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There’s tons of delicious suspense of the horror-flick variety to be had in writer-director André Øvredal’s mockumentary, and plenty of Spielbergian shock-awe, but what makes it one of the most satisfying examples of found-footage flicks yet is its observational, journalistic ethos.
Apollo 18 is not scary. It’s not intense. It’s not surprising. It’s supposed to be all these things and fails completely.
Born on a battlefield! Blood blood blood! Bone crunching! Burn burn burn! In 3D!
There is a conspiracy theory that I’m starting right now that one day back in 1987, as he was driving in the desert outside Austin, Robert Rodriguez was abducted by aliens…
Holy shit, Indiana Jones and James Bond are fighting frickin’ aliens. This is a geekgasm. Or it should be. But it isn’t.
Incontinence — as the result of either as-yet untrained bowels or a terrible adult affliction — is presumed to be a major concern for the viewer here.
It’s now a tossup whether the best comic-book superhero movie of 2011 is X-Men: First Class or Captain America: First Avenger… But I’m leaning toward Captain America.
Those clever sneaky Pixar folks are warning us that if we Americans don’t clean house, we’re going to bring the whole world down with us, and the entirety of human civilization will collapse into a nasty soup of irrationality and ignorance.
This is simply a great flick: powerfully emotional, profoundly resonant, scary and funny and intense and wholly enrapturing.
Is it weird that the overwhelming feeling I’m left with after Super 8 is one of a nostalgic melancholy?
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