Psst!
Is it safe to write anything even remotely negative about
Wall-E, the animation gods' annointed avatar? Will I be censured? Bull-whipped? Transported? Will I have my personality reassigned by Disney scientists, my currently cynical outlook replaced with unending happiness and a fervid desire to buy huge quantities of
Wall-E merchandise? I don't know, and I don't care. Ladies and gentlemen,
Wall-E is a preachy, disconnected, self-congratulatory, and perhaps most unfortunate, boring movie. That's right, fanboys & fangals, I said it.
BOOOO-ring.
I must confess to a certain degree of confusion about the ridiculously egregious praise this film has received already. Just as a sampling, take a gander at the following review blurbs I chose at random from several "top critics" on Rotten Tomatoes. I haven't seen this much unwarranted gushing since The Departed opened in '06:
Peter Travers, The Rolling Stone: "First reaction: WALL-E, directed with a poet's eye by Andrew Stanton (Finding Nemo) from a whipsmart and shrewdly accessible script he wrote with Jim Reardon, is some kind of miracle. Talk about daring. It's Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot mixed with Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and Terry Gilliam's Brazil, topped with the cherry of George Lucas' Star Wars and Steven Spielberg's E.T. , and wrapped up in a G-rated whipped-cream package. What could have been a mess of influences is instead unique and unforgettable. Tons of movies promise something for everyone. WALL-E actually makes good on that promise. It's a landmark in modern moviemaking that lifts you up on waves of humor, heartbreak and ravishing romance. Want proof that animation can be an art form? It's all there in the groundbreaking WALL-E."
Joe Morgenstern, The Wall Street Journal: ". . . the film stands as a stunning tour de force. The director has described it as his love letter to the golden era of sci-fi films that enchanted him as a kid in the 1970s. It is certainly that, in hearts and spades. Beyond that, though, it's a love letter to the possibilities of the movie medium, and a dazzling demonstration of how computers can create a photorealistic world -- in this case a ruined world of mysterious majesty -- that leaves literal reality in the dust. I'll write more about this in Saturday's Weekend Journal, but for now I must drop my inhibitions about dropping the M word -- especially since I've already used magnificent -- and call "WALL-E" the masterpiece that it is."
A. O. Scott, The New York Times: "Rather than turn a tale of environmental cataclysm into a scolding, self-satisfied lecture, Mr. Stanton shows his awareness of the contradictions inherent in using the medium of popular cinema to advance a critique of corporate consumer culture. The residents of the space station, accustomed to being tended by industrious robots, have grown to resemble giant babies, with soft faces, rounded torsos and stubby, weak limbs. Consumer capitalism, anticipating every possible need and swaddling its subjects in convenience, is an infantilizing force. But as they cruise around on reclining chairs, eyes fixed on video screens, taking in calories from straws sticking out of giant cups, these overgrown space babies also look like moviegoers at a multiplex. They’re us, in other words. And like us, they’re not all bad. The paradox at the heart of “Wall-E” is that the drive to invent new things and improve the old ones — to buy and sell and make and collect — creates the potential for disaster and also the possible path away from it. Or, put another way, some of the same impulses that fill the world of “Wall-E” — our world — with junk can also fill it with art."
I'm sorry, but WHAT?! Were you shemps watching the same movie I was?! I believe it was the inimitable Oscar Wilde who once wrote, "Remote from reality and with her eyes turned away from the shadows of the cave, Art reveals her own perfection, and the wondering crowd that watches the opening of the marvelous many-petalled rose fancies that it is its own history that is being told to it, its own spirit that is finding expression in a new form. But it is not so." So the very fact that you dweebs think this film's clumsy, frantic attempt to teach us all about love in the time of environmental tribulation is a form of "art" demonstrates exactly the opposite. True Art doesn't trip over its own didactic agenda. True Art doesn't try to mask said agenda with "feel-good" allusions to old musicals (and since when is Hello, Dolly! "half-forgotten," Mr. Scott?) and cheesy rhetorical appeals to pathos, appeals like the musty old "lonely and awkward outcast" chestnut. No, true Art doesn't seem like art at all. And the simple fact is that Wall-E is trying WAY too hard to be art.
From the moment I saw the "clever" autopilot helm-bot's plagiaristic red eye, plucked from the archetypal Hal's cold, robotic face, I knew we were in for a perpetual "wink" of a film. Like J. K. Rowling and the Indulgent Fifth Book, Pixar's Stanton badly needed an editor on this project, someone to provide the check and/or balance to his endless parade of cleverness. How many times did we need to hear the laboriously knowing line "I didn't know we had a pool!" aboard the cutely christened starship Axiom? Seriously, I counted at least three repetitions. Like my esteemed blog-colleague Forky has
already asserted, repetition itself is a major problem in the film. The movie's anxious, eager-to-please, clamoring reiteration resembles a four-year-old child begging his distracted father to "Watch me! Watch me, Daddy! Daddy, watch me! Are you watching? DADDEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
And as an avid reader of nineteenth- and twentieth-century children's literature, I must own up to an intense distaste for ponderously didactic narratives. Stories packed so full of noble morals for their potentially innane and drooling audiences (I do concur with at least one of Scott's points; the big floating babies definitely represent Pixar's, or at least Stanton's, view of the movie-going public) usually wind up confusing their less intelligent viewers, dazzling their trendy left-wing groupies, and annoying the s#!t out of their moderately savvy critics. But the truly frustrating thing about the latest Pixar pic is that none of the savviest in the latter group seem to be doing their jobs in discussing it. Honestly, Mr. Morgenstern. Did you really just write that the CGI-scape of the abandoned planet Earth "leaves literal reality in the dust"? Shall we order up a hoverchair for you? Go outside once in a while, Mr. Morgenstern.
And as for my little fit of pure ennui brought on by this film's supposedly brilliant opening sequence, I can only shake my head and wonder if I've finally gone insane. When I say bored, I don't mean a trifle disinterested. I was yawning and checking my watch. Go ahead, blogosphere. Write your snide comments about how insensitive I am, about how I have no sense of taste when it comes to highbrow cinema (yeah, they'll be changing to limited releases at arthouse cinemas for the next Pixar product).
But you know what? I like silence in films, so my boredom cannot be fobbed off on a simple lack of dialogue. After all, I loved No Country for Old Men, and that one contained huge sections of wordless action. No, blogpals, the problem lies in the film's smug sense of self-justification. I was bored because, from the opening credits with their tired "song-in-space" gimmick to the closing scenes depicting happy hippies dancing with birdies, I felt like I was being winked at. The film seemed to say, "We're fu(#ing Pixar, bitches. Everything we touch turns to fu(#ing gold. Did you see what we just did there? We played a showtune in outer space. Did you see all the satellites and space junk around the planet? We'll show it again, just to make sure you felt the hammer blow to the head. Did you notice that the massive shapes at the opening are actually piles of trash, not skyscrapers? We'll run those by you one more time. C'mon people, you have to admit we're the shiznit."
Let's all just take a deep breath, step back from our praise-pulpits, and qualify our universal endorsement of this film as the chosen one. Admittedly, it's not crap. Just as Finding Nemo was not crap. But when compared to the other titles in Pixar's portfolio, Monsters, Inc. and The Incredibles, for example, Wall-E belongs at the bottom of a rather large heap.
Guess what, blogfiends. Your faithful Bibb has completed his Ph.D. coursework, and he's headed for the ominous comprehensive exams in the spring. In the meantime, he has to read around 140 books to prepare. Can you friggin' believe it?! What the crap, dudes? You'd think I was trying to get a degree in reading stuff...or something.
Why is it always so easy for someone who's exceptionally good at something athletic to become a hero? Do they really deserve such complete adoration? If aliens invaded tomorrow, what good would Phelps be in defending us from the attack? What would he do, shame them into retreat by soundly beating them in the 200m? I mean, at least the Greeks chose heroes who could legitimately defend them from the wrath of foreign invaders or the gods, truly heroic men like Hercules, Achilles, Theseus, Perseus, and Odysseus. But whom do we choose? These people.
If these are our champions, then we should probably prepare ourselves for a pretty sound alien beatdown. People are so anxious to indulge in narcissistic hero-worship that they will pledge their undying allegiance to any pan-flashing celebrity who reminds them most of themselves. I think it was Bertolt Brecht who once wrote: "Unhappy is the land that needs a hero." Too true, Mr. Brecht, but I think I would revise that statement to read, "Unhappy is the land that collects heroes like action figures."
.jpg)
