Apollo 18 (review)
Apollo 18 is not scary. It’s not intense. It’s not surprising. It’s supposed to be all these things and fails completely.
Apollo 18 is not scary. It’s not intense. It’s not surprising. It’s supposed to be all these things and fails completely.
Holy shit, Indiana Jones and James Bond are fighting frickin’ aliens. This is a geekgasm. Or it should be. But it isn’t.
Take that, Spielberg, with your suburban alien invasions and your gentle parables about acceptance and stuff. Why don’t the aliens ever land in the ’hood, where no one will take their shit sitting down?

Jokiness and hokeyness have been genetically engineered away, leaving something pure and sweet and poignant, a throwback to late-60s/early-70s humanist science fiction. More Charly than Heston.
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.
Ewww. It’s got Michael Bay’s jingo-jism all over it.
I am consumed by the aubergine power of muddled confusion and despair.

Is it weird that the overwhelming feeling I’m left with after Super 8 is one of a nostalgic melancholy?
“Best. Comic Book Movie. Evah!” So my inner fangirl is screaming at the moment as she does a little happy Snoopy dance.
Hey! It’s a supernatural horror flick about the clash between the power of the institution of The Church and the power of personal faith and belief. Oh, and also about kicking vampire ass.