Beastly Reviews: Jurassic World
Hot people face death.
Well, I saw it. I was given steamy shots of Chris Pratt fixing a motorbike — very Tom of Finland — but as raptor-tamer Owen, he was as commonplace as they come. Ugh, men.
He was that one necessary character that exists in every Jurassic Park movie who bodes doom — who thinks that maybe bringing dinosaurs to life (or, in this one's case, mixing their DNA to make a new one) is not a good idea. When things go badly, as they tend to in this franchise, Owen saves everyone and kisses Bryce Dallas Howard.
The whole story takes place over the course of a single day, which makes the disaster-porn of it feel a bit absurd and awkwardly rushed — painfully, improbably easy. You've seen the trailer, so you know the premise (and by extension, the entire movie). Jurassic World — a bigger, grander version of its original — is open and making bank. Claire (Howard) sells corporate investments to donors.
The attractions (boat rides with brontosauruses!) are fun to imagine. In the real world, there have been claims that something like this could actually exist, but these were debunked. Sorry, kids.
Claire explains that park designers are being pushed to make bigger and better attractions to generate interest and revenue, which rings true to anyone who's been to Disney. One such bigger, better attraction is a new, genetically-engineered dinosaur, the "Indominus Rex," with composite DNA from the park's most dangerous predators. Owen checks out the new beastie and everything goes to shit.
Yes, it's a perfectly orchestrated disaster. It's just a little hard to believe that with billions of dollars on the line, there's no failsafe, no kill switch, no built-in self-destruct button in these critters. How did they accrue enough insurance to get this place running? Why does this keep happening? Why does it happen so easily?
I suspect that, somewhere along the way, the filmmakers realized the film is ridiculous. To keep it from degenerating by taking itself too seriously, comedy appears midway through the film along with some out-of-place romance between Owen and Claire. Nothing says sex like the risk of being eaten. I remained unsure througout if we are supposed to see Chris Pratt's character as a new spin on the Indiana Jones type or if he is, once again, a funnyman. I suspect the filmmakers did not want to choose, so they said, "Both!" It does not work. Indiana Jones is many things: cute, smart, even dopey at times. But "funny" isn't one of them — especially not the bumbling, frat bro style of humor that Pratt made his signature on Parks and Rec.
Let's move on to costuming. Claire wears the most indestructible white heels possible for the entire movie, even when running from a tyrannosaurus rex. I suspect every drag queen in America has tweeted to Universal asking who makes the shoes. In the beginning, she's too vapid, fussy, and precious, then becomes little more than a damsel in distress; her character arc feels decidedly not feminist. She exists only to be "the girl". Her wardrobe — a white suit, lilac tank top that stays pristine throughout, and skirt — all feel odd and unbelievable.
I was hoping the storyline would be different, maybe even darker, than the original Jurassic Park formula. I was hoping to see something like a deeper discussion of Jeff Goldblum's chaos theory played out — maybe even an elegant, action-packed debate on the ethical implications of bringing something to life, à la Frankenstein. Even better, we could have gotten some subtle commentary on global consumerism, on our impulse to turn history into an attraction, to commercialize nature even as we destroy it. Hell, I would have settled for just a good banger — a slick creature flick with some gnashing teeth and good kills. But Jurassic World is just a formulaic repurposing of past films with less scare, less fight. It's bloodless.
Love, Beastly
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