So the author’s use of space… is awkward. Each and every scene seems to occur in a vacuum, only the briefest attention given to the details of the location. Settings become rough layouts of rooms with noticeable obstacles. The fine details that we would expect our narrator to present to us through the magnificently observant eyes of young Ender Wiggan don’t occur.

It is possible the author intentionally left the settings sparse for mood and out of logical reason; space is cold and empty, extra clutter is dangerous and Ender lives in a cold and empty world. But that’s cheating.

Ender is not cold and empty, thus even though the world he lives in might be immaculate or sparse, Ender’s perceptions should have colored it a multitude of hues, from a tiny spittle of rust on a seldom used access hatch, to a flicker or twitch in the eyes of his arch-nemesis, Bonzo.

Further, Ender’s insight came from nowhere. The more I ponder this the more troubling it becomes. The character saved the world – but how? His magical intellect grew from what seem to be two very average parents. In the beginning of the book, some pretense is made towards the monitoring and selection of special children. This is fine in the beginning, but as the world’s hopes come to rest squarely on Ender, his abilities outstrip even the most senior of military commanders. As readers we need more. We need some assurance of plausibility; some reason that this is all possible. The author fails to deliver.

The last time I was urged to read the book, I was given a little biography of Orson Scott Card. Having, as most artists, writers and creative-types do, mostly liberal friends, Card’s political and social views were brought up immediately.

“Great book,” they all said “but he hates homosexuals.”

Intrigued, I went right to the bookstore and picked up a copy of Ender’s Game. It was good. I took issue with some of the pacing, but just when I was frustrated enough, the scene shifted and we the readers were propelled forward in time to a more interesting and active moment in the hero’s tale.

As I read, however, I noticed distinct moment of strangely potent homo-eroticism. The hero, a boy named Ender, is sent to live in a co-ed battle school, where he will be transformed into the ultimate soldier. He is barely eight, but has an intellect and maturity level rivaling most adults. By the time he is twelve, he has killed two other boys (though he doesn’t know it) and defeated every enemy he’s ever encountered.  While at the Battle School, Ender is constantly removing his clothes, wrestling and fighting in the nude and ignoring the nudity of any present (of which there was only one) females.

The Author goes so far as to make sure we all know that some of the other students (boys) are sleeping in the nude. In one touching and strangely disturbing scene, Ender offers to share his bed with a young student who is too young to find his way “back to the barracks.”

Orson Scott Card is perhaps one of the armchair military philosophers who believe in the Ancient Greek Military Discipline, where young boys were “tutored” by older soldiers. This was not, of course homosexuality. It was in fact, the most masculine way to be a pederast.

After discussing the book and this bevy of very Ancient Greek fraternity described in it, one of my compatriots suggested of Card, “Perhaps he doth protest too much?”

Regardless the book was a good story. It was well written by an author with a good understanding of developmental psychology and… fear. All that said, I feel guilty for purchasing the book and however indirectly, giving financial support to such a radical and fundamentalist worldview. Looking at Orson Scott Card’s bibliography, it seems there is a bevy of great stories that I’ll never read.

Being something of a mythology researcher, I’ve found no mention in Christian Biblical Lore about angels becoming mortal when they cut off their wings. In fact, this is an invention of the writer/director Kevin Smith. So, right off the bat, the basis for the film Legion is something Kevin Smith coughed up between bong hits.

The rest of the plot is a mish-mash stolen from films like The Prophecy, revolving about the classic “Hold-Out-And-Run” template. Aliens, 30 Days of Night, Dawn of the Dead (remake), The Mist and about a thousand other films of the genre share the same “story” arc; the characters are presented with an impossible challenge, one steels their wills to survive and they fortify until they realize they must move to stay alive. This decision invariably costs the characters that which they sought so hard to preserve – each other.

An ensemble piece, the cast of characters were there merely to add to the body count. Their deaths however, were nothing less than ignoble, usually getting chewed up by some file-toothed “angel” who has inhabited a human body.

The details of the plot are inconsequential – God wants to kill humans, but the Archangel Michael disagrees. Gabriel flies down after an hour of forced character development and begins to kick ass.

As a writer, you are obligated not to assault your audience’s sense of plausibility. Many will argue the “suspension of disbelief” is elastic and should be stretched – if I can accept that angels are real, I should be able to accept that angels would swoop down and enact God’s will.

