Dir. Baz Luhrman | OZ | 2h25m

Consider the platypus—otter body, duck bill, beaver tail, lays eggs. Like many mythical creatures (think, hippogryphs, sphinx and manticores), the platypus is an unlikely conflagration of disparate elements haphazardly thrown together. Unlike those so happily consigned to the pages of Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual, the platypus bears the distinct indignity of actually existing. It’s one of those rare beasties that can easily be held up simultaneously as an argument both for and against intelligent design. Clearly, any architect that could produce such a travesty of engineering must either have an extraordinary sense of humor, be completely bat-shit crazy, or perhaps just hails from Australia. Maybe all three.

Enter Baz Luhrman.

Dir. Scott Derrickson| USA | 1h43m

There are plenty of things you probably already know going into this picture. Yes, it’s a remake of the 1951 anti-nuke sci-fi classic by Robert Wise. Yes, it concerns the arrival of Klaatu, an alien herald with some advice for the human race. And yes, he’s got a killbot. A really big killbot.  

Apparently, the various civilizations that employ Klaatu have been watching us for a while, they have some concerns about the direction we’re driving our big blue marble, and so dispatch him to greet us with a message of world peace. Sounds pretty swell, until one determines that when he uses the term “world,” he specifically means the planet Earth, and the “peace” part is not so much about burying political hatchets or buying local products or helping the landlady with her garbage, but a lot more about purging the human infection from the planet’s surface so it can get back to the business of growing trees and squids and ocelots unhindered. You know, in peace. Oh, and by the way, meet my colossal killbot.

Dir. Sly Stallone | USA | 1h31m

For an apt illustration of John Rambo’s epic journey, and possibly his place in American pop-culture, you need look no further than his right hand and the knife it’s preparing to jam into your guts. The blade he carried in 1982’s “First Blood” made for a decent representation of his character—beaten and used, but fairly utilitarian and still razor sharp. It had a saw on its spine, a matchbox stowed in its pommel and a compass on its butt. The knife, like Rambo, seemed to be an oversized government-issue instrument for surviving rough situations, and was shockingly out of place in the quiet, domesticated Jerkwater, U.S.A., in which the film took place. The simple threat of its presence was enough to scare the bejesus out of the yokel cops, and subsequently re-trigger poor John’s military conditioning as a cold-as-steel killing machine capable of eating things that would make a billy goat puke.

It can be no coincidence that the words “Department of Homeland Security” are introduced by the third line of this film. The clear intention is to immediately set up parallels to our current state of affairs, and use this association to establish a firm headlock on our extant anxieties and paranoia.

We open on London, the year 2027, as a weepy eyed crowd gapes at the announcement of the brutal murder of the world’s youngest person – Baby Diego, dead at age 18. With remarkable efficiency, the story immediately describes a world gone barren, and propels us into a desperate, doomed atmosphere governed by panic, violence and despair.  In the face of incurable worldwide infertility, everything’s come unglued. Turns out, with no future to look to, people will behave very badly. Cities are under siege from within. Bombs are going off. Countries are crumbling. On the bus, we’re shown a public notice that in this world fallen to chaos “Only Britain soldiers on”.  We then see an ad promoting the new home suicide kit. And still, we ride the bus to work. Damn.