Jurassic World

Chris Pratt and pals, not pals.

Spoiler alert: THIS MOVIE BLOWS!

I didn’t go into it some easily offended Jurassic Park fanboy, or even with expectations beyond its run time allowing for the inhalation of popped corns, so take this vitriol completely salt free: this is the worst movie I’ve seen on the big screen since Alien vs Predator. Keep in mind I saw Jupiter Ascending for the sole purpose of its shittiness, and there still isn’t any competition. Jurassic World isn’t laughably bad, it’s painfully bad. It’s generically bad. It’s furniture from Walmart, roadside motel, standard definition infomercial, Velveeta bad. How is this movie not being universally panned? It’s on the same entombed level as the Transformers movies, and seeing as how the last entry in that series had hybrid dinosaurs, the only significant difference is roughly 40 minutes (thank god).

Sure, there are plenty of people who enjoy the Transformers movies; the same number of people whose opinions we completely ignore, as if the dog stopped licking itself to tell us something cool the smell reminded it of. And don’t start excusing these movies because they aren’t trying to be high falutin, existential, or even good. Crows aren’t any more tolerable a candy just because their intention is to taste like large warts of black licorice, pus complete.

When kids sit down to play with their dinosaurs, they start marching them around; there’s a good fight or two; a chase; the GI Joes make an appearance for some growling and shooting; then another chase, under the dog, over the ottoman, shooting straight up the wall and backflipping all over hell. That’s in about the first fifteen minutes; all in good fun. There you have the first Jurassic Park. After which the movies grew progressively worse and less popular, but somehow we’ve convinced ourselves, not only that this won’t be Jurassic Park 4, or Godzilla 12, but that it’s taken the kids twenty years to come up with the really cool stuff, instead of, I don’t know, the kid’s are twice baked morons who need a smack upside the head. The hell are you doing? Invisible heat seeking T-raptor-rex… get a job! *smack*

In case you don’t think it’s fair to compare this movie to the play of an idiotic man child, sit back, this is going to take a while…

Chris Pratt plays an eccentric hobo bad-ass naturalist, living aloof on theme park island. He’s attempting to form personal bonds with raptors that prove early on they’d rather eat him than simply smell his hand (the ultimate bond!). Still, our hot hobo will do anything for his raptors (three generic, and one with a stripe of blue, creatively called Blue), much to the chagrin of Army Gut McLaw&Order, who is desperate to get these raptors into the Army. (Yes, that’s what I said.) Now why would the military need hard to train, impossible to lead weapons in a world of drones? Because – and I’m not joking here – they can jump.

Meanwhile Bangsy Hotbumps coordinates and runs the entire theme park despite not knowing the details of anything substantial – like what the fuck dinosaurs, or why in general – and can be overruled at any moment by an invisible, all powerful and efficiently voting group known as The Board. Apparently they are centrally located, with extensive office hours, as cell phone reception on the island is spotty – and possibly haunted, considering its pension for the dramatic – a real oversight for a theme park so advanced they do on site gene splicing and have a command deck able to display the real time vitals of its guards. Still, Bangsy proves her intelligence and leadership by predicting the trajectory of a soft drink early in the film, and having really vivid whites. Good on her. Sadly, like most woman, despite a position of power, subordinates argue with her at every turn before finally relenting for the good of their sexual tension.

Now whenever a boy sits down to his toys, if he has a little sister she wants nothing more than to get her snot-grubby idiocy in the pie. He tries to box her out but she’s gotten the raw end of enough rough housing that, at the first scream in the anywhere direction of parental units, he gives in to her tangential stupidity:

OK, now there’s a couple kids who get sent to the dinosaur island, and they got passes to go on all the super cool rides they want, but then the dinosaurs get loose – What kids? – There’s two of em’, like us! – Nu-huh, theyre both boys, see [rubs the crotch of 2 Lego people] – Fine. There’s one who knows how cool science really is, and an older brother who’s too dumb, and a jerk – Hey! – and he’s only got one thing on his mind. – You’re just jealous cuz you don’t got any – I do too, ya perv. And I know you know it cuz I see you play’n with my bras. – Nuh-uh – Do too

