Dredd (2012) and Mad Max (1979)

It’s the future, so bring on the apocalypse. I downed cheapo, gonzo 1979 Australian classic (and Mel Gibson debut) “Mad Max” as a fast antidote to “Dredd,” the second cinematic coming of comic book anti-hero killer cop Judge Dredd after the God-awful, terrible 1995 Sylvester Stallone film of the same name that put freakin’ Rob Schneider in the sidekick role. 

(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)

Is “Dredd” better? By far. Miles. It’s still crap. For myriad reasons. The plot: It’s post-nuclear war U.S. of A., and the whole East Coast is a godless concrete jungle of high rises and crime. The police and courts have been merged into the Judges: Leather-clad, masked cops with guns and a glint to kill. Basically, it’s like present day America except everybody is an unarmed young black man. You can get “judged” and end up in a body bag just for walking. Sorry, I digress. Still on a “FrutivaleStation” kick. Can’t help it.

Anyway, Dredd (Karl Urban) is the best (read: most ruthless) cop in Mega-City (because Metropolis was taken) and we follow him here as he takes on a high-rise apartment tower that reaches for the heavens, but might as well plunge low to the pits of hell. As in 1995, Dredd has a sidekick. And it’s a she, and not Schneider in drag, thank the gods. Helmetless because why stump the fan boy’s eye candy factor, Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) also is a mutant who can read the thoughts of others. Why are there mutants popping around? No idea. 

Dredd and Anderson enter the complex to investigate a grisly drug-related triple murder and within minutes find themselves at the mercy of the building’s ruthless drug lord (Lena Headey). Mama she is called, and she places the building on lockdown and tells every thug ruthless, shitty, one-eyed, tenant over an intercom that she wants Dredd’s head now. From there it’s war, the tenants attack our hero (and the girl rookie) and he shoots, bombs, kicks, scowls, and grimaces his way through the lot to the top.

If One Man Against an War Zone Apartment Complex and the intercom bit sounds familiar it’s because the plot and details were done exactly point-for-point in “The Raid,” an kick-ass Indonesian action/blood fest also from 2012. Literally, this is a replica. Down to camera angles. Everything says director Pete Travis is innocent, it’s a mere coincidence. If it is, “Raid” is still the better film. And Travis has the luck of a rat. “Raid” has a hero that means something and is one hell of a sight to behold, has a human trait, and a reason not to fail. It’s also a spectacular feast of stunts. Seriously, see it.

This has CGI glut, a zero hero with Urban (good actor, no slam, I like him) doing Eastwood as an unkillable tank, and it all means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I get it. Dredd is supposed to be the darker Dark Knight. Great read for a book, I’m sure, bur a lousy watch and with so many wasted opportunities. Dig it: Mama has created a nasty drug that slows the brain to a crawl so every movement feels wicked trippy, lights pop, and rushing water stands still, and the effect is crazy wicked on screen. So let’s see Dredd on that shit, right? No. Dude just kills and scowls. I won’t watch a third film. C 

“Mad Max” I can watch endlessly. You know the plot: It’s the near-future, meaningful authority is dust-bin history, and the highways are open roads of lawlessness akin to old Australia or the American West than anything we’d call the future. Zero horses, all cars. Gibson is Max, a highway cop trying to maintain some order against roaming bikers who steal, rape, and kill for the pure glee. The bikers make the error to wrong Max’s friends and family, and Gibson as Max explodes like a fuel-air bomb in a film that feels not scripted or planned, but captured out of a complete drug-fueled nightmare. Not slow like in “Dredd,” but warp-speed head-rush fast.

Whole sections of “Max” are incomprehensible and wreck loud, but few films -– especially chase ones -– have ever felt more in the moment. It vibes like a tale that had to be made or writer/director George Miller and his star would just die. And for all the story’s debauchery, Miller shows little blood or gore. It’s just over the camera frame’s edge, way deep in our skull, and that is scarier than anything anyone can put before our eyes. Gibson is young and scary fanatical, is that acting? A-

Sleuth (1972)

I saw the original “Sleuth” ages ago, whilst in college, and remember it as highly entertaining, a wild cinematic shape shifter, turning in on itself repeatedly as a cuckolded old man of wealth (Laurence Olivier) invites the hairdresser (Michael Caine) sleeping with his wife to his home for a cruel game of psychological torture. But the tables turn, and the characters onscreen one-up each other, as do the actors, classic theater thesp versus young hotshot sex symbol. I also recall it being painfully overlong, just one damn parlor trick too much. And, damn it, I hold at exactly that. Seriously, watch this film if you love acting, the way people play at bouncing off each other on screen, revealing -– and more importantly, holding back information -– until exactly the most painful or ludicrous moment. But beware, past the two-hour mark, you as I did, may get antsy and there’s 20 minutes to go. Based on a play, Anthony Shaffer’s screenplay desperately needs shortening. Olivier and Caine are beyond great, I can barely imagine the thrill of being on set. So watch. But squirm. Avoid the remake. B

Total Recall (1990 and 2012)

If you asked me to name 25 action films from the past 25 years that needed remaking, or even warranted remaking, “Total Recall” would not make the list. Not even on a count of 50 movies. Not by a long shot. And not one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s greatest hits.

