theater, a family followed close behind me, discussing the movie amongst themselves. The mother was clearly not impressed but tried to put a positive spin on things, while her three kids — apparently ranging in age from seven to twelve — all expressed how boring they found it to be. The one enthusiastic voice was dad, who countered their arguments of being bored with "Well, I wasn't bored, because I recognized a lot of stuff from the other movies!" Like I said previously, the filmmakers relied on the audience's nostalgia to do all the work, and more's the pity. And while a similar argument could be made for last year's THE FORCE AWAKENS, I found that film to be far more engaging, complete with characters I gave a damn about, both old and new, and a sense of plain and simple fun entertainment that I felt ROGUE ONE was largely bereft of. Your mileage may vary, probably depending on just how much of  STAR WARS zombie you are, but ROGUE ONE just didn't do it for me. Sitting through it once was enough for me, and I earnestly pray that the subsequent stand-alone films in the series provide us with something a lot more worthy of our time and money. It was a noble experiment but I call it a dud.

Oh, and while Darth Vader does indeed appear during two sequences — one of which is clearly intended to be really cool, but is in actuality just very much out of character fan service — his inclusion is both short and virtually meaningless to the film's overall plot. He could have been left out entirely and it would have made not a lick of difference to the story. If you're planning on seeing it in hope of a serious Vader fix, forget it.

Poster from the theatrical release.