DOOMSDAY
(Review)

“It’s human nature to seek even the smallest comfort in reason or logic for events as catastrophic as these. But a virus doesn’t choose a time or place. It doesn’t hate, or even care.
“It just happens.”

That bit of voice-over, courtesy of the one and only Malcolm McDowell, helps kick off Neil Marshall’s third feature, Doomsday.
With streaks of Escape From New York, Aliens, and Mad Max storming through it, Doomsday could admittedly have been a spot of fun, if only, A) like Marshall’s debut, Dog Soldiers, it didn’t feel so damned derivative, and B) I didn’t know it was also from the man who gave me the crackling, claustrophobic intensity of The Descent.

On April 3, 2008, the Reaper Virus spreads across Glasgow, its devastating effects leading up to Scotland’s quarantine, and an impregnable wall being put into place some two and a half months later, isolating the hot zone, and leaving the unfortunate—infected or otherwise—to their own miserable devices.
It’s in this opening sequence where we see the traumatic childhood events that get little Eden Sinclair (Christine Tomlinson) out of Scotland, and turn her into the bad-a$$, eye patch-wearing Major (Skinwalkers’ Rhona Mitra) we see 27 years later.
It isn’t long though before a potentially catastrophic turn of events sends Eden back over the wall, the fate of what’s left of England, in her rough and ready hands.

Now, despite some bits that may recall more recent fare as 28 Days Later (only in so far as seeing the disastrous effects of a virulent outbreak hit England, hard; sorry, no speedy, pseudo-zombies here), Doomsday is very much a nod to the cinematic brand of ‘80’s post-apocalyptic action, where the taciturn hero—whether he be named Gibson, Russell, or Van Damme—travels through a blasted land where technology and civilization have gone the way of the dodo, and the law of the land would make Darwin both proud and suitably horrified.
There are the blatant Road Warrior bits, of course; there are the explosive moments of bloody gore; there are even a number of ‘80’s tunes you may recall from your wayward youth (that is, if you, like me, lived through that fashion-challenged age of hairspray and shoulder pads).
All of this is fun, yes, and there’s nothing terribly wrong with that, but somehow, Eden doesn’t make a very magnetic protagonist. Sure, she’s got the eye patch, and she’s certainly easier on the eyes than Kurt Russell, but she’s definitely no Snake Plissken. There simply isn’t enough mystery or intrigue surrounding the character to make her interesting enough to keep the audience focused and invested in the on-screen goings-on.

And whether this is fair or not, on the heels of The Descent, Doomsday is a disappointment, at least to me. As I recall, I believe I had a better time watching Dog Soldiers.
For all its shortcomings, Dog Soldiers was a much smaller and modest production than Doomsday, and given that it was Marshall’s first feature out of the gate, it showed tremendous promise, promise that was fulfilled with apparently impudent ease in The Descent.
To return with a film that revisits decades-old material without actually working to revise or reimagine it seems such a missed opportunity, it both disappoints and hurts. Not even the presence of Bob Hoskins (as Eden’s superior, Bill Nelson), and the aforementioned McDowell (as Kane), does much to liven up the achingly familiar party.
Tragically, Doomsday doesn’t even achieve the level of derivative fun which can be found in Stephen Sommers’ The Mummy or David Twohy’s Pitch Black. Instead, it just seems to cycle through a whole load of bits and (set)pieces we’ve all seen—and enjoyed much more immensely—before.

I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Marshall.
I wanted to love this, but ultimately, the best I can say is, It had its moments, and it was much better than Mitra’s other recent genre effort, Skinwalkers (review in Archive), but it just didn’t rev my engine.
I do look forward to Sacrilege, though. I mean, in your own words, “… Unforgiven by way of H.P. Lovecraft”; I am so there. Hopefully that will knock me back on my a$$, where The Descent left me.
(And yes, I realize Drive will probably come barreling my way first, but I’m not entirely sold on that one at the moment… Again, sorry about that.)

