Yeah, but I thought of it first.

At least io9 caught on to what is obviously a great idea. Let me introduce to you Deja Reviews first unwitting contributor, Cyriaque Lamar. Welcome!

http://io9.com/5601532/a-review-of-syfys-new-tv-line+up-based-solely-on-one-press-release

Predators - Take

When I was a kid, I would play a game. Every time I watched a movie like Alien or Predator, (and in the wake of those two movies, there were a lot of movies like them) I would try to guess the order of the characters’ deaths. Maybe that sounds a little morbid for a ten-year-old, but I got pretty good at it after a while. I haven’t played that game in years, but Predators got me off the bench. Thank you, Robert Rodriguez and Nimrod Antal, for bringing out the troubled ten-year-old in me one more time.

As most people who care to know such things already know, Robert Rodriguez wrote a treatment for this movie like a kabillion years ago. The people who make decisions about stuff like this, in their infinite wisdom, threw it in a drawer and greenlit a series of movies that turned two of the most iconic movie monsters of the last generation into, um, well…jokes. And not the good kind. I mean, like Margaret Cho-level. Then some executive went digging through some dusty filing cabinets to see what 40-year-old King Features Syndicate cartoon they could copy-paste Kevin James into and went, “Holy crap!” Then he called his buddy, Ronnie Metzler, over in production.

GUY

Ronnie, it’s me!

RONNIE

Hey, man. What’s shaking?

GUY

What if I told you that we’re sitting on a 

treatment for a wildly popular genre property 

by a well-known and (usually) very talented 

filmmaker who has enormous pull and appeal 

with genre audiences?

RONNIE

I’d say throw that sucker back in a drawer and 

let’s throw a monkeyful of money at the crabfest 

(yes, crab) that will become known as AVP:R, 

because after seeing it, the audience won’t even 

be able to muster the will to speak whole words, 

let alone complete sentences!”

GUY

Did I mention the property is from the 80s?

RONNIE 

Try back after we run these franchises so far into the 

ground that they only come up to steal and eat Eloi!

And so the treatment sat untouched for another four years, until another young hotshot executive found it after a particularly uncomfortable bout of illicit lovemaking (filing cabinets got sharp edges) with Valerie, the girl from marketing. He didn’t even bother to put his pants back on, but stood there, his wrinkled, powder-blue dress shirt the only thing covering his Christian shame, and called Brent in Development.

BUD 

Brent! You’re not going to 

believewhat I just found!

BRENT

Buddy, she’s nailed every guy here. 

It’s like a game of Battleship with 

her. I wouldn’t get too excited.

BUD

No, no, no! Robert Rodriguez wrote a 

sequel to Predator that doesn’t suck like a 

Night at the Roxbury! Wait…Battleship?

And so it was that in quick order, it was decided the Rodriguez would serve as the godfather to the project and oversee a hand-picked group of filmmakers to revise and update his vision of a group of human killing machines who are abducted and airdropped onto an alien planet, where they’re hunted by Predators….for sport! And perhaps profit, but the films never really get into the commercial side of what I can only assume is the lucrative business of human disenspine-ening.

They don’t need to. This flick is what monster movies are supposed to be, and what they haven’t been since, oh, let’s say Pitch Black: this mofo is frickin’ fun.  I’m very much over the whole eighties nostalgia thing, but for this flick, I can make an exception. No disrespect to Danny Glover, but this is the sequel Predator should have always had.

Relative newcomer director Nimrod Antal demonstrated he could navigate tight, tense character relationships in the immensely solid, if underseen Armored, and he rises to the task here as well. This is the first monster movie I’ve seen in fifteen years where the filmmakers seem to have bothered to look up the meanings of “suspense” and “storytelling.” Not that the movie is high-falutin’ in the least. This sucker revels in its simple premise and B-movie roots. There’s plenty of action, blood, gore, and creatures (the Predator-world “dogs” are particularly thrilling to ten-year-old me), but Rodriguez and Antal are smart enough to know that that all means jack unless you give a shit about the characters. And to that end, they gave us actors (not that the original Predator needed them. Did just fine without, thanks). Adrien Brody is an unlikely leading man in any film (except The Pianist), but especially this one. The one sticking point for me is probably that he’s miscast. He does his full-on best, but he can’t not be him.