The “silly gorefest” -– as a colleague calls it –- that is the 1990 version of “Total Recall” is a subversive high-comedy of outlandish action indulgence and excess, cranked to 111 and one more. It’s a classic mixing of Schwarzenegger, the unstoppable action giant who ruled the box office, and Paul Verhoeven, the director of satirical over-the-top grisly violent films a la “RoboCop” that wink at film violence and American macho chest-beating even as more shit is blown up and arms are ripped off bad guys. With a one-liner retort hitting every minute. In short, I love it. And watch it at least once a year, maybe twice.

Anyone who likes action or sci-fi film knows the story. Schwarzenegger plays Douglas Quaid, a lug-head TV news addict construction worker who knows deep in his skull he’s meant for something “special,” more so than being married to Sharon Stone. (That in itself is hilarious.) Quaid dreams of Mars every night, and a mysterious woman he knows only in a state of R.E.M. In this romp, Mars is the source of much war and mayhem because of an energy source, a theme of the Middle East relevant 22 years ago, and damn relevant today, post Bushes, H.W. and W.

I digress. A subway car ad promises Quaid an “ego trip” to Mars courtesy of the company Rekall. See, the trip is all in your head. The ultimate virtual reality Stay-cation, if you will, before the Internet. Quaid jumps like a starry-eyed child into buying a silly 007 “Spy Game”-extras package the Rekall used-car-salesman slick prick offers. Mr. Slick promises Quaid by the end of his “vacation,” the latter will have saved the planet, killed all the bad guys, and scooped the hot girl. “Sign me Up!” Quaid practically drools.

Of course, Quaid wakes up just as his dream session is to begin, realizing his cover as a secret super-spy from none-other-than Mars has been blown and everyone is out to kill him in an intergalactic conspiracy that focuses on him as the most important man in the galaxy. “Get your ass to Mahz,” Quaid -- who isn’t even actually boring construction worker Quaid, but a resistance fighter named Hauser -- says and does. To himself. The rest is relentless action, mutant aliens, and gasping for air on the red rocky dust outside.

It’s that moment where Mr. Slick promises Quaid he’ll be the hero that “Recall” really hits its glorious hands-down genius cruising speed as several more bit-players throughout the film tell us exactly what will happen, what has happened, and mock the whole affair. One character, a lab tech, gives away the final scene in a barely audible aside. Later, a fat, blandly pale geek openly calls “Bullshit!” on the entire plot to Quaid/Schwarzenegger’s face. Not just of this film, but every action film ever made, since time began. It’s akin to hearing a film critic second guessing the movie as it plays on screen.

Stone – before “Basic Instinct” -- is just amazing here, veering from sympathetic “wife” one second to banshee-wild killer psycho the next. There’s this devilishly funny ongoing joke that Stone as an evil spy posing as Quaid’s Earth-bound spouse “enjoyed” her assignment quite well, and her husband –- the bald, skinny main enforcer for the whole intergalactic conspiracy against Quaid –- isn’t happy about it, not with his ambiguously gay henchmen sidekick snickering aloud. Michael Ironside as the villain is genius at playing evil and slow burns as you see him thinking, “What if she… ?!?” Talk about nervy humor.

Let’s not forget how good Schwarzenegger is here, how smart for him to completely lampoon his Macho Man box office streak, even dressing in drag, and do it so smoothly and effortlessly, that I dare say 90 percent of his fan club never even picked up on the joke. He helped shepherd this film into reality, even suggesting the mastermind spy posing as a day laborer track. The man’s never been better, period. Fact. Even in “Terminator.”

Bonus points: The whole production could be, most likely is, a trippy head trick. Is all the action inside Doug’s head, as Rekall promised? Decide for yourself. I think so, going back to the pasty fat guy and all his predictions, and that final scene where the sun light hits like bliss. Or a lobotomy. But that’s the real cool factor here, satire included -- this is an action film worthy of fun debate. “Inception” plays like a head-trippy grand-nephew. if you want to ignore it, or cannot see it, the film still is an “A”-grade blast.