Parting shot: I will be there for The Descent 2 though, Mr. Marshall, despite your absence at the helm.
I can’t say I’m even actually thrilled with the idea of a follow-up to The Descent’s brilliance, much less the impending reality, but I am curious to see Jon Harris move from the editing bay to the director’s chair.
(Harris has edited Snatch., Stardust, as well as The Descent, to name a few, so seeing what he can bring to the table as a director, that should be something to see…)

(Doomsday UK quad courtesy of bloody-disgusting.com; images courtesy of doomsdayiscoming.com.)

reVIEW (7)
DANNY THE DOG (aka UNLEASHED)

With Louis Leterrier at the helm of the Hulk sequel, I thought, hey, let’s let Danny The Dog out for a walk. After all, it’s been awhile since the little dude’s been out of his cage…

We all know Jet Li kicks serious butt.
In 2002, he worked with renowned director Zhang Yimou on Ying Xiong (Hero), arguably the thinking man’s martial arts film. In 2005, Li reunited with his Kiss of the Dragon writer/producer Luc Besson (best known for directing the high-octane actioneers, Leon and La Femme Nikita, as well as the gonzo science-fiction epic, The Fifth Element), in Louis Leterrier’s Danny The Dog (internationally known as Unleashed), another wire-fu flick with a difference.

This time out, he shares screen time with Oscar alumni Morgan Freeman (who won for Million Dollar Baby) and Bob Hoskins (nominated for Mona Lisa), to tell the tale of “Danny the Dog,” a man with the soul and spirit of a child, conditioned to have the cold beating heart of a brutal fighter when the collar he is forced to wear is taken off him.
And when fate conspires to take the ruthless Bart (Hoskins) out of Danny’s life, the man-child comes into the care of Sam (Freeman), a blind piano tuner who lives with his stepdaughter Victoria (Kerry Condon, of Ned Kelly and Angela’s Ashes). Sam and Victoria, with their kindness and warmth, begin to deconstruct Danny the Dog, teaching him how to be human, as well as the meaning of family.

Described like that, Danny The Dog sounds curiously like Lilo & Stitch; that is, if Lilo & Stitch had fight scenes choreographed by the Master himself, Yuen Wo Ping (whose Hollywood credits include The Matrix trilogy and the Kill Bill saga). So fear not, action junkies, Danny The Dog doesn’t get all Bicentennial Man on us. What it does though, is present us with a curious paradox.

Like Hero before it, Danny The Dog is a film that puts martial arts squarely at its center, but at the same time has a strong anti-violence (and, in Hero’s particular case, anti-war) stance. But, like Danny, we the audience, have been conditioned to associate Jet Li with serious butt-kicking. Thus, there are times when Danny The Dog seems to be at odds with itself. Violence is equated with dehumanization; that we would be no better than wild dogs if we resorted to guns and knives and fists. What then about the audience member who has unabashedly come into Danny The Dog relishing with anticipation the fancy moves and high-flying kicks Jet Li is sure to amaze us with?
Presumably, we are supposed to take stock of ourselves, of our own innate fascination with the cinema of violence. Yet, unlike Hero, that aspect of Danny The Dog doesn’t quite work as well. Hoskin’s Bart is a little too cartoony, and the story’s resolution a little too pat, to make the integrity of the whole as solid as it could have been.

While Leterrier’s direction is adequate (Leterrier co-directed The Transporter with Corey Yuen, and flew solo on the sequel), ultimately, it’s the script by Besson that doesn’t deliver the goods.
We are made to hear the presumably strong filial bonds shared by Sam and Victoria through lines of dialogue by Freeman, without really being allowed to feel that bond through specific plot situations. And though scenes between Li and Freeman—in which Sam teaches Danny how to shop and cook—are effective, they aren’t enough to capture the feeling of family.
On another note, though I love Massive Attack, I feel their brand of music may be a wee bit laid back, compared to the hard-driving techno cuts that have become the standard soundtrack to films of this sort. (Which was, perhaps, the point, but somehow, Massive Attack’s score just didn’t work for me.)

If, however, you’re in it simply for the butt-kicking, then Danny The Dog delivers on that score. This is, after all, Jet Li. And though some of Li’s past films have been more creative in their choreography, there is still some solid wire-fu fun to be had here.
Still, if Besson had spent a little more time teaching the proverbial old dog its new tricks, if he had worked harder to subvert the wire-fu film (and, by extension, the cinema of violence), much as Sam and Victoria deconstruct Danny, Danny The Dog could have turned out to be much more substantial than it actually is.

(The above review began life under the name, “Deconstructing Danny (Teaching An Old Dog…).”)

(Danny The Dog and Unleashed OS’s courtesy of impawards.com.)