The end result of getting competent, invested people on both sides of the camera is that they know how to set up an immersive fantasy where you, as an audience member, aren’t yanked out of the story every five minutes by stupid filmmaking choices. In short, a good movie lets you forget that you’re watching a movie so you can just go along for the ride. This goes double for sci-fi, and triple for summer movies. They’re supposed to be the epitome of escapism.

And it so it goes with Predators. We follow Brody’s character, Royce, as he literally appears out of thin air and falls to the jungle floor, where he meets a motley crew of killers, assassins and murderers from all different backgrounds. It’s like a model U.N. of badasses. From there, I get to start playing my game as the entire cohort tries to figure out where they are, who they can trust, and how they can escape while trying to avoid being turned into macho nachos with biceps sauce. Yes, even the token lady is macho. Topher Grace, on the other hand, not so much. It’s a great mix of antiheroes, a bunch of gritty, gruesome solo artists who have to come together and form a supergroup to keep their spinesnskulls from ending up on a laquered wooden panel in some alien’s rec room. It’s the Dirty Dozen in a spacejungle. This flick is a pure, unabashed testosterone fantasy, and it is a blast (from shoulder-mounted laser cannon).

Four out of five future Governors!

Toy Story 3: Take

Take the hankies out of the toy chest, you're going to need them for Pixar's third (and final?) outing with the toys that launched them into sky, eclipsing and redefining what it meant to be a Disney animated film for the last decade.

Often with sequels there comes the dubious sink in the soul, that worry that the movie you loved so much the first or second time is going to be pimped out and under-produced (I'm looking at you, "Cinderella II: Dreams Come True"!), but I had faith that Lasseter, Unkrich (his hand-picked directing successor) and co. would never sell out their beloved toys. Sometimes in this life, faith is rewarded. "Toy Story 3" is every bit as charming, smart, exciting, and heart-true as its predecessors.

It's been 11 years and nothing's skipped a beat. There's no sign of fatigue or age in the work done or in the source material. In fact I found, and think much of the audience may as well, that more than the previous entries, "3" elicits a unique and less-explored emotional landscape. The strange land of growing up. The bridge between the ages; burned to ensure maturation or preserved at the risk of stagnation/ostracization?

Which is not to say the movie is some sort of top-heavy rumination on times and things lost. "Toy Story 3" is as much if not more adventurous a yarn than the predecessors. The toys' donation to a local daycare (and if this film is anything to go by I'll never be setting foot in one of those again) pops the cork on the wellspring for new characters that so closely resemble the fuzzy memories of my youth I found myself wondering if indeed perhaps my sister HAD owned a Lots-o'-Huggin' Bear.

I may have to sit on this notion for a while to stand behind it but as of this writing I think that the "Toy Story" trilogy, thanks to the amazing third installment, may go down as my all time favorite and creatively fulfilling film trilogy of all time.

Get Him to the Greek: Doubletake

I was probably the only person in the world who didn't like Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery. When I saw Mike Myers's opus I was frustrated because the movie didn't seem to know what it was. Was it a James Bond Parody, a skewing of the '60s, or was it just a wacky romp? I needed the film to make the decision.

I felt very much the same way with Get Him to the Greek. The trailers led me to believe, and get excited for, a crazy, over the top, manic ride of the insane Aldous Snow tormenting poor music intern Aaron Green, with one scene of P. Diddy chasing them down a hallway. What the movie was, unfortunately, was a the tale of a sad rock and roll star who, yes drinks and at least talks about doing heroin, but is also extremely verbose and reasonable. We also are offered up a lot of characters who say "this is crazy" and then just go along with whatever. And some extremely unbelievable rock songs which are both tepid and too wacky to be believed. (The hit song is the "The Clap"? Really?)