Which brings me to the remake. Now in theaters, playing in PG-13 safe non-glory, as I write this. Or, actually, it is bombing in theaters as I write this. Two weeks out.

Actually, hold off a minute, “Total Recall” – both of them – is (umm, are?) loosely (very loosely) based on the Philip K. Dick classic short story, “We Can Remember It for you for Wholesale.” In it, an office drone type has dreams of spy adventures on Mars, and like Quaid goes to a virtual reality company named Rekal for the same spy dream package. Quail -– not Quaid, the surname name of the hero from the book was changed in 1990 to avoid political association with then-VP Dan Quayle -- also wakes up as his dream implant begins, realizing his cover as a Big Brother-type assassin has been blown, and all hell breaks loose. The kicks come fast. Super-kick: Quail has many bizarre pasts hidden deep inside his noodle, now back from the void. Dick ends his story quick and open, leaving the reader to go fan fiction in his or her head. It’s a corker, and could make a damn fine and faithful movie one day, a sci-fi offspring of “Memento,” with an unlikely nerdy hero. 

So, why the Star Circle Planet Number Sign Exclamation Point did the movie studio – Sony, the dicks who just remade “Spider-Man” after a mere decade for crying out loud  -- and director Len Wiseman (of the “Underworld” series and the shitty and soulless “Live Free and Die Hard”) virtually ignore every chance to go Dick and go smart with a whole new tale, with a whole new title? Money? Cluelessness? Laziness? What the hell ever.

I purchased my movie ticket hoping/thinking surely this isn’t a point-for-point rehash of what Schwarzenegger, Verhoven, and Stone did so perfectly damn well, and with miles of wit. But that it is, sans wit, and a stone-cold serious and heavy-handed rehash with no purpose or comment on today’s world or movies. It not only rips off every single plot twist and kink from the 1990 version, but also stands a clear forger in spirit and look and design of “Blade Runner” and its dystopian, post-world’s-end set and mood. “Blade Runner,” by the way, is its own mind-trippy sci-fi classic film, and based on a Dick story. Also ripped off: “Fifth Element,” with its ultra-packed, multi-layered cities stretching up into the air, and the cult film “The Cube” with shifting elevators. There are more films aped, too.

So, on a future Earth near ruined by chemical warfare, Douglas Quaid (Colin Farrell) is a factory worker who builds “I, Robot”-type law enforcement robots, living in what we consider Australia and working in daily shifts in what we consider England. Do not ask about the commute, it has to do with an elevator that runs through the Earth, and the entire thing is just flat laugh-out-loud ridiculous, and the writers forget the rules of the contraption as the film slogs on. Those robots, by the way, are striking similar to the Storm Troopers from a certain George Lucas film series. Shocker, I know.

This Quaid – carbon copy to 1990 Quaid -- also is unhappy with his life. Wants something more, a thrilling adventure as a spy. On his commutes, he reads Ian Fleming’s James Bond book, “The Spy Who Love Me.” (O.K., I admit, that is funny.) This Quaid also dreams of Mars, spies, and a mysterious woman (Jessica Biel here). He wakes up next to Kate Beckinsale, and is still unhappy. Off to Rekall, he goes, too. You know, the rest.

The changes upfront are several but not enough: There’s no getting of ass to Mahz. This story is Earth bound. In so many ways. The wife and enforcer bits have been combined, so Beckinsale plays both Stone and Ironside. She’s good, but when paired against Biel, I could not tell the woman apart. All the gotch’yas and double-crosses remain intact. I longed for one major change, a zag where the 1990 version zigged. This isn’t a movie. It’s a product birthed by bean-counters who know the teens out there know no better, and sucker film fans such as myself will pluck money down to see the film of the week.

Look, Farrell is a fine actor. Ever see “In Bruges”? I love that film. Here, the gods bless him, Farrell -– all reaction -- is lost amid the $200 million special effects and art direction, another cog in the wheel. Any actor could have played this part. (The 1990 version demanded Schwarzenegger.) He just can’t compete. Schwarzenegger -- all 600 pounds or whatever of him -- held the screen. Easily.

Some bits stand out -– a literal hand phone that is Owellian to the max, mainly -– but every other minute is a reminder that if one is going to remake a brilliant, witty classic of action cinema, you better have enough guns and guts off screen as you do onscreen. This retread wimps out with no guts at all, PG-13, indeed. And to think, a few months ago, “Conan the Barbarian” also was remade. I have forgotten that, too. Why the hate on Ahnuld? Oh, and, Hollywood, do not touch freaking touch “Kindergarten Cop,” please. Never. OK?

The 1990 version: A. The 2012 version: C-