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by Bill Gibron

9 Aug 2009


He remains one of the few House of Mouse minions who has managed to more or less escape the company’s callous, careerist claws. He appears to be creating a life outside of Uncle Walt’s omniscience, with roles taking risks beyond the uber-successful High School Musical franchise. And with 17 Again, tweenager poster boy Zac Efron proves that he really can act. He’s not Edward Norton, or Ryan Gosling, but he has presence here, and a power that’s usually reserved for someone who hasn’t made their name catering to underage girls and disgruntled spinsters. As Mike O’Donnell, big man on his high school campus, Efron relies on many of the talents that have taken him to the top. But beyond the Tiger Beat pout and underfed frame is a star that, if managed carefully, can become something super.

Not that 17 Again‘s by-the-book plotting will help all that much. After seeing O’Donnell give up on the big game (and the basketball scout securing his scholarship) for his pregnant girlfriend, we fast forward almost two decades to see a bitter, disgruntled Matthew Perry falling apart. About to get divorced from his now wife Scarlett (Leslie Mann, likable) and distant from his semi-slutty daughter Maggie (Michelle Trachtenberg) and uncool son Alex (Sterling Knight), he lives with best friend - and super sci-fi geek - Ned Gold (Thomas Lennon). After he gets passed up for a promotion, Mike returns to his alma mater, hoping to find out where things went wrong. Instead, he runs into a mysterious janitor who questions the aging man’s motives. A bizarre rainstorm later, and pushing 40 Mike is…you guessed it, 17 again.

Try as it might for something insightful or different, this latest in a long line of hit or (mostly) miss body switching movies can’t help but fall into formula. Mike is not given back his youth in order to see how life would be had he lived up to his expectations or figured out a way to fulfill his dreams. Instead, the focus is family - winning back a saddened Scarlett, teaching a needy Maggie to believe in herself, helping a lost Alex discover his inner chick magnet. It’s all rote, rerouted by Bringing Down the House scribe Jason Filardi and Igby Goes Down director Burr Steers into a combination of cliché and clarity. For most of its running time, you know exactly where 17 Again is going. Even when threatened by Maggie’s bully boyfriend, we just know that Mike is going to have the last laugh.

That doesn’t mean the movie is a flop, however. Efron, whose biggest onscreen drawback is his ever-changing ‘60s mod hairdo, owns almost every moment, milking the minimal laughs available while playing up the material’s maudlin strengths. While we never quite believe he is a middle-aged man “trapped” in a kid’s slight form, there is still an old soul quality to his performance that propels the plot points forward. You can see Filardi and Steers swinging wide and missing - Lennon’s 40 Year Old Virgin-lite persona is just pathetic - yet whenever they keep the camera on Efron and his co-stars, the film more or less works. This is definitely a project driven by the power of one character’s personality. Take Mike out of the mix and the story is stacked with obvious jokes and uninteresting relationships. With Efron as our guide, we actually care about what’s going to happen.

Still, 17 Again does tend to lap itself. The movie starts with Mike missing out on a big game. Guess where the narrative decides the denouement needs to be? You guessed it. Similarly, Maggie and Alex are presented as teens with a one track mind - and it’s not Algebra they’re panting over. While newly minted mini-dad is trying to help them through the sometimes funny little muddle called life, all they want is a little opposite sex companionship. And then there is the whole creepy cougar subplot which might have made sense when Robert Downey Jr. wooed Cybill Shepherd in 1989’s Chances Are. But with today’s unseemly focus on MILF matron exploitation, no amount of Leslie Mann lightness can undermine the sleazy implications. Luckily, the movie recognizes such risky business, and backs off.

In the end, this is Efron’s battle to win or lose. Either his intended demographic will look at his androgynous charms and Clearasil-covered potency and buy into his move into maturity, or they will leave him lagging like the various members of a ‘90s boy band. In an era where a song and dance man was money, he’d be a million dollar dynamo. Yet there are limits to where this version of Efron can go. By constantly having to cater to the prepubescent crowd, by figuring that all he can do is shill to the one’s who have his Troy Bolton talents memorized, he’ll be pigeon-holed without getting the benefit of a chance to grow. With Richard Linklater’s Me and Orson Welles coming out this Fall, and another effort with Steers (The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud) in production, Efron may finally make his getaway stick.

If he does managed the switch from idol to iconoclast, if he can prove that his onscreen power is more than just proper marketing, Zac Efron could be huge. 17 Again proves that - in bits and pieces. Clearly New Line Cinema and new parent company Warner Brothers are a little lukewarm on his chances. The recent DVD version of the film has absolutely no bonus features to speak of (apparently, all the Efron-ccentric extras were left for the Blu-ray release - boo!) and that’s too bad. This is a decent enough entertainment, a movie that succeeds because of its star’s ability to project flash in the face of formula, to produce heart where others would find a hack. Sure, Matthew Perry is just a casting ploy 10 years too late. Yes, Ms. Mann has delivered finer turns in her husband’s (Judd Apatow) films. But this movie belongs to the former prisoner of a certain Magic Kingdom. Not only has Zac Efron triumphed, he’s paved a path guaranteeing he’ll never have to go back again…probably.

by Bill Gibron

8 Aug 2009


Pity the poor independent or foreign film company that wants to break into America’s CG animation marketplace. Just from a commercial standpoint alone, you have to battle Disney and its flawless filmmaking minion, Pixar, Dreamworks and their jaded joke-a-thons, Fox and their equally failed pop culture rifftrax, and numerous studio sponsored brandings that have fits of artistic flourish, but very little to offer in the source/story department. Only the brave, the strong, or the inherently stupid even try, and when they do, the results are almost always awful. Sure, there are the rare rays of sunshine (Dragon Hunters) within the darkness, but for the most part, what works outside the confines of the U.S suffers from the same kind of culture shock that other imported titles have to deal with.

Take Donkey X (or Donkey Xote, as it was labeled in its native Spain). This supposedly spirited retelling of the classic Cervantes adventure Don Quixote offers up Sancho Panza’s mule Rucio and his desire to be taken seriously…as a horse. He does this by accompanying his master, his master’s famous friend, the heroic (if slightly over the hill) steed Rocinante, and a rather irritating rooster as they all travel to Barcelona for a big knight’s festival. There, Quixote will once again battle the many flowing figments of his imagination, as well as his notions of duty, honor, and chivalry to win the hand of the elusive damsel Dulcinea. In between, we have to deal with the conspiring head of Quixote’s home town, a weird evil wizard (?), a visit to a desperate Duke and Duchess, and one of the oddest cases of equine gender identity ever.

If you haven’t already guessed by now, Donkey X doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Perhaps in its native tongue, with the Spanish cast giving the proper vocal flair to every line, we’d appreciate this cloying, confusing effort. Even if the subtitles ended up being as disconnected and mystifying as the new English dialogue utilized here, at least we could defend the film’s heritage. But laboring under a new no-name cast and a script that literally throws plot logic out the window, this shoddy Shrek rip-off barely deserves a mention. Indeed, without Eddie Murphy’s lightning fast quips to keep things buoyant, this clear copycat of the worldwide phenomenon simply drowns.

It all starts with the smarmy premise. Cervantes story has already happened, Quixote has become an icon, and everyone is Spain wishes to mimic him. Panza, on the other hand, is just pissed that he didn’t get a royalty check from actually living the now best-selling tale. He only agrees to a new journey under the guise of getting p-a-i-d! In the meanwhile, Rocinante has spent his retirement training chickens to walk in militarily precise order while Rucio fights off the anti-mule sentiments of the local horse population. When a chance to finally find Dulcinea comes along (a plot by the aforementioned bureaucrat to get Quixote and his celebrity out of his life once and for all), our crew gathers back together and goes wandering - endlessly wandering.

Try as he might, director Jose Pozo just can’t hold his second animated movie together. He shows some spark in one single scene - Quixote dreams that Dulcinea is lost in a dangerous thicket, only to have the briars turn into ogres and other beasties - but for the most part, The Veggie Tales show more cartoon imagination. The blocky, basic computer generated imagery offers none of the current creative visionary pizzazz, and the character design is so Shrek-like, the studio should sue. There are some moments of decent action and Pozo does mix it up in the framing and composition department. But the reliance of oddball covers of antique rock songs (“True Colors”, “Hit Me With Your Best Shot”) and the bland, unrecognizable names behind the characters is truly depressing (original rumors had Alfred Molina and Jeff Daniels as Quixote and Panza, respectively. What happened?).

Yet none of this would matter if we could simply understand just what in the windmill is going on. Conservations contain both expositional and interpersonal non-sequitors. One moment a potential Dulcinea is a bitchy, bosomy gold digger - the next, she’s a whiny over 30 brat. Quixote’s quest is never full fleshed out, though we do get to hear how noble he is ad nauseum. Panza finally gets a payout, and then turns it all down to admit some sordid secret to his friend? And then Quixote’s horse falls head over heals for a stallion in filly drag??? By the time we get to the knight competition, complete with the clichéd stand-off between good and evil, the various loose threads come completely unraveled. We are stuck with a silly twist, a lame comeuppance, and an ending that makes even less sense than the rest of the film.

Again, this could all be a matter of translation. Ever input a foreign website into one of those online language converters? Donkey X plays a lot like one of those results, or better yet, a badly dubbed martial arts movies that loses all its dignity when recast into problematic pigeon English. Then again, when the storyline is stitched together and then deciphered, it’s hard to see any reverse back to a romance language helping this muddled mess. Kids will clearly think its all pretty colors and confusing ideas while adults will hit themselves over the head for introducing this dullness into their standard electronic babysitting cycle. Granted, when you go up against Wall-E, or Kung Fu Panda, or any of the Ice Age films, you’re bound to look second-tier. Donkey X is so lame, however, it shouldn’t be considered. It should be shot.

by Bill Gibron

2 Aug 2009


Who is the real Adam Sandler? Is he the bitter, angry superstar that’s depicted in the recent Judd Apatow “dramedy” Funny People? Or is he “The Stud Boy”, the inherently goofy sidekick that stole almost every episode of MTV’s ‘80s trivia game show Remote Control? Somewhere in between Little Nicky and Punch-drunk Love, Spanglish and Happy Gilmore lies the answer, apparently. Unfortunately, the general public only seems to respond to him when he’s infantile, cartoonish, and borderline brain dead. Take The Waterboy for example. It represents one of the former SNL and stand-up’s biggest hits. It also contains one of his most insane performances ever. Yet when one looks closely at the film itself, it’s obvious why it succeeded…and it has much more to do with sports than with scatological humor.

Sandler plays Bobby Boucher, a local Louisiana bayou dimwit whose meddling mother believes that everything is “from the devil”. As a result, her aging son has led a very sheltered life. Bobby has become the ‘waterboy’ for his small town’s college football team and he thoroughly loves what he does. Even though he’s constantly mocked by the players, he vows to deliver nothing but “high quality H2O” to the guys. One day, Bobby shows off some prodigious tackling skills, and the team’s coach, desperate for something to jumpstart his squad’s fortunes, puts him on the roster. Soon, our liquid loving loser is the talk of the NCAA. He even recaptures the eye of resident bad girl Vicki Vallencourt. Still, Bobby’s momma doesn’t believe in organized sports and she’s ready to put the kibosh on his career - right before the big championship game against an arch rival, naturally.

The Waterboy is about as mainstream as Adam Sandler gets. If you discount his recent forays into family film (Bedtime Stories) and semi-serious drama (Reign Over Me), the king of goofball juvenilia is actually working rather crackpot free here. Sure, Bobby Boucher is all vocal mannerism and silent comedy composure, but the truth is that, for once, Sandler is letting the story and the situation drive the funny business. This is a standard sports movie, the last act game giving rise to all the character’s hopes, dreams, and dimensions. Without the national title on the line, Bobby’s rise in the football ranks wouldn’t matter, his coach’s vendetta with the opposing team wouldn’t count, and Mama Boucher’s ridiculous superstitions would be invalid as a plot point. But with the filmic formula in place, everything about The Waterboy takes on a far more meaningful bent.

Of course, all comedies are judged on laughs, and this movie has some good ones. Sandler really does milk Bobby’s bumbling persona, to the point where we actually think we are witnessing a real performance instead of some superstar stunt party trick. As with most of his slightly surreal creations however, our hero lapses once in a while. Good thing costars like Oscar winner Kathy Bates, ex-Fonz Henry Winkler, and the blazing Fairuza Balk are along for the ride. They remedy some of the situations where Sandler seems lost and directionless. They never drop their given guard, taking their broadly drawn caricatures to their own silly cinematic ends. As usual, they are accented by Sandler’s standard array of comic compatriot oddballs, everyone from the omnipresent Rob Schneider to Clint Howard, Blake Clark, and Allen Covert.

But the real unsung hero here is director Frank Coraci. Having worked with Sandler before on the equally efficient Wedding Singer, this is one comedy filmmaker who realizes that a real work of wit is more than just a string of clever skits stitched together with exposition. Borrowing heavily from the Rudy/Hoosiers archetype, Coraci actually gets us to care about the outcome of the game, whether Bobby will end up playing, and if his romance with Vicki Vallencourt will ever be anything more than mere “friends”. Sure, he frequently undermines his sequences with editorial and structural miscues, and he manages to wick away much of the cleverness about three-quarters of the way through, but as an example of the successful merging of athleticism and anarchy, The Waterboy works. 

What doesn’t however, is the way this movie has been treated on Blu-ray. Oh sure, it looks fine. It’s not going to win any high definition awards, but it does provide a more polished, theater like transfer of the title. Similarly, the sound elements make for a more full bodied and sonically substantial experience. But where are the bonus features? Blu-ray is not just about the tech specs - it’s about utilizing all that extra disc space to plump up the product with lots of interactive trivia and tidbits. Like the recent Watchmen release, the format can function as a how-to, an exercise in insight, even a chance to clear up some long held misconceptions. But The Waterboy gets something that few thought the new fangled conceit would cotