I love a good sci-fi thriller. Wish I could have seen one tonight. Instead, I was stuckwatching Cloverfield, the newest canker sore on the upper lip of Hollywood. The plot can be summed up with twelve words: Lower Manhattan attacked by mysterious bloodthirsty creature. Panic, gore, and explosions ensue. Throw in a dramatic mockumentary format and some adolescent drama from the CW network, and that’s pretty much Cloverfield.
Since there are only so many forms science fiction can take, audiences demand new ideas to keep them entertained. How about a way to bring the viewer as close as possible to the action by shooting the entire film from the first-person perspective of one of the characters? The idea certainly looks good on paper. It even appeared promising in the preview. The problem is that the novelty of such a technique survives only about as long as it takes watch the commercial. Much sooner than expected, you find yourself wishing you hadn’t complained so much about those “tired old monster movies.” You’d give anything to see the cameraman’s reaction rather than listen to his ragged breathing and broken-record exclamations (then again, the few times the film indulges this desire reminds us that there is a reason T.J. Miller is kept behind the camera).
The opening of the movie introduces us to our players, their drama-encrusted lives and their so-called personalities. Rob (Michael Stahl-David) is the dangerously noble, unrequited love-stricken hero. The object of his intense affection is Beth (Odette Yustman), a pretty young thing whose distinctive characteristic is a complete lack of personality. Other members of the angst-ridden clique include Jason (Mike Vogel), Rob’s lazy brother, Lily (Jessica Lucas), Jason’s uptight girlfriend, Hud (T.J. Miller), Rob’s utterly helpless sidekick, and Marlena (Lizzy Caplan), the too-cool-for-school alterna-chick. Complexity is obviously toxic for these one-dimensional types, and the compressed descriptions above are actually complete. Just as the teen drama is about to hit a note only small dogs and those under 15 can hear, the film makes the only wise move of its short existence: it brings on the aliens.
Rob’s hero complex initiates this “adventure.” The group is almost out of Manhattan when he receives a phone call from Beth, who is somewhere in Midtown, badly hurt. Chivalrous Rob is compelled to ride to his Dulcinea’s rescue. Get that man a horse and some armor! He’s going to save the beautiful maiden! Rob’s unflappable heroism is only marginally charming the first time, and it’s damn near intolerable the rest of the movie, especially once the unruly horror and utter hopelessness of his quest are revealed. You just want to grab him and smack the hell out of him for thinking this is the correct course of action. Even the rats are fleeing in droves! Rob’s brainless nobility infects the other members of his crew, who become inexplicably determined to remain at his side as long as they can stay alive. I began to wonder what power this man has to generate such blindly trusting followers and where could I perhaps purchase some. Then again, without Rob’s determined willingness to sacrifice himself and his lemming cohorts, there wouldn’t really be much of a movie.
Rob’s heroism is half the fuel that keeps the film running. The other half is Hud’s dependence on Rob. Incapable of functioning on his own, Hud, the cameraman of this failed experiment is doomed to follow Rob wherever he goes, as are we and the other sorry members of this troop. The majority of the camerawork is shaky, as it should be considering Hud’s nonexistent film experience and all that terrified running. Yet, as luck would have it, he always manages to point it in the direction of the coolest action, getting the steady, high quality shots when it counts. Heck, we can’t waste all those special effects because Hud can’t keep his hand still, can we?
As our guide to this nightmare, Hud traps the audience in his dimwitted perspective. Wait, wait. Let me clarify. Hud is NOT dumb. Dumb people can’t speak. Hud, on the other hand, is a magnificently rambling idiot, especially skilled at stating (and re-stating) the obvious and asking unhelpful questions. While at first his buffoonery was cute in a pathetic sort of way, in no time at all he is inflicting a painful torture with his moronic behavior and never-ending, mindless chatter. It was like sitting in a three hour lecture by Ben Stein on the glory of rain gutters. The poor guy was a malfunctioning talking doll that won’t turn off no matter how hard you slam it against the wall. If you listened closely, you could hear the inner voices of three hundred individual audience members simultaneously shouting “SHUT UP!”
Although abnormally short for a movie today, Cloverfield is miraculously capable of dragging itself out, much like an overenthusiastic actor in a protracted death scene. Every time the ever-shrinking gaggle of losers is given an opportunity for escape, they throw it away with both hands, prolonging the anguish at least another ten minutes. And the audience seems to understand that as long as Hud is clutching the camera (presumably recording all this for our pleasure), the story will continue. Unfortunately, none of the danger, fear, blood, or explosions can make him release the device. I began to wish there was a way I could throw myself to the monster and end the misery.
American film audiences should be insulted that filmmakers have such a low opinion of their intelligence and tastes. My only question is, why bother putting so much money and effort into a movie at all? For a fraction of the price, a movie could be just an hour of frantically agitated animated shapes and squiggly lines accompanied by the music of Slayer and sound of one of those machines that crush cars at the dump. Actually, Cloverfield could have been that. There wouldn’t have been much of a difference.