In the end the one scene that satisfied was Sean Combs chasing Aldous and Aaron down a hallway, because it was actually funny, wacky, and interesting. The rest of the movie, which leads to Aldous learning a lesson about himself and his sobriety, can just go die.

Lessons don't take the place of comedy, Judd Apataw -where ever you are.

I give this movie one Bedtime Bear.

Get Him to the Greek: Take

“Get Him to the Greek!”

If I have to hear that phrase one more time I might but quit movies forever. You know those trailers that trick you with scenes that don’t make it into the final move? Well, welcome to the mother of them all. The trailers for “Get Him to the Greek”, make it seem like there is dialogue: Lizzy Moss talking about Gossip Girl, P Diddy asking about Cher, but it’s all a lie. The only words spoken, I repeat, THE ONLY WORDS SPOKEN IN THE ENTIRE MOVIE ARE: Get. Him. To. The. Greek.
Sure, they are said by a variety of different characters (Jonah Hill, Sean Combs, Russell Brand et al), in a variety of different tones and emoting different meanings ala:

“Get him to the Greek!”
“Get him to the Greek?”
“GET him to the GREEK!!!!”
“get him to the greek…….”

Over and over again.

No one ever questions why this phrase seems to be all the characters in THIS MOVIE can utter, it’s just accepted along with the raucous good time Aldous Snow is having. I suppose it’s mean to show us that words are meaningless and actions are the only things you should judge a character on- but for this reviewer it was nothing more then living torture.

Thanks a lot Apatow. Who ever you are.

I give this movie one frustrated Archie.

Sex and the City 2: Carrie That Weight

Poor Carrie. A lack of drama does not a movie make. But at least she gets away with just having one illicit kiss with ex-whatever Aiden. (Am I the only one who never bought that relationship?) So, Sex and the City 2 doesn’t find Carrie and her girls “happily ever after”, but, what the hell, the drama is short and the glamour is long.

The point of Sex and the City, to me, was never to be realistic, to explore feminism, to show a true-life exposé of single women in the city. It has always been a grown up Archie comic with silly dialogue, unrealistic plots and glorious colors. So with that in mind, I loved Sex and the City 2. I loved Stanford and Anthony’s Big Gay wedding, loved Liza singing “Single Ladies”, loved the gals walking through the desert in Couture, loved Samantha screaming at Muslim men that she has sex and humping the air to illustrate. The scenes make the movie, not the story. If anything I wish that Michael Patrick King had just gone all the way with the lazy plot and tossed it out the window of the first class airplane to Abu Dhabi. The movie would have been even better if it had been presented Archie Digest style with a different story every few pages.

Which I guess would be a TV episode.

Fuck it. So, Carrie has to learn what marriage really meant. So, Miranda learns to be appreciated. So, Charlotte is threatened by her Nanny. So, Samantha loves dick AND is going through menopause. It’s another two and half hours I got to spend in the reality defying “real” world of Sex and the City. I know in my heart that it was a bad movie, but even deeper in my heart I wished it had gone on 10 hours.

You just have to be the right kind of girl I guess. Was that sexist? Some people would think Sex and the City and Archie are too. Those people don’t know what fun is.

I give this movie 4 Drag Beyonce’s.

Sex and the City 2: Like I Carrie

Sex and the City was the greatest TV show all time after The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, Mad Men, and several thousand others. Like Sex and the City: The Movie, 1, Carrie and Big are still having relationship problems. It's been 12 years. It's depressing. But this time instead of Big being a jerk, Carrie decides she "bored" and starts an affair with mushy ex-fiance Aiden. That would all be normal if the movie didn't take place in the middle of the Afghanistan conflict!

Here's what happened: Miranda takes on a teenage middle eastern client who is suing for parental emancipation. She flies with the girls to the desert country and in a dramatic scene, disables a dirty bomb, showing an natural talent for the ol' hurt locker. The term "the ol' hurt locker" is thrown around a lot in this movie, and it seems to refer to bombs, the act of dismantling bombs, bombs going off, and happy hour. Not sure what the real meaning was.

