dMYD
Starring Liam Neeson
d
Full circle fun-sucked shenanigans as the increasingly unwieldy Star Wars franchise devours itself and starts naming the films the way it names the unending stream of products that are fast covering every square mile of the planet. ‘Star Wars’ is a great moniker for a movie. Does that thing up there sound like an enticing title to you? And by you I mean Bobby Mars, unfortunate thirteen-year-old-son-of-a-family-friend who’s amazingly managed to bypass watching any of the non-stop space juggernauts for the entirety of his natural life. Bobby’s never seen A New Hope. He’s never seen Clone Wars Season Two. He’s never seen Caravan of Courage or whatever the nerf this is. Bribed with three boxes of Frosty Nerds and the promise of Liam ‘Daughter-Taker-Fucker’ Neeson in the cast, the robbed boy was coerced into sitting through it and giving his opinion as an example of the naïve money-shedding tweenager demographic that George Lucas is presumably grabbing at with these re-re-re-re-re-releases. Bake ‘em away, toy!
‘I’ve seen Yoda before on the Vodaphone adverts and I really like Taken, especially the bit where Liam Neeson tells The Soup Nazi why he’s a member of UKIP. But in this he just looked like a tramp, and he takes the boy away from his mum and his planet because he can smell something in his blood, and I thought that was a bit weird. I don’t remember much of the story, but they did go to a place, then another place, then they talked some more and went to a place so it was a bit like Lord of the Rings, but without all the hot dwarves. Do you have any troll dolls? My sister went to college and I found this box under her bed that had loads of trolls in it. I comb the hair a lot, but it’s their faces that I really like. I kiss them under my blanket. My mom doesn’t know. Have you got any? Oh, and Pogs. They make good troll mirrors, but it’s never their face, so it freaks them out.
What’s a Jar Jar? I didn’t get what he meant. What he was saying, and why he was there. He looked like a red duck having a stroke. Can we talk about something else? I’m thirteen years old, my attention span amounts to the time it takes Jeremy Clarkson to have sex whilst he’s thinking about a Volkswagen Scirroco.
I don’t think it represents the death of imagination and faith for several generations, or even that it symbolises Hollywood’s slow nose-dive into money-led plastic wank over any semblance of a basic plot. I guess, if anything, it actually shows that an insane, reality-phobic robo-auteur can still have creative freedom outside of studio influence, as long as he has eight billion dollars and his own ranch and more neck-flaps than an over-eighties bowling team. But what do I know? I’m only a fictional child with the face of the boy from Mad Men. Fictional children are rubbish.’
From the mouths of babes. Please don’t fund the machine any further.
No comments:
Post a Comment