My Journal, Or: Thing to Do When There's Nothing Else To

Jesus Christ, what a beautiful, totally lifeless piece of chrome. This movie would work if you froze each different shot, framed it, and hung it in a waiting room for patients to gawk at; as is, it was a pretty restful hundred-minute nap, where I woke up every ten minutes or so to appreciate the breathtaking digitized scenery.

Don't know why they bothered to assemble that cast; I've seen video-game constructs with more wit and personality. I would have thought they would have tried to break through all that faultless, seamless landscaping with a few signs of humanity--some low slapstick, perhaps, maybe a little carnal groping, at the very least a dirty joke, but the actors seem to have polished their performances to the point of pointlessness, matching the backgrounds. There was only one funny running gag, where Paltrow tries to get the perfect shot (Perfect! The whole movie looked so perfect I could gag), but I wouldn't recommend sitting through the whole thing just to listen to the punchline.

Which is a pity; it could have been a great adventure--the plot had the requisite complexity, and the mechanical setpieces the necessary size and scale; what was lacking was a compelling character to throw against all those outsized toys. Couldn't they have turned this into a Doc Savage supersaga instead?

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