However, this film left so many loop holes, even the most devout may begin to question their faith. The only new elements added to the archangels arsenal were bladed, bullet proof wings (stolen, if I remember correctly, from a Marvel Comics character named Archangel) and of course, a mace straight from the MI6 labs – a bludgeoning weapon that whirred and twisted and changes shape, extended and transformed, though likely too heave for even the new James Bond to heft, he was no doubt drooling over the versatility of this ridiculous weapon.

To spoil an already predictable plot, the good guys win and Michael gets his wings back, having taught the omniscient and omnipotent God a lesson in mercy. Gabriel flies off, beaten and the main characters, a trailer-park hussy/new mother and a bumpkin named Jeep (whose only heroic act was to machine-gun a child possessed by an angel) drive off into the post apocalypse desert to rebuild humanity, enacting a sloppy Joseph and Mary/Post Flood analog.

Overall, a  forgettable film.

The plot centers around a vampire who doesn’t like being a vampire (what, eternal youth, power and indestructibility not as much fun as you thought they’d be?), who by chance encounters the dwindling human resistance.  Proving himself a  friend to sheeple everywhere, the bipedal cattle bring this hematologist in on their plan to cure the vampiric infection.

The film is filled with those clever little gimmicks, like “daylight” driving windows, tinted 100% opaque, and a warren of underground tunnels that allows the leeches to travel during daylight hours. Willem Dafoe plays a blue-collar vampire who accidentally cured himself, and with the help of Ethan Hawke, intends to help cure all of humanity. Meanwhile, the blood supply is out, and the vampires are tearing off their neckties and degenerating into the nosferatu-esque and savage true vampiric form. Gross.

Half-developed characters stumble through subplots, while the audience is treated to constant barrage of surreal gore, squishing noises and vampires that are so starved, they turn on one another.

The films true weakness comes in the form of the cure – a shake and bake solution requiring neither hematologist nor faith nor garlic/silver oxide solution to achieve. Not impressed.

True vampire fans will enjoy this classic tale of moderate redemption wrapped in Big Business Dystopia, but those demanding substance will find the film without much of a bite.

Some hardcore film folk will suggest this is the down fall of cinema, the day the actor and director no longer interface is that day we’re all watching cartoons written my mad children.

And I would tend to agree. Jar-Jar Binks is my primary evidence.

But Avatar, all three hours of it, was something special. The plot itself was simple – to quote my uncle “a child could have written it,” and that’s okay. Most of the best stories are those that we all understand on a primal level. This film was nothing more complicated than Dances With Wolves in space. Which is okay too, since Alien was Jaws in Space and Attack of the Clones was just Star Wars in space (that last one was a joke).

The plot, essentially runs like this – Marine agent goes native. Saves people. Aside from the spectacular setting, there was nothing new or interesting about the story itself. Ancient as the plot may have been, it resonates with audiences because of some very simple and all too human elements: loss.

A sub-textual critique of the plight of Native American peoples can easily be read into Cameron’s somewhat heavy-handed action flick, but the secondary plot thread is entirely unnecessary.

I was disappointed to see that Cameron’s treat of space marines has changed little since the days of Aliens – the jarheads are mostly without conscience and still even talk the same. “Get some!” seems to be a common phrase in all centuries of Jim Cameron’s military vision. While I find his view of our own warrior caste somewhat two dimensional, I must applaud is continued use of powered armor.

Plausibility was kept at an all time high for a sci-fi action flick, and lord in heaven, this was a beautiful film. Simply gorgeous to look at.

I won’t comment on the acting. Sigourney Weaver is a professional who simply cannot deliver a poor performance. Our hero did most of his work in voice over mode, as well as the love interest. Michele Rodriguez (of Resident Evil fame) is sassy and sharp, but her character was a combination of Vasquez and Ferro from Aliens (can Jim never leave LV-426 behind?)

This story picks up with a Commissar-Colonel Gaunt wondering just how soft he’s gotten. One is reminded of the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now, where Martin Sheen stares out of his window wondering he’ll get orders to leave Saigon.

Gaunt’s Ghosts are no different than any other combat veteran, an entire regiment of soldiery so tuned up and keyed to self=preservation through violence, it’s no wonder that the Ghost’s run astray.

The novel opens with a gruesome scene wherein the infiltration of the Sabbat Crusade’s HQ world is cleverly explained. I won’t give too much more detail for fear of spoiling a fun read.

I did note, however, that it was page 67 before I felt the old interest, that Abnett page-turning, pulse-pounding sci-fi pulp action returning. Aside from the Blood Pact infiltration, I honestly can’t remember what happened in those first 67 pages.

As a long time Gaunt’s Ghosts fan, I think my patience for their antics is higher than would be for a new reader. I also found myself reflecting on the characters, it feels as if most of the original Ghosts are gone now. The replacement characters have yet to become fully endeared to me and I wonder, how will this regiment end up?

Gaunt’s capture and torture in the last book were cleanly glossed over, and any residual trauma he may have had has yet to make itself known…

Using an abstract rules system to explain the multitude of possibilities in a fantastical setting is a difficult, and striving for realism, while admirable, makes for a very, very uninteresting gaming session. Compounding that with firearms tends bog down each round of action with superfluous die rolling and chart checking.

When you’ve got guns, or blasters or whatever, you’ve also got rate of fire, ammo consumed and carried, as well as range, damage, damage versus materials (armor, flesh, etc.), special ammo types (exploding, magical, filled with acid or poison), reliability and a whole slew of other problems I’m purposefully neglecting to mention.

I’ve recently begun running a Dark Heresy game (from Fantasy Flight Games), based on Games Workshop’s epically popular Warhammer 40,000 setting. As with any new rules system, it takes some time to learn, sometimes to work through the errata and establish a flow with characters, skills and combat. However, Dark Heresy, an impressive book with a rather high price point, is perhaps one of the most poorly organized books I’ve seen in a long time. The core rules are spread over what feels like dozens of chapters, and the answers to simple questions lead you on a whirlwind of page flipping and index referencing (sorry – but at my age, I refuse to commit anymore RPG rules to memory, after THAC0 and Saves from AD&D 2e, I’ve had enough).

But the game – the game itself is so strong, the setting is so rich and fleshy, the expansion of the typical science fiction genre, the gothic superstition and rampant forces of chaos, the galaxy spanning quests against an invisible evil – it’s a Game Master’s dream. But for the core rules book.

Against my better judgment, I purchased a copy of Rogue Trader, the new Warhammer 40,000 game from Fantasy Flight. The price point on this beast is astounding. As I fork over my sixty kuatloos for my copy of the book, I page through it and see that much of the book is a reprint of rules from Dark Heresy. By now, I’m getting cranky, wondering who their target audience is, where the colony of 15-year olds with disposable income are coming from to purchase these products.

Then, I notice something that lightens my heart; this book is well organized. It’s not only good looking, filled with tasty fluff content, but it’s easier to understand, easier to use. The differences are subtle, but significant. I began to use Rogue Trader as my reference book immediately for my Dark heresy game, considering it the 2^nd Edition of the DH core rules. The starship rules are a spectacular addition, the new classes are great and the expanded armory and equipment guides makes players “thank the Golden Throne” for this book.

My only criticism is the republishing of core rules. White Wolf, I think, has really tapped into something with their World of Darkness core rules book. Personally, I’d rather spend the extra cash on expanded materials, and rely on one core rulebook that every player can afford.

Will Fantasy Flight Games release another core rule book for Space Marines? And another for Xenos? Why not just keep the core lean and the materials rich and flowing?

She smiled, demurely and reached out to touch his hand. Her hand moved slow, her long delicate fingers seemed to absorb light. They reached his hand and wrapped around it slowly, then, squeezed, ever so gently. Her hand then retreated, to rest once again in her own lap.

Simon marveled at the warmth of her skin, the almost too human face. She blinked and smiled up to him.

“Why do you stare at me Simon?”

“Because you are a marvel.” He smiled. “Do you love me, Symphony?”

“Of course Simon.”

“Are you just saying that because you know that it’s what I want to hear?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying that because you are programmed to?”

“No.”

“How do you know what love is?”

Symphony cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, an all too human expression of puzzlement.

“Because you make me happy.”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” He persisted. He looked away from her and stared out into the cold night. His eyes caught the thruster flare of a ship, far off, preparing to leave orbit. “Aren’t you programmed to love me?”

“Aren’t you programmed to laugh when something is funny?” She countered,

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t have programming.”

“That is debatable.”

He sighed. “But how do you know it’s not just a series of complex instructions?”

“I know it because I smile involuntarily when you are near. I know it because I derive pleasure from your happiness. I know it, because I do.”

“But that could be programming! Subtle, yes, and genius, yes, but it still could be programming.”