Miranda (AKA the smart one) now has to lead her friends out of the desert armed only with a M16 and a bomb suit designed by Gucci. Carrie, Samantha, and Charlotte still spend the movie gossiping about their sex lives, in an attempt to distance themselves from the horrors around them, which include camel murder, mirages of oxygen bars, friendly fire deaths, and a disastrous garden party.

All in all I think the Sex and the City team really grew up. I walked away from the movie realizing I needed to send less time worrying about my sex life, and more time simply being grateful for being alive.

I give this movie 4 Liza's out of 5.

Rockin' Robin: Robin Hood Doubletake

 I’m puzzled by the dearth of positive reviews of Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood. I held off on reading Owen Gleiberman’s Entertainment Weekly review until after I saw the film, but perhaps his frustration may offer some insight. He complains that the film isn’t fun and that it doesn’t reshoot all of his favorite scenes from other Robin Hood movies. Apparently, O.G.O.G. (because Owen Gleiberman is nothing if not an Original Gangsta) kinda missed the boat on the concept of this particular film, which was to take a different approach to a well-worn character. And in that, it succeeds.

EW's Original Gangsta

But Ogog (as he shall henceforth be known, forsooth) may be agog with good reason. While the marketing for the film does convey that the movie is a revisionist take on Robin Hood, it still promises the audience the adventures of a brave outlaw, which is something you don’t really get (SPOILER) until the last five minutes. No, Oggie, he doesn’t steal from the rich and give to the poor. Instead, Director Scott and screenwriter Brian Helgeland (L.A. Confidential, 976-Evil) strive mightily to make a Robin Hood for grown-ups. They more than half-succeed, trading simplistic good Underdog vs. evil Simon Bar Sinister ideology for a complex web of political intrigue that finds France’s King Phillip as the main antagonist, rather than the prideful and inept King John. While the story’s framework is more mature than the traditional Robin Hood story, this movie is not short on cartoonish caricature.

Robin Longstride starts the film as an archer in the army of King Richard the Lion Heart who, through a fairly ludicrous set of coincidences ends up posing as Sir Robin Loxley, the King’s man-at-arms. One of the film’s faults is that it’s hard to get a bead on Robin’s character. In the space of 3 scenes, he goes from having an “every man for himself” attitude to feeling an obligation to return the dying Loxley’s sword to the man’s estranged father, taking on Loxley’s identity along the way. Through another rather amazing set of happenstances, Loxley’s elderly father takes the man posing as his son to his bosom, and Robin suddenly finds himself a landowner rather than an itinerant vagabond.

It’s a convoluted path to take, rather than just have the actual Loxley return home and take up his father’s cause of trying to get the King to ratify a charter that would guarantee fair taxation. For whatever reason, though, I kind of liked it. Here, Robin Hood fights King John not by bombarding him with Merry Men, but by making an inspiring - if anachronistic - speech about the right to taxation with representation. And while King John is certainly an ass who wants to keep raising taxes, the real villain is the French agent who keeps egging him on in an effort to drive England into civil war so France can invade more easily.

Mark Strong, as Godfrey the French double agent, is at once deliciously and eye-rollingly evil. The brilliant Cate Blanchett is saddled with making Lady Marian into the second coming of Eowyn, the Princess of Rohan from Lord of the Rings in a bit of writing that seems not only anachronistic for the period the film is set in, but almost old-fashioned even by today’s standards. It’s a forced display of feminism that’s pretty distracting and unnecessary. I have nothing against strong women in film, I just doubt she would be very useful in full chainmail with a broadsword. The filmmakers even give her a scene early on where it’s clear how difficult dealing with mail can be. Crowe does fine with what he’s given, but Robin’s character is fairly mercurial. And contrary to what friend Gleiberman would have you believe, there are a few Merry Men, even named as such, in the film, and we do get to see them carousing unabashedly with drink, song, and women.  This is personal bias, but I have to say that casting Kevin Durand (Lost’s Keamy, Wolverine’s Blob (?!)) as Little John is inspired. He got the crazy eye.

