USA, PG-13, 150 m, 1998
In Armageddon, director Michael Bay manages to keep
the film’s tension unbroken for roughly two-and-a-half hours, but despite the
acknowledged daring of this feat, I’m loath to commend him for it. The
momentum of this gargantuan special-effects machine is so fast and furious that
it nearly wipes you out. Even the breakneck speed of such classic roller coaster
rides as Aliens and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was
intermittently disconnected so characters could be properly fleshed-out and the
poor winded audience could catch its breath. Yet the notion of any downtime
seems to send Bay into a panic. Before an image can take hold, he’s chopping
away to some other thrill. Armageddon is so unrelentingly action-packed
it borders on the sadistic. The movie rockets forth with a meteor shower that nearly
pulverizes New York City (a brilliantly executed string of high thrills), but
this fatiguing exhibition of cosmic force is but a minor preamble to the real
imminent terror: an asteroid the size of Texas is headed straight for dear
Earth. (One learned chappie warns that it could destroy all life
forms—including bacteria!) The heads at NASA decide to send a crew into space
to drill a hole into the rock and shove a nuke down its core. It’s
hypothesized that upon detonation, the “global killer” will split in two,
sending both halves whizzing by either side of the planet. (A scheme virtually
identical to the one the propellerheads in Deep Impact came up with.) So,
they enlist the services of an oil driller named Harry S. Stamper (Bruce
Willis). When we first see Stamper, he’s perched on the edge of his sea-faring
rig, driving golf balls at a Greenpeace boat full of protesters. The scene is
clearly played for laughs, but I can’t conceive of any discerning moviegoer
finding it funny. (What do you expect, though, from producer Jerry Bruckheimer?
He’s not making films for the art house crowd, but rather beer-guzzling
rednecks and pimply adolescent males weaned on reruns of “Married with
Children.”) Later, Stamper discovers his daughter (sleepy-eyed Liv Tyler) in
bed with his main driller (beefy Ben Affleck), so he loads his shotgun and
chases the horny palooka all around the oil platform. The incestuous undertones
that snake through this volatile love triangle represent the movie at its
sleaziest, yet it’ll mercifully elude most viewers for the movie is already
peeling ahead to some other piece of nonsense before the notion registers. Of course, Stamper accepts NASA’s mission, but only on the condition that he can take his own crew. It’s a truly motley assortment (a obvious nod to The Dirty Dozen), which includes Michael Clarke Duncan as “Bear,” a muscle-bound Neanderthal who goes all rubbery at weddings; Will Patton as “Chick,” the quintessential good ol’ boy with a penchant for gambling; and the customarily aggravating Steve Buscemi as “Rockhound,” a wiry sexual deviant whom were told is also something of a genius. (Although I can’t recall the character ever doing anything that could back up this assertion.) Yet as ludicrous and contrived as these characters are, the film’s thespians seem to be having fun with paying it over the top. (Willis, on the other hand, sleepwalks through the whole debacle, never even bothering to get a hold on his southern accent.) The suits at NASA develop aching migraines trying to whip these retards into star-trekking shape, but Stamper’s crew eventually completes the training—and with precious little time to spare. When they finally gear up and march to the awaiting rocket, one sharp-eyed bystander remarks, “Talk about the wrong stuff.” July 4, 1998 © Copyright 2007 by Edward Larsen Terkelsen. All rights reserved.
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