“’The thing that makes it so relevant is that we live in this age of robots, particularly when it comes to war,’ [Tim] Hill, also a longtime writer on the television series SpongeBob SquarePants , told 24 Frames. ‘We have drones that do our fighting for us, do all these jobs men and women don’t want to do. And that’s what makes this so interesting — things like this moment in the story when Johnny realizes he’s going to be disassembled and contemplates death, and whether it’s right to terminate someone else.’ He paused. ‘These are heavy themes for a family movie,’ he said, anticipating a reasonable reader’s reaction. ‘But I think they can have their place.'” Of course. [ LAT ]
In the States, at least, it may seem odd to make a bitterly funny movie about glum working people caught in the crossfire of political upheaval and state-sanctioned murder. But Pablo Larraín pulls it off with Post Mortem , a modest, mordant little drama set in 1973 Santiago, Chile, just as a military coup is spelling the end for democratically elected President Salvador Allende and setting the stage for the ascent of dictator Augusto Pinochet. If you were a Chilean citizen in the middle of all that, you probably wouldn’t be smiling much, and sure enough, Larrain’s protagonist here, a dour coroner’s assistant named Mario, sets the tone for the movie from the beginning: He’s a gaunt, living ghost, with lank, longish blonde-gray hair – he’d almost be hip, if only he had the energy. As the movie opens, whatever problems Mario (Alfredo Castro) has seem to be of the personal sort. We see that he’s a regular at a local cabaret – the faded, crackled letters on its façade read “Bim Bam Bum” – and learn that he’s infatuated with one of the dancers, Nancy (Antonia Zegers), an enervated-looking girl with hollowed-out eyes that nonetheless know how to calculate. Nancy is Mario’s neighbor, although they meet for the first time when Mario steals backstage one day, just as Nancy is being fired by her boss for being too skinny. He introduces himself tentatively. “Hello, neighbor,” she responds, eyeing him as a cat surveys either a mouse or another cat – it’s hard to say which. Mario and Nancy don’t exactly court – it appears she has a hunky Communist activist boyfriend, which presents something of an obstacle. But Mario’s tenderness toward her is clear: He prepares plates of food for her, hoping to tempt her to eat. When her home is nearly destroyed in a mysterious raid – she’s not home at the time — he enters the wreckage and rescues her injured dog. Nancy begs for his help in finding her father and younger brother, who have been missing since the raid. But the destruction of Nancy’s home is just one element of the violence and paranoia that’s erupting all over the city: Soldiers begin dumping anonymous bodies at the morgue where Mario works, demanding that autopsy protocol be waived; the corpses pile up daily in alarming numbers. Ultimately, those soldiers make him part of their ranks, bringing him in to assist in one extremely significant autopsy — the man lying on the table isn’t just a human being, but a political turning point. Post Mortem starts out at a crawl, but it gathers emotional momentum as it pushes forward. Larraín – director of the 2008 Tony Manero , in which Castro also starred – takes his time letting the story unfold, and most of the movie’s action is implied, framed by sparse lines of dialogue. Still, Larrain manages to do a lot with a little: The picture has a pale, worn-out look, as if the blood is being drained from it even as we watch – like the characters who populate it, it looks ready for some kind of rejuvenation that may never come. That’s particularly true of Castro’s Mario: Castro is a lanky figure who looks preternaturally careworn, in the David Strathairn/Peter Coyote mold. His Mario carries so much worry that it appears to have worn grooves into his bones. What’s happening to his country? Why does this woman, whom he loves so much, torture him with her indifference? And might one be a metaphor for the other? Post Mortem asks all those questions, in a way that’s more emotional than clinical. Rather than rushing to determine the cause of death – of love, or of a country — it stubbornly keeps listening for a heartbeat, even though there may not be one. Follow Stephanie Zacharek on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .
Fifth album, released Tuesday, features Tegan and Sara on ‘Body Work.’ By Akshay Bhansali Morgan Page Photo: Rukes.com With two Grammy nominations under his belt and having sold out 35 of the 45 shows on his last tour, American DJ/producer Morgan Page went into the recent Miami Music Week on a high. The title track of his fifth album, “In the Air” featuring Angela McCluskey (a co-production with BT, Sultan and Ned Shepard), went to #1 on Billboard ‘s Hot Dance Airplay Chart and spent 25 weeks in the top 10 last year. “Body Work,” featuring MTV family indie darlings Tegan and Sara , followed as the album’s second single, with an ’80s-inspired video set in an auto shop that premiered on MTV’s Buzzworthy in February. This year, Miami proved fruitful. While he didn’t come away with any International Dance Music Awards (he was nominated for “Best American DJ” and “Best Progressive Track”), MMW provided a fan-galvanizing series of gigs, underscored by his own “Morgan Page Presents” night at Mokai. He showcased his latest remixes and coveted gems from In the Air, which was released Tuesday via Nettwerk Records. According to Page, the fans in Miami clearly had their favorite songs. “The singles ‘In the Air’ with Angela McCluskey and ‘Body Work’ with Tegan and Sara are doing well,” Page told MTV News. “Right now, ‘In the Air’ is the biggest track. It gets the biggest response when I play it. It was a really cool collaboration.” “Body Work” occupies its own unique place in Page’s heart. What began as a White Label remix endeavor in 2005 culminated in Page creating three songs with Tegan and Sara, of which “Video” and “Body Work” made it onto ITA . “They are the coolest,” Page said of the pair. “They are the most professional, put together duo I’ve ever worked with. They just know what they want, and they don’t mess around. [‘Body Work’] is very ’80s and has this very ’80s throwback synth vibe that I love. I wanted a track to be out there that was different. It wasn’t a dubstep track or a progressive house track.” Page says Air is a project for the masses — an effort that, with the help of additional vocalists Nadia Ali , Greg Laswell, Shelley Harland and Richard Walters (to name a few), is aimed to hit the nightclubs hard. “The last album, Believe, was more melancholy and chill,” Page explained. “And this is aiming a little more square at the dance floor. The next single is right around the corner, called ‘Where Did You Go.’ Jonathan Mendelsohn’s on that. He’s done a lot of cool stuff with Dash Berlin and Laidback Luke . It’s a little more aggressive. It’s something I can play in the middle of my set, peak time, guns blazing. Jonathan is just an amazing, dynamic singer.” For his next album, Page revealed he’s planning to continue keeping the spirits high. “I think the next one is going to be even more big-room,” Page shared. “A little more triumph, a little more energy, more peak time. That’s kind of what the crowds want.” Share your review of Morgan Page’s new album in the comments below! Related Artists Morgan Page
In the ’70s New York Magazine ran occasional contests, in one case asking readers to submit greeting cards for unlikely occasions. Nanni Moretti’s We Have a Pope — it original title was Habemus Papam — could use one of those entries as its tagline: “Saw your smoke, now you’re Pope, congrats!” Actually, it’s kind of a bummer to be Pope, which is the idea behind this way-too-gentle but still potentially incendiary comedy by Nanni Moretti (director of the 2001 Palme d’Or winner The Son’s Room ). Michel Piccoli stars as a sad old cardinal who’s surprised to find himself elected to the biggest job in the world — or at least the one with the flashiest costumes. All the other voting cardinals are relieved not to have been chosen — one of the numerous cute gags in the movie involves shots of nervous Vatican pope-deciders casting their votes while whispering variations of “Not me, Lord! Please, not me!” Piccoli seems OK with the appointment at first, and then suffers a panic attack. And what sane person wouldn’t? A psychoanalyst (played by Moretti himself, who also co-wrote the script, with Francesco Piccolo and Federica Pontremoli) is brought in to delve into Piccoli’s psyche, although he’s not allowed to ask questions about the subject’s dreams, sexual fantasies, mother or childhood. What else is there? Before long, Piccoli escapes the Vatican and emerges, blinking, in the outside world, where he comes to terms with his lifelong ambition of being a theater actor. Being a Pope is high theater, but it’s not the kind he wants. The big problem with We Have a Pope is that Piccoli (historically a wonderful and charming performer) just looks shell-shocked every minute. There’s no texture to the performance. The zonked expression on his face is the same in every sequence: He looks as if he’s pondering which cardigan to wear to the big bocce tournament. Still, as lukewarm as We Have a Pope may be as a piece of filmmaking, Moretti doesn’t tread particularly gently into sacred territory. The picture could be more irreverent, but at least it dares to suggest that popes are people too. If nothing else, Moretti does come up with great gag in which a trio of jolly cardinals, thrilled that their pope-choosing duties are over (or at least they think they’re over) try to get their fellow cardinal BFFs to go out for doughnuts and a Caravaggio exhibit at a local museum — the Vatican equivalent of cracking open a cold one. [Editor’s note: This review appeared earlier, in a slightly different form, in Stephanie Zacharek’s 2011 Cannes Film Festival coverage .] Read Movieline’s interview with filmmaker (and Cannes 2012 jury president) Nanni Moretti here . Follow Stephanie Zacharek on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .
Besides William Forsythe , that is: “Director Martin Guigui is currently scouting for: YOUNG JAKE LAMOTTA . To play 14-20 years old, and already a tough bare knuckles fighter. He takes his father’s frequent beatings without a sound and makes money fighting much bigger opponents in back alley fights set up by his drunken, abusive father. Please submit over 18 to play younger OR emancipated. GUISSEPE [ sic ] LAMOTTA . Portrays 40s-70s, Jake’s father, a tough-looking Italian man, he’s a mean drunk who handcuffs and beats his son. He sets up the back alley fights with Jake and much older, stronger opponents. Later he refuses to help the grown-up Jake when he asks for money. Late in life, a frail old man, he reconciles with Jake just before his death. STAR NAME ONLY.” Good luck, Mickey Rourke! [ Moviehole via The Playlist ]
Man vs. beast, man vs. man, man vs. corporation, man vs. himself — The Hunter takes all these pretty ladies out for a spin, but can’t seem to decide which one to bring home. The set-up is so swift it could easily pass you by: Martin (Willem Dafoe) is contracted by a shady outfit to bag a Tasmanian tiger, presumed extinct, in the Australian wilderness. Rumor has it there’s one left out there, and what better reason to fully extinguish a species than in the name of pharmaceutical patent? Martin appears to have no particular feeling about this assignment; as long as his toiletries are properly lined up and he’s left alone, he doesn’t appear to have a particular feeling about much of anything. Martin’s inscrutability is both a key element of all the above-listed plotlines and the reason no one of them is fully realized. Billeted in a remote Tasmanian home with two young children who have a missing father and a grieving mother (Frances O’Connor) who dopes herself through the days, Dafoe’s character is prepped for a transfusion of warmer, more human blood early on. Sass (Morgana Davies) is the big sister with the foul mouth and matter of fact attitude, Bike (Finn Woodlock) is the mystical mute little brother who draws pictures of Tasmanian tigers (a striking mix of jungle cat and mountain wolf) and seems to know more about his father’s whereabouts than he lets on. Both are utterly irresistible, and with their mother MIA they launch a full charm offensive, even jumping in the tub with Martin after he finally gets a broken generator — and some hot water — flowing again. Scene by scene The Hunter , adapted from a novel by Julia Leigh, holds your attention like a pair of big, inquisitive eyes, or perhaps the point-blank scope of an automatic rifle. Director Daniel Nettheim finds a smooth, confident rhythm that almost carries the underdeveloped story (by Alice Addison and Wain Fimeri) across the finish line. In his new home Martin is assimilated into the children’s sprawl whether he likes it or not, and eventually he is moved to help their mother get back on her feet. In town he is inducted into the local dispute between the loggers and the “greenies,” a group of activists attempting to stop the exploitation of the land. Sam Neill plays a fixer of sorts, one with eyes for O’Connor’s fragile widow and a dubious connection to the company desperate for the Tasmanian tiger’s trophy glands. Strange things happen during Martin’s first trips into the wild: a shot is fired, a camera is rigged to monitor one of his traps, and a laser sight hovers near his head. The hunter is being hunted, but by whom? Martin’s moral awakening would seem to be the center of the story — “man” being the only constant in all of the available themes — where human attachments interfere with the mercenary thrust of science, progress, or just mechanical job-completion. And to an extent it is: He develops a protective interest in his host family, even searching for signs of their missing father, with whom he has more in common than it first appeared. But the self-reflective side of that process — specifically the point of Martin’s mission and his feeling about it — only gets cloudier the closer he gets to his target. And it’s not the good kind of fog, which is on ample display in the mood-enhancing veils of mist captured by cinematographer Robert Humphreys, among countless other gorgeously textured shots of the teeming Tasmanian landscape. The paradox of Martin’s character feels accidental, or at least unresolved: The more we evidence we get of a beating heart on the homefront, the more mysterious that heart seems out in the wilderness. Because the film alternates between Martin’s expeditions and furloughs, the contrast becomes starker as the film goes on, and it’s hard not to lose interest in a hunt whose stakes seem unclear to the hunter. The conflict that develops around the terms of his assignment is less convincing than it could have been, making for a rushed and unsatisfying, pseudo-nihilist climax. Still, Dafoe and Woodlock in particular have a few moments that transcend the plot holes surrounding them; in a movie with this much going for it there’s no shame in letting them take direct aim at your heart. Follow Michelle Orange on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .
Characters in horror movies get to be forgiven a few featherbrained actions for the sake of suspense. Why go into the creepy basement after you’ve realized the lights aren’t working? Why visit the decrepit mansion in the middle of nowhere after everyone’s warned you off? Why stick around the haunted house long after a rational person would have fled to a motel at least two states away? (The upcoming Cabin in the Woods provides a clever, clever twist on this type of behavior.) Why? Because it’s scary. But even by the most lenient of genre standards, the behavior of the characters in David Brooks’s ATM is ludicrous enough to make anyone grind his or her teeth in frustration. Its trio of unlucky coworkers winding up a night out are trapped and menaced by a dude in a coat . He’s a big guy, but still — he’s not even carrying a chainsaw or axe or other murder-y implement to start, and it’s three against one. The film is built around one long standoff over the small hours of a frigid Midwestern night during which the man keeps his freezing and ever more desperate victims at bay inside a strip-mall ATM booth while we howl at the screen “Just walk out the door! The guy doesn’t look very fast!” The number of contrivances needed to extend this situation for as long as it plays out pile up until you pray for a twist that reveals the whole thing to be some extensive practical joke, excusing the silliness of everything, after which they all go to Denny’s for pancakes. Spoilers: There is no such twist. David (Brian Geraghty), the film’s protagonist, works at a finance firm where he spends his day apologizing helplessly to clients whose 401(k)s he hasn’t been able to save and failing to ask out his crush Emily (Alice Eve). He’s lured into sticking around for the office Christmas party by his obnoxious coworker Corey ( The Wackness ‘s Josh Peck), who informs him that Emily’s leaving for a new job and that David’s got one more evening to make his move. After a few false starts, David actually does, and he has arranged to give her a ride back to her place when Corey drunkenly insists on getting dropped off too. While cockblocking his way home, Corey bullies David into agreeing to stop for pizza, and then realizes he also needs to get cash. The three pull into a quiet parking lot with a pair of ATM machines inside a glass enclosure, and after they all end up taking refuge inside while Corey figures out his card isn’t working, they turn to go and see an ominous figure standing in the parking lot watching them, face obscured by a fur-trimmed hood. It’s a promising opening, between Corey’s charming/annoying advantage-taking, David’s passivity and Emily’s efforts to project receptiveness at her oblivious would-be suitor — these seem like actual characters, not just devices to enable the mechanics of a concept. And the claustrophobia of the main location, the way its florescent-lit everydayness becomes a barely adequate sanctuary from this mysterious threat (whoever the guy is, the three figure, he appears not to have a bank card that will get him through the security swiper) has cinematic appeal. But any tension the film has created dissipates quickly, around the time the trio watches their assailant casually smash another passerby’s head onto the pavement, and decide they should withdraw as much money as they can to try to pay the guy off. He’s just brutally murdered someone in front of them without provocation, and they offer him $500 and some earrings in exchange for walking away? At that point, has he not made it very clear he’s either crazy or has already made the decision to kill everyone there? ATM has an idea, but it’s not one that can sustain a whole feature (this is director Brooks’s first, from a screenplay by Chris Sparling, writer of the similarly minimal Buried ). Its minimalism raises all the wrong kinds of questions — not about why this is happening to these three people, a topic they fruitlessly debate as they try to wait out the night, but why a security guard would pull up a few dozen yards away from a group of people screaming for help in the middle of a freezing night, get out of his car and blithely ask if they’re OK. Or why no one brought a cell phone. Or why Emily seems to be there just to beg the two men not to go outside and not to leave her unprotected (“You can’t leave me in here!”). Or why they would ever take their eyes off their attacker for a second. In order to keep its situation going, the film has its characters act increasingly foolish, right down to the ridiculousness of its last reveal, the biggest, most nonsensical contrivance of them all. ATM shows an initial flicker of intelligence, which makes its spiral into absurdity all the more disappointing. Like late-night-drunk pizza, this is something you’d be better off skipping in favor of just eating some cereal at home. Follow Alison Willmore on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .
Morgan Spurlock’s latest documentary Comic-Con Episode IV: A Fan’s Hope plants a sloppy, moist kiss on the sweaty brow of geek culture’s premiere event. Where it stops short from also getting on its knees and offering a different sort of sloppy, moist service to the four-day San Diego affair is in the sight of one of the film’s subjects weeping in the audience of a panel entitled “Breaking into Comics the Marvel Way.” Comic-Con Episode IV is indulgent to a fault about everything that happens on the convention floor, but Spurlock makes the smart decision to shape the film primarily around subjects who have an economic stake in the goings-on. The doc makes sure to peek into the many different corners of the con, from the studio previews in massive Hall H to the cosplayers’ Masquerade to the toy collector sales to the portfolio reviews of would-be artists to the comic book dealers fretting over their fading profile, but the tangible goals being pursued by the main characters add a needed sense of urgency. Comic-Con may be heaven on Earth for fanboys and fangirls (“I want to die and go to Comic-Con,” insists one man), but that doesn’t mean everyone’s going to be able to make a living there. The concept of fandom gets a tough workout in Comic-Con Episode IV , which breaks up its exploration of the 2010 San Diego Comic-Con with interviews against a white backdrop with attendees both famous and not. Some of those interviewees were also involved in the making of the movie — the always charming Joss Whedon co-wrote the film, and also produced it alongside Stan Lee and Ain’t It Cool News’s Harry Knowles, ensuring its geek bona fides. While the love of all things convention-related gets directly addressed, with Seth Rogen confessing to toy collecting and Eli Roth addressing how it’s become acceptable to continue to treasure your favorite childhood franchises into adulthood, the time the film spends with subjects who are there solely as fans — James Darling, who intends to propose to his girlfriend Se Young Hang during the Q&A at the Kevin Smith panel — is actually its most grating. The codependent couple spend their entire days in Hall H, as the guy tries unsuccessfully to get a few minutes to himself to surreptitiously go pick up the ring he had made by a jeweler who’s also in attendance. (The proposal, when it does happen, is admittedly sweet.) It’s through Chuck Rozanski, the owner of Mile High Comics, that Comic-Con Episode IV gets at one of the major changes to the event, which is that its shifted away from its comic book foundations to a become a major marketing tent-pole for blockbusters and video games. Chuck’s been coming for 38 years (the comic book panel-inspired interstitial graphics designate him “The Survivor”) and has watched the crowds slowly drift away from his booth. This year, he’s brought along his prized copy of “Red Raven #1,” an incredibly rare comic that he hopes (and may need) to sell for $500,000. (“There’s three billion women on the planet and not a lot of good comics,” he explains to his protege about how romance should never come between a man and his collection.) The quiet distress with which Chuck acknowledges his initial low sales is palpable — there are downsides to having your business and your passion been one and the same. The same goes for Skip Harvey and Eric Henson, who tote portfolios of their art to different publishers hoping to be contracted for work — the two have very different expectations of what will happen, and one is pleasantly surprised while the other is heartbroken. Spurlock knows his way around a pop doc, and Comic-Con Episode IV moves limberly between subjects and areas of the convention and its history, an entertaining watch even as it feels a little unnecessary in documenting one of the year’s most photographed, liveblogged, tweeted about and videotaped cultural gatherings. It’s the urge to create that ends up proving more interesting than the one to collect or to observe — seen not just in Skip and Eric’s stories, but in the work of Holly Conrad, who with her friends has designed insanely intricate costumes based on Mass Effect 2 , hoping that the attention they’ll get will lead to paid work. They’ve constructed in their basement an animatronic head for the person dressed as the alien Urdnot Wrex that could be professional quality, and the crowd is adoringly appreciative of their efforts. It’s not until the credits are rolling that Comic-Con Episode IV touches on any real negatives of the convention, and even that’s done in the most genial way (“It’s real, the stink is real!”). While the film deserves credit for not taking the fond freak-show route of many docs about subcultures — though can Comic-Con really be seen as such anymore? — it’s really a slow softball pitch. There’s little delving into the rise of the Twilight fandom and none into the hostility they’ve faced, or into the other competitive and regressive aspects that are part of the dark side of geek culture. No, Comic-Con Episode IV is a valentine to an event and a group of people so in ascension they don’t really need it, but it’s still a pleasant thing to watch. Follow Alison Willmore on Twitter . 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Bathing your self in the sun’s rays while driving a convertible usually comes at the expensive of tampered hairdos, not to mention a profile line that isn’t nearly as appealing as the car’s hardtop counterpart. Lincoln, which debuted their […] Broadcasting platform : YouTube Source : Gadget Review Discovery Date : 30/03/2012 05:57 Number of articles : 2
