Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
(2014)
I didn’t much care for Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles first time round, and I was still (just) a teenager
myself then. The popularity of Steve Barron’s movie far exceeded its quality,
but at least it had cheerfully cartoonish approximations of the comic book
quartet going for it, design-wise. And, of course, the magnificent Elias
Koteas. This reboot comes from the perspiring mind of perpetual adolescent
Michael Bay, a director-producer with a perpetual boner for both lingerie
models and, it seems, ‘80s kids’ properties he can “improve” with bizarrely
inappropriate doses of photo-realism.
I’m not sure anyone outside of Bay, 12-year old boys and
Kelsey Grammar (guest star spots in blockbusters do pay well) can claim account for the absurd success of Transformers, four movies down the line
and counting, with a guaranteed a billion dollar global gross each time. He
brings the same “magic” to his over-designed and continuity drivel-driven Transformers to this Turtles reimagining. There was much
controversy within Turtle fandom (Turtledom?) over early versions of the
script, in which the martial arts foursome were revealed to be from outer
space, or another dimension. Bay had this dropped, presumably in response to
the outrage and the realisation he hadn’t a clue what he had bought, and his
trio of writers reverted to something approximating the actual reptile genesis
(albeit with Bay semi-regular Megan Fox’s reporter character April O’Neill now
intrinsically linked the Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael and Donatello).
The plot is as rudimentary as they come; the turtles show
up, kick the Foot Clan’s arses, get captured, and rally to stop the villains from
spreading a deadly virus throughout New York. The villains being Shredder, and
major domo scientist William Fichtner. Bay has drafted in Platinum Dunes golden
boy Jonathan Liebesman to call the shots, and he dutifully delivers Bay-lite
quick cut confusion masquerading as direction. Liebesman is one of the new
generation of Hollywood journeymen. Whereas once they were stolid and
laborious, now they are frenetic and display all the symptoms of ADD. Does anyone
recall how great Liebesman’s work on Battle
Los Angeles and Wrath of the Titans
was? I didn’t think so.
Liebesman ensures the proceedings are messy, ugly,
humourless (they should be, Johnny Knoxville lends himself to one of the turtle
voices) and self-important. Nothing on his résumé suggested a talent for comedy,
and he goes on to proves his lack of flair. He stages the fights as if he’s
facing Transformers off against each other (low angles, slow-motion
smackdowns), and is saddled with the most banal, tedious exposition-riddled
dialogue to grace a Hollywood blockbuster in many a moon. Brian Tyler
contributes one of his less elegant scores (actually, Iron Man Three is the exception in his back catalogue, in that its
exceptional), attempting at a rousing theme but failing miserably.
And the design of these turtles is horrific. As others have
commented, they look like Goombas from Super
Mario Bros. with added steroid abuse. The result is a nightmarishly botched
re-imagining of the beloved martial artists. As for Splinter, the rat mentor of
the turtles, he resembles the Sumatran rat monkey from Peter Jackson’s Braindead, which I’m guessing was not
the intention.
Fichtner can usually be relied upon, but he’s lost at sea
(Whoopi Goldberg also appears, dialling up the Whoopi Goldberg). Fox is
hopeless, entirely lacking in presence but cast to give the ever hormonal
turtles a pretty girl to leer at. And for Will Arnett to leer at. Arnett is
April’s loyal cameraman, and he’s too good a comedian not to milk a few laughs
out of this. And, no doubt his kids love him for playing a semi-heroic character
in a film they can actually watch. Although, the best gag is very much on the
lewd side (and a dig at Bay, so that makes it almost okay; unless it was his
idea, which makes it rather creepy), as the turtles conceal themselves within a
bra on a Victoria’s Secret billboard. Since that’s the last shot of the movie, the
laugh wasn’t worth the wait.
It’s also symptomatic of Bay’s knuckleheaded,
inspiration-free approach to movies that he saves the signature line, “Cowabunga”, for the last scene; that’s
what they did in the Bond “reboot”
after all.
Platinum Dunes, Bay’s production company, ran into the
ground a succession of horror remakes, from Texas
Chainsaw Massacre to Friday the 13th
and A Nightmare on Elm Street. Presumably
he now will scour the landscape for previously untapped toy lines and comics
for his next goldmine. I didn’t think Turtles
would do very well; the response to the design was (rightly) poisonous, and
the all-CGI 2007 version fizzled. Perhaps it comes down to this; Bay’s big,
empty head is equivalent to the not quite as big but equally empty head of the
average teen, and as such he has a ready insight into what they like on tap.
So, if hyperactive teenagers bantering, arguing and goofing off is right up your street, you might love this. Or you still might think it’s a massive pile. It’s a noisy, depressing affair. Like The Goonies, but without any endearing qualities. Or that lousy Inspector Gadget movie, where you reach the end credits (if you’re able to) and you’re left wracking your brain trying to work out how and why anyone went to see it in the first place.
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