“Does it make it less real for you knowing that you are supposed to feel a thing when certain stimuli occur?”

He turned and looked at her. Her womanly shape relaxed in the contoured co-pilots chair, her skin glittering somewhere between rosey-pink and flickering stars. He almost believed her. Then she looked out into space and her eyes flicked, her irises constricted and her pupils flared, micro-miniature circuitry was pulsing to life just behind the curve of her blue eyes. She’d seen that engine flare as well.

“Simon. It’s a pursuit craft. We need to leave.” Symphony announced non-chalantly as she began to buckle herself into her seat.

“We’re in the que, we’ll get our chance soon.”

“Negative, Simon. We’re in danger.”

“What!?”

Symphony’s fingers flew over the ships controls and the darkened bridge lit up with hundreds of displays and lights and switches. She moved with frightening speed and grace. She continued to speak.

“Please, Love, strap yourself in. Prepare for dimension fold.”

“Right here?”

“I’m afraid so.” Her voice was low, soothing.

“Don’t worry love. I won’t let them hurt you.” And as she spoke, she coded in the incredibly complex figures for their impending leap through time and space. Figures, that would take most normal computers hours to crunch, a human perhaps days. This was why he didn’t believe she loved him, but it was certainly why he loved her.

And then they jumped through space and left time to sort itself out.

The world became solid and time took up its vigil again as the small shuttle materialized from its dimension fold. Simon blinked and turned to Symphony. Symphony moved from her seat and swept her hand over the ship’s control, gracefully putting it to sleep.

“Where are we?” Simon asked, rising from his own seat and moving up beside Symphony. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He grinned as she playfully struggled, wriggling gently in a feigned attempt to escape his embrace.

“We are nowhere, my Love.” She pointed to the star charts.

“Why?”

“It was the only place I knew that no one was.” She smiled at him.

“They’ll be coming for us, for you.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do Simon?”

Wrecked cars and dust on my boots, me with nowhere to know, knowing everyplace I could go. I just sat there, in the heat, a lizard on a rock. Dust in the distance and divine chemistry, making things to put in my body, feeling hurtful things, animals of silicone and microscopic proportion. They waged the war I waged, against all things from the Outside. These nanite-antibodies reinforced walls and made things strong, things that should fall were kept up high.

My eyes watered in the flying dust, and adjusted the level of silicone lubricant released by my new hitatchi tear ducts. I blinked twice and received the internal report “foreign body removed“. I laughed at the irony of this and moved towards the car I hadn’t seen pull up.

It was grim and that magic red color, covered in a skin of dust and a sheen of diesel sweat. It was crouched like a hunting cat. My eyes traced its contours and I blushed like a boy seeing a nude woman for the first time. My mouth watered at the thought of plugging in and letting my soul caress its controls, the hard leather and a twice coiled fly-by-impulse preaction-pre-response computer. I wondered what it called itself.

Then out of the car stepped its master, mistress, monster. Nine feet tall and the earth cracked as she stepped across it. She burned the ground, stole its water and left glass footprints in the sand.

“That yours?” I asked, thinking it might be right proper for me to vent this monster bitch and take those wheels. That was our way out here, at Gold Water Oasis. She must know it, other wise she wouldn’t be out here, out this far.

“No.” Her voice was low and thick, clear, over the racing wind.

“Looking to trade?”

“No, it’s a gift.”

“For who?”

“You, of course.”

I slowly moved my hand towards my gun. No one gives out at the Oasis.

“I don’t think that’s right. I don’t know you.”

“Course not. But I know you. You’ve been dreaming about a car the color of a dying sun. This is the car. This is the one.”

I studied her. No weapons. Just those eyes, fairly crackling with power. She stepped closer, the earth groaned and I tensed.

“No need for violence, manling. Take this gift and drive, off into your precious desert. Out where you are alone, where your mind means nothing and your only definition is your actions. You do like to act, yes? You’re one of those, those few who do and not say…”

The sky was cloudy, unusual for a hot day. The sun cut a hole in the silky veil and sent a column of light down, just for me.

“But your actions cost you don’t they?” She studied me, her unnatural eyes, locked mine, then glanced down to my new arm, the steel and myomer miracle.

“You’ve already paid your price. Drive.”

She threw the keys, then, shining silver things, fast and hard. My right arm flew up to grasp them, my false arm drew my pistol and in that nanosecond my Hitatchis took to reset the vision frame, the she-demon was gone. I looked at the keys. They were just keys. Three silver things, flat, un-marked.

I walked over to the car. Got in. The inside was cramped and soft and I barely fit. There was no way the giant-demon-woman could have driven this car.

I pulled the neuro-lead from the dash and slid it into third slot on back of my false wrist. Red runes flashed across my eyes, ancient runes, esoteric messages only I could see, only I could understand.

“She’s no demon, child. She is Athena.” The car said, when my mind tried to touch it. The voice was feminine, but clipped, reserved.

“The goddess?” I queried.

“The same.”

“And why is she giving me a car?”

“Not a car. I am The Car. I am motion and grace and love. I am happiness and joy. I am that fleeting moment all men dream of. The control of a wild thing, the tame shrew. I am power un-earned.”

I failed to understand. I said so.        

“I am the car the color of the dying sun. I am your dream.”

“I’m dreaming now.”

“More often than not.”

I pushed the keys into her and turned them gently. The tumblers rolled and soothed and the ignition fired and there was a great release, I felt it in my mind, then the steady rhythm. Perhaps this thing was joy, was bliss. The bliss of motion. My mind rolled backwards to those long dead days, with runners, and horses, and chariots. The race. The run.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s a stupid answer.” I gently rubbed the throttle with my mind.

“It’s an answer.” She started, a roar, then a purr.

“Give me a better one.”

“You are doomed to do. You are damned to believe.” She said, as I put her in reverse and turned the wheel. She thought for a half nanosecond about arguing with me, I felt it in her throat, she thought better of it, I guess.

“So she gave me a car?”

“The Car. But yes, more or less, that’s the big and small of it.”

Forward, we raced, through the desert away from the new night and the golden oasis. The roads were hard and black. Bleak angry things, the yellow was faded, the streaking line almost gone. Time and sun cracked the roads, ruptured them, twisting them upwards and inwards, leaving them… broken.

“What shall I call you?” I asked the car.

“Whatever you like.”

“Am I in her debt? Am I her servant now?”

“You always have been.”

“Is it her way to recruit unwilling servants with bribes?”

“How do you know you are unwilling? She’s not asked anything of you yet, manling.”

“How will I know what she would have of me?”

“How does any believer know what their god wishes of them?”

“Oracles. Priests.”

“Perhaps we should see the Oracle. Or even a priest.”

“I’ve got little use for those types.”

“As does Athena. But they have their role, like you do yours.”

“You’re quite knowledgeable for a car.”

“I am The Car. You may call me Pacifica.”

“Okay, Pacifica, how is it you know so much?”

“I was forged on Olympus, by Hephaestus, crafted piece by piece, by the God-Artificer himself.”

“Huh.”

“Like you.”

“What?”

“You are merely an instrument of the Gods as well. Your arm, your eyes, machines, of course made by man, but who gave them that knowledge? Who cut your meat-flesh from the hard earth? Who programmed your codes? Who made it possible for you to exist? Are you not the ultimate example of divine machinery?”

I thought on that for a hard minute, while I did so, I pushed Pacifica hard, and she smirked at me in my mind, we traveled across the hard baked sands and failing concrete paths at scathing speeds, out, here, alone. Then.

“I see your point, Pacifica. But I am a…ah, far removed from divinity.”

“Yes.”

“And you are not.”

“I am not holy. I am crafted by holy fingers.”

“And you seem to know everything.”

“I know much that is not known, yes, but far from everything.”

“What happens when we find the ocean?”

“We will have to stop.” She said, with out humor.

“I have… a… destiny?”

“All things do. Few recognize them. Few fulfill them.”

“But the world is wrecked, and I think I’m mad.”

“Both of these things are true. But you also believe.”

And then we reached the ocean,  many hours later, Pacifica and I. We stopped and she asked me if I was “Well”

“Of course.” I lied to her.

The ocean was deep and vast and dark, briny and cold. I scanned the horizon with my Hitatchi eyes and saw not one sail, not one ship.

Pacifica then spoke to me. “It is as Athena said. The world is dead or dying and you are mad.”

“Then why take me here with your brutal haste and loving speed? Could I not have remained mad at my Gold Water Oasis?”

“Ah, but that is it, child, remained…”

“Yes, so, what of it? Let me guess… a lecture on confidence and change, and the self evolution event that so few of us are allowed to participate in? More of your god-forged psycho-babble…”

“Do you deny that change forces us to grow?” The car was mocking me.