And so the sibling mounds of stunted brain matter bicker back and forth:

An overprotective mother sends her kids halfway around the world to the site of history’s most notorious fiasco (which all happened only twenty years ago), because, uh, she’s a vaccine denier and nothing they do has to make sense; or I don’t know, Dr. Oz told her it was an island of miracle cures, who cares; and they are ignored by their Aunt, Bangsy Hotbumps, and proceed to run around ecstatic, accessorizing their boners, one literally and one with the recitation of long latin prefixes. This vicarious-trip-through-a-theme-park plot, stolen directly from the first film, comes to an abrupt end with a weeping conversation about divorce, which is never explained, and has fuck all to do with anything.

All this shuffled in clumps with the plotline of our raptor ranching hobo:

Insinuating his way over to the latest attraction, the Blah-Blah-Blah Rex – the newest, fiercest, scariest, looks-exactly-the-same-acts-the-same-and-is-the-same-size-as-a-T-rexiest dinosaur ever – Chris Pratt lays his wise douche cynicism on in thick squirts. After two minutes waiting cageside with no signs of it on their thermal imaging, Pratt and a rent-a-sausage decide to throw their clown wigs into the ring. As they are analyzing claw marks and debating its possible escape, word comes from HQ that the tracking device – which they didn’t check first because it was too late, they already had my ten dollars – still places the dinosaur within the cages perimeter. The next step in the recipe for bullshit is twelve cups of freshly grated bull shit, baked at four hundred and bullshit degrees fahrenheit, and plated with a lemon wedge. When they realize the danger they’re in, instead of running for the human sized door they came in, they run for the T-rex sized door they called to be opened because movie.

Our man child is simply glistening and onion laced with excitement over this brilliance. He stops to masturbate. Meanwhile his sister steers us back to the two boys:

Fresh from their incongruous bonding session, they decide to take their gyro marble into the employee only portion of the woods which is guarded by wishful thinking. In tromps the freshly escaped Blah-blah-rex; which smashes up their future jeep, but is out run by their tiny legs and a Fugitive leap from a waterfall.

Not bad, says our sticky idiot, coming back to play. Whenever he’s come down from his boner high he’s tasked with explaining himself, and is happy to see half the mess has been cleaned up for him. But how did Blahminus rex disappear? Because they gave it treefrog DNA to survive in a jungle environment, see, because, you know, normal T-rexs get type 2 diabetes and terminal osteoporosis from the humidity, or Crohn’s disease, or something. Oh and it has thermal vision because it was crossed with a snake… because snakes… period. We are to assume DNA works like watercolors: no matter how well you try to mix them, they all turn into a big brown stupidity.

At one point in this clumsy shuffle, our hunk in a vest and some other wafer dead character combine to let the director, or writer, or whoever it is I want to kick in the lungs, talk directly to the audience. Why the hybrid dinosaurs? Because in the twenty years since J Park’s collapse (no less than five years of which I’m setting aside to build this ridiculous place) people have become bored with plain dinosaurs. They demand bigger and more. They demand “progress.” Instead of simply asking how fucking a dinosaur with a snake is progress, Chris Pratt turns to the camera and says, (gravel voice) “maybe this time progress should lose.”

Ugggghhhhhhhhhhh!

Ignoring the fact that people have been going to zoos for generations and don’t demand the river otters learn karate, or the pelicans to juggle; it’s interesting to contemplate whether the movie is trying to excuse itself. Think this is ridiculous crap? it seems to ask. Well you wouldn’t have it any other way, Jim and Jane Public. It’s more explosions, more tears, more muscle and more boob, or you won’t even watch the trailer.

This level of self awareness proves ironic when at every turn Jurassic World elbows us and says, “Hey! remember the raptors? Remember the raptors from Jurassic Park? Raptors!…Member?,” and gets us into and out of each scene with far simpler story telling.

After emerging from their waterfall plunge the boys seek refuge in what turn out, to no one’s surprise, to be the ruins of Jurassic Park. Finding all sorts of green and yellow striped gear (wink-wink, bludgeon-bludgeon), and swallowing us whole in the reprised theme for the third dozen time, they stumble onto a possible way out of their mess: jeeps. But wait, they won’t start!

And now for a perfect example of how lazy and dumb this movie is. One brother: “Hey, remember when we fixed up that car with so and so?” The other: “Yeah.” Cut. They’re driving away.

I, I can’t even… There must have been deadlines on top of deadlines; a fruit salad of deadlines; a pot luck dinner of deadlines, where each deadline brought a cheesy potato deadline-dish to pass. I just… I can’t… who wrote, who edited, who key-gripped this shit? It’s all shit except the special effects.

OK let’s skip the CEO flying (instead of, say, a pilot!) their main offensive weapon into the ground; let’s skip the pterodactyl-raptors it unleashed; lets skip the pointless and drawn out torture death of Bangsy’s assistant by said cartoons; let’s skip right to the end.

Army Jones is in charge because The Board, aka the script, says so. His dream finally comes true as he has the power to command raptor troops. Pratt now leads the four raptors, that recently tried to eat him, on a hunt for T-snake-frog-rex. The scene where they find it is the low brown watermark of the movie.

The plan was, find it, blow it away. What happens is, they find it, and then stare at each other. The raptors stare, the people stare, the Franken-rex stares; then, it happens. Rexy goes, RAHHR! then  the raptors go, wait, rahhr? and Chris Pratt goes, uh oh, it’s also part raptor! and then the raptors turn and kill everyone but the main characters.

(Let’s all take a moment of silence and just shake our heads)

After the main characters hightail it out of there, Bangsy realizes there is only one thing left to do: release (one of) the krakens! She opens the cage of the old rex (same as the new rex); out runs it in heels; then throws a flair at new rex, because obviously whoever touched the flair last is IT, and whoever is IT a rex is inexplicably drawn to fight.

Finally! it’s Vanilla vs Raptor, in the rex-off you’ve been waiting less than a minute to see!

Have you ever wanted to see a pro wrestling match where every one had really short arms and had to use their teeth? Me neither. Raptor-rex eventually kicks all kinds of ass and is going in for the kill when, just in the nick of time, our idiot siblings join forces, and in the nadir of all sense, who comes in to save the day? THE RAPTORS!

I give up. That’s not even the end of the bullshit, but I give up. Seriously people? Seriously? The good guy turned villain, or the villain turned good guy, is one of the deadest, most abused, most Scooby-Doo’d horses in the book, and this movie has both of them! happening to the same damn characters!

It’s time we put an end to this ridiculous play time. It’s time the parents called the masturbating man-child and annoyingly turd headed sister to dinner and fed them rat poison goulash with forks of lightning. It’s time to start a class action lawsuit to get our money back.

 

p.s. Rotten Tomatoes gives Jurassic World a 71% which means I am now raising the margin of error for this metascore to 60%.
p.s.s. Perhaps, “maybe this time progress should lose,” is gender specific, as Bangsy has her clothes Romancing the Stones’d to shreds over time, while Chris Pratt actually puts more clothing on.

Advertisements

One thought on “Jurassic World

  1. But it could cloak because Cuttlefish DNA! DNA alphabet soup apparently. And it only uses the cloak to kill the hit squad.

    Also, I cannot believe you left out the most important bullshit dish at the bullshitdeadline buffet!
    The fake Megalodon comes leaping 65 feet randomly out of the water to a spot IT COULDN’T SEE, with mouth agape just in case there is a plot ender lying on the ground waiting to be eaten…

...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s