It’s a flawed film, to be sure, and I would have preferred that it either go completely cartoony, a la the Costner version (remember when Kevin Costner used to be one of America’s leading actors (?!)), or go whole hog into historical drama. But it takes it’s time, and after the amazingly coincidental set-up, allows its events to unfurl naturally and at their own pace, which I deeply appreciate. I wasn’t blown away, but I was able to take this one on its own terms and appreciate it as a rather workman-like stab at bringing something fresh to an old, old story.

Those title cards, though? They gotta go.

And so the legend begins…

Three out of four Keamys strapped with explosives.

1400 Words on Iron Man 2: Movie Review or Cry for Help?

Two years ago, Robert Downey, Jr. finally found a mainstream audience and simultaneously nailed the crap out of embodying genius lothario Tony Stark. His inimitable ability to blend the comic and the dramatic sucked you in and made what could have been a rote exercise in comic-book action filmmaking into a ginuwine work of supreme pop entertainment. That’s what the first “Iron Man” was: entertaining. Fun.  Another actor probably could have executed the role just fine, but in Downey’s ridiculously well-suited hands, the movie ceased to be another slam-bang FX-laden kick-off to the summer movie season – although it was that as well – and became about the characters. Stark in particular, and Downey as Stark especially.

So, after waiting two years to get another couple of hours to hang out with our rich, eccentric, acerbic buddy, obviously the first thing the audience wants to see in the sequel is…Mickey Rourke’s elderly father dying in a Russian slum?

I wish I could put my finger on the problem with this film. Structurally, there are some odd choices, like the aforementioned burial of the lead, and there are a couple of truly bizarre tonal shifts – the event that gets Rhodey (now played by Don Cheadle as a man would believes cracking a smile is tantamount to treason) is at once nail-bitingly scary and utterly laughable. But I think ultimately the movie’s true flaw is that everyone involved succumbed to the standard blockbuster sequel mentality that more is more. Too much is crammed into one story. The fact that I’m not entirely sure that’s the problem with it is a testimony to how good everyone involved is – with the possible exception of alleged wunderkind screenwriter Justin Theroux. Some of the dialogue is Saturday morning cartoon-level bad, and a number of scenes are downright dull (thrill as our villain watches TV and types on a keyboard!). Despite that, this thing comes so close to working, it’s more frustrating than if it had been a “Batman and Robin”-style catastrophe.

My main problem is that I want to go up to Favreau, give him a cigar (to soften him up a bit; he’s a big dude with a lot of money), and say, “Hey, man, where’s the fun?”  The first Iron Man opens like a party. Here we open on poverty, vodka, and a gnashing of teeth as genius madman Ivan Vanko (Rourke) embarks on a quest against Tony Stark for crimes Stark’s dad committed against his dad (a plot point I speculated about and nailed, by the way, thank you and you’re welcome). From there, we do go to a party. A huge one. Stark is soaking up the limelight in the center ring at Stark Expo, where he seems to have reverted back to the callous prick he was at the top of the first movie. This is the storyline that is played most elegantly by Downey. He makes Stark’s bravado is more aggressive than before. Tony’s still trying to be glib, but there’s an edge to it. Unfortunately, since the devil-may-care attitude of Tony Stark was largely what made the first film fun, if he’s grouchy and out-of-sorts, it kind of throws everything else off as well. If you can’t count on Tony Stark to be a smart-ass and bed a supermodel while saving the world, who can you count on?

As we soon find out, there is a reason for his inability to fully embrace the lightheartedness that made him so endearing in the first movie: he’s hiding a fatal secret. There’s some great stuff here. In fits and spurts Downey gives us glimpses of a man who can conquer anything except his own mortality. This would be enough character meat for any movie, but this one largely ignores Stark’s quest for a cure in favor of looking at what imminent defeat does to the ego of a man like Tony Stark. Apparently, it makes him promote a valiant Gwyneth Paltrow to CEO of Stark Industries, hire a woman half his age as a personal assistant because, well, she’s kind of there, and fly to Monaco, where he humiliates competitor Justin Hammer (a mincing Sam Rockwell, who I hope to God intended to come off as a pale, awkward imitation of Downey’s Stark, because otherwise he was just playing a dick) and races, unannounced, in the Grand Prix, where the disgruntled Vanko sneaks onto the track and tries to turn him into flanksteak with laserwhips. My favorite action sequence by far in this flick is Happy Hogan (Favreau), Stark’s driver, squaring off against the exoskeletoned Vanko in hand-to-hand laserwhip-to-Rolls Royce combat.

Long story short, Hammer, like the tool that he is,  goes into business with Vanko as Stark spirals out of control and pushes away everyone who actually cares about him. This prompts two interventions.  The first is the aforementioned scene that puts Rhodey in the War Machine armor – and makes the danger of drunk driving seem like the safety of sleeping on a bed made of Peeps.  Just imagine a drunk driver whose car can fly and shoot lasers and can only be opened from the inside. Now imagine he’s driving down a block where a group of high school kids are waiting on the corner for their bus, and you’re almost to the level of gut-churnity the first half of this scene evokes. Then comes the second half, where it devolves into ILM-abetted slapstick. It’s not Peter Darker sleaze-dancing his way down the streets of Manhattan, but it’s close.

The second, and understandably more effective intervention is delivered at the hands of Sam Jackson’s Nick Fury. I love Sam in this role. But I do kind of wish that between Theroux and Favreau, somebody would have pointed out that just because Downey is in the film, that doesn’t mean all the other male characters have to match his lackadaisically glib attitude and delivery (“Sir,I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the donut,” is a funny line, but so out of character for Fury as to be distracting). Their meeting leads to a number of revelations, some interesting and some unnecessary. I have no idea why Black Widow is in this movie, other than that more is more thing – and the fact that it provided the filmmakers the opportunity to squeeze Johanssen’s “more” into “less.” From a story perspective, she’s slutterly extraneous.

The interesting side of these revelations, however, leads to one of those weird structural things I mentioned earlier. The first movie found Iron Man suit’s power failing during the climactic battle, which added danger and suspense to the physical side of the confrontation. Here, he becomes more powerful than ever in advance of the climax. It’s sort of OK given that he’s facing off against superior numbers, so he’s still at a disadvantage, but you never want your hero to have a leg up on the bad guys going into the fight. He’s supposed to be on the ropes, and then find the thing that revitalizes him, so he can triumph over impossible odds. Even the solution to his fatal problem happens in two parts, diminishing the dramatic impact of both. By the time he finds the permanent solution, he’s conveniently already been given a temporary one. At that point, his success and survival is never in doubt, utterly sapping whatever drama there could have been from those scenes. In the movie as a whole, Stark’s emotional and physical low-points come at two different times as well, making the resolution of each less cathartic, and, ultimately, making the entire enterprise nowhere near as exciting as it should have been. Sorry as I am to say it, in places this sucker drags like Pete Bogen did junior year right after he found out the stuff his dad was growing in the basement under the fluorescent light wasn’t rosemary. For cryin’ out loud, the movie has the audience watching C-Span for five minutes 3 scenes in.

While there are a number of positives, mostly in the performance category, this movie really could have used a couple more passes on the script to trim away some of the fat and make the remaining meat a bit more flavorful. In the end, it’s much closer to what the first film would have been sans Robert Downey, Jr. – a pretty standard summer action flick. Bummer.

Two-and-a-half Batrocs.

Robin Hood: Rebooted, Retighted, Retunicked, etc., etc.

Having already dressed Russell Crowe up as a gladiator and a cop, to say nothing of vacationing with him in Italy’s wine country, Ridley Scott decided he was finally ready to take the next step with his go-to leading man, so he put him in tights and surrounded him with “Merry Men.”

Just kidding.  If anything, Ridley Scott’s “Robin Hood” exists to explode the parts of the myth left over from the days of Errol Flynn, like the feather in the cap and the idea that England used to ordain bears as friars. This new iteration of the classic tale serves as the next entry in two different cinematic series. First, it’s a de facto sequel to 2000’s Gladiator, reuniting star, director, and leather leggings. Second, it‘s the latest milepost in Hollywood’s seemingly unending race to “reboot” every property that’s ever been registered with the WGA. “MacGruber,” for instance, comes out in a couple weeks.  Louis Letterier’s “reimagining,” however, is already set to open 4th of July weekend. It will star Will Smith as Will Forte and Ryan Gosling as Shia LaBeouf. Forte’s love interest will be played by Jason Sudeikis getting kicked in the throat. 

The point is, rebooting something is no guarantee of improvement – Bond, Batman, and Star Trek worked just fine– but it does seem to be an effective marketing tool. Even when the end product is questionable, initial audience curiosity gets enough butts in seats to make make the whole rebooting thing a viable business model (I’m looking at you, “Incredible Hulk.” Also, Louis Letterier likes punching orphans. Because, apparently, I like taking jabs at people for no good reason. Like my hero, Louis Letterier: Orphan-Puncher).

So, Robin Hood: worthwhile revision, or cynical, Letterier-style cash grab?

As a matter of fact, this Robin Hood is pretty refreshing.  It’s the grown-up version of a story that easily lent itself to being cast with talking animals. In the 70’s. So…yeah. The film is strangely timely as well, although that timeliness is actually sometimes borderline disturbing. Robin Longstride is no longer a random, happy-go-lucky brigand, but essentially a grizzly, unemployed vet. But with a title. If you can call “Earl” a title. He’s recently returned from fighting for his country in the Crusades to find the bureaucratic fatcats at home toying with both his livelihood and that of his fellow little guys. So Robin rallies the villagers to throw off the yoke of their oppressors in what is probably the most thrilling movie that can be made about income tax reform.  The semi-disturbing bit is that whole thing about a disenfranchised proletariat fighting a seemingly all-powerful imperial regime using whatever means necessary in the name of a cause they see as just and righteous. It just used to be a lot easier for us Westerners to get behind underdog vigilantes before real-life underdog vigilantes started beheading Westerners. Regardless, it’s still tough to abandon that “noble outlaw” ideal altogether. Thanks a lot, American Revolution. 

The worst thing I can really say about the film is that it doesn’t stay with you. Had this been the first Robin Hood film, or even the first in a generation, it would probably leave more of an impression, and maybe even set a bar or two. As it is, it’s a fine summer film with a few sublime moments that ultimately feels pretty disposable. It’s just one more option on your Robin Hood menu: would you like your Merry Men Old Hollywood style, Disney style, Iowa style, Serious Filmmaker style, or Szechuan style? There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s really a damn good movie. The performances are engaging, the action well-staged and exciting, the locations and visuals striking, and the script is more than competent. But one expects true excellence from the like of Scott, Crowe, and Cate Blanchett. For a group so experienced and compulsively talented, you get the feeling that they can turn out a film of this quality without breaking a sweat.  This movie could have been quite a proving ground for some young, hungry talent, a la Star Trek, rather than a group of grizzly old vets (I know, I know, I used the term twice. Just pretend that for one of them I was talking about bear doctors).

While it’s great to see a new take on some well-worn material (and I certainly prefer the film that ultimately came to be over the original revisionist pitch that spawned it - turning the Sherriff of Nottingham into the protagonist), at the risk of sounding like a knee-jerk cinephile, it would also be nice to see this level of time, money and talent thrown into a bucket full of new ideas at some point.

To borrow Phaea’s ratings system, I give this one 3 out 5 Quints.