There were bleak mountains in the distance and I considered driving her from the cliff. Damn her divine artificers! We’d see if she was holy or not…

“You’re thoughts turn dark, but for no good reason. I am yours to do with as you please. To destroy me would be… wasteful, but I will not stop you.”

“Let me suppose then, on your mechanical life, that it is not my destiny to do so, is it?”

“You suppose correctly, manling.”

“What is destiny?”

“It is that thing the gods said you must do, written in heaven when you were named from above, you take the name of….” the car paused in its speech. I turned to the ocean and there saw three ships, sails red and full.

“… you take the name of eternity, thus you shall always be. You, of all shall be plagued and hounded and forced and coerced and ridden and railed. But you shall then rally and redouble and doubt not and stay your hand when all works to force it, you shall force your hand when all works to stay it. You, manling, are paradox, like all your brothers and sisters.”

“You speak in riddles, Car the Color of a Dying Sun.”

“You make riddles from truths. All mankind does this thing. That is why your world is laid waste and the gods taunt you with smart ass machines like myself.”

“I am truly mad.”

“And always have been.”

I turned to the sea again. Ships now, full sails and ominous.

“Those ships…”

“Yes,” Pacificia answered before I asked. “Heralds of change. Things you cannot understand. God-loving priests with great machines and little madness.”

“Then they are those who escaped our destruction?”

“Are there any who could escape you, oh eternal paradox?”

“Some. Many.”

“Fewer than you think. But come. Let us off to the south, to the dryer lands and cleaner roads.”

“To what end? To just drive through time and space?”

“What else would a madman do?”

“I am confused.” I sat in the car and plugged in, touching its mind with mine. We started off, slow, then fast, faster yet and with a bright sun easing its way low, we scorched another lonely highway.

“You are not confused. You never have been. You are simply mad.”

“I don’t understand…” I shook my head, fearful, trying to understand this great machine I’d been given. I looked to the skies for signs from Olympus, I looked to the sea on right for signs from Below. I fell backwards into my neural processor and ran through patterns and systems, control specs and maintenance routines, anything and everything, looking for logic, looking for patterns. I found none. None until I turned my mind to the mind of the Car. It showed me a great a pattern. It was a pattern older than memory, mine, at least. It was carved in the very earth and it crossed every continent, every land, every place, every town, every city. I calmed then and followed the pattern.

I let my mind fly along its designs and I realized, I was on this pattern, a part of it.

“It is a testament to the grandiose designs of man, his ambition to dominate the world. His unwillingness to live with it, his desire to live above it.”

“It’s beautiful…” I breathed.

“It’s dangerous.” said Pacifica.

Fortunately, the film wastes little time and throws the audience into the heart of the problem. Something is coming, and we can’t stop it.

The casting, I felt was somewhat awkward. No, I’m not just talking about Surfboard Reeves. Jenifer Connelly, whose haunting eyes chase me all the way back to the days of the Labyrinth, performed well. However, her role was… passive. The choice of Jaden Smith as her son felt forced. Jaden Smith’s performance was good, but then, what ten year-old can’t act like a ten year-old?

Early on, a host of scientists were gathered. Of the bunch, the only one with speaking lines was a dark-skinned and bearded man. He was sensible, calm and very much an attribute to the scientific team. He also felt like a token. This combined with Jaden Smith and a few other choices made the entire cast feel as if it were a socio-political message and a rather heavy handed one at that.

The pacing was good, I was never bored for very long. Though I never felt satisfaction for the scenario. We learn that Klaatu is a representative of a sort of galactic U.N., here to pass final judgment. We, of course, shoot him. Hilarity ensues.

Well, not hilarity per se. My major issue with the film (aside from the rampant product placement – not Apple this time, but Micro$oft and McDonald’s), was the lack of plausibility. The dialogue felt overly expositional, the characters were single-dimensional archetypes, more fulfilling a role than acting out a living scenario.

The final bite was that Klaatu was so easily swayed. He was sent tour world with the option to wipe out humanity. To smear six-billion plus lives out of existence. Yet, the contrived family psycho-drama between Connely and Smith melts his freezy heart? Seems… pretty forced to me.

Over all, the action was minimal, the theme and sub-plots were heavy-handed and Surfboard Reeves does what he does best: Plays a somewhat confused outsider with a very little emotional range.