The 10 years that we are told at the beginning of Wrath of the Titans have passed since Perseus (Sam Worthington) defeated the Kraken may not seem like long enough, especially when you consider that it’s only been two since the Clash of the Titans remake was released, Kraken-like, on an unsuspecting populace. It was sufficient time, anyway, for Worthington to grow out his hair, so that in Wrath of the Titans he sports a soft cap of curls to go with his peaceful life among the humans. He’s lost a wife but gained a son and another pretext to propel a franchise whose fate was sealed once Avatar ’s numbers started rolling in. That it was going to happen was certain; how it happened was of secondary concern. Greek mythology feels particularly ill-used as a framework for narrative standards this low. Wrath (and who knows the source of the titular rage, they’re just mad , OK?) uses some of the names we now know third- or fourth-hand (I’m not sure where I’d be without The Mighty Hercules , which feels like an AP Classics course by comparison) and adds a few faintly recognizable accoutrements — Zeus’s thunderbolt, Pegasus — in what plays out as a generic “save the world” plot. Demigod Perseus is being called back to the realm of the gods by his father, Zeus (Liam Neeson) to help stem the weakening of his powers caused by waning human devotion. Perseus’s jealous brother Ares (Édgar Ramírez, from Carlos ) had turned to the dark side and Hades (Ralph Fiennes) is still rotting in hell, along with his (and Zeus’s) father, Kronos, who is threatening to unleash his wrath on the world, presumably because his “voice” is indistinguishable from that of an 8-year old burping the alphabet. I’d be mad too. The set-up is put across in the strictest expositional terms. The real progression here is one of firepower — specifically the movement from fireballs that streak across the screen to fire clouds that fill the heavens and everything below. Director Jonathan Liebesman ( Battle: Los Angeles ) brings his signature frenetic pacing to the table, starting the CGI thrashings immediately and growing less and less concerned about whether the story keeps up. The animating theme — Perseus’s ambivalence about his father and his powers — is dispatched in perfunctory doses between disorienting battles with fire-breathing beasts. When he expresses doubts about helping his father, the raffish Agenor (Toby Kebbell), son of Poseidon (played, briefly, by Danny Huston), clears them up with this reply: “Yesterday I was in chains, today I’m here, trying to save the universe. Jump in.” An action/effects showcase like this one is not the place to turn for nuanced characterization, but the script (by Dan Mazeau and David Leslie Johnson, story by Greg Berlanti) seems to defy even the few opportunities it has to make us care. Even the occasional swipes at campy self-awareness (“Don’t give me the big speech,” Agenor says at a critical moment; “Eh, I wasn’t planning to,” Worthington replies) feel tossed off, rather than part of developing an actual tone. It would be a real shame, with this much money and this many effects artists, if there were not a few purely visual wows. Wrath manages exactly two, and not where you might expect. The first is in the form of Rosamund Pike, who plays Andromeda (re-cast since the previous film), warrior queen of the whatever. With her bluebird eyes and regal bearing, Pike manages to telegraph human warmth and pull off a sculpted boob plate at the same time. And it is a welcome surprise that rather than the usual stamping, earth-shuddering, many-mouthed thingies inevitably dreamed up in computer bays to terrorize heroes like this one, the most frightening is basically a giant, one-eyed dude. A showdown with a Cyclops and his pals is genuinely thrilling and proceeds with relative coherence. After that the gang finds the dotty fallen god Hephaestus (Bill Nighy), a sort of vintage arms dealer, and for a few minutes Wrath starts to cruise along like it’s actually going somewhere. That feeling is brief, and before long we’re back to a few anodyne exchanges (Neeson and Fiennes seem particularly glib, swinging their beards around in a movie they’ll never watch) between fetishized explosions. “This is where people used to come to worship the gods,” Perseus says to his franchise-extending young son (John Bell) as they pick through a temple in disarray. Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Follow Michelle Orange on Twitter . Follow Movieline on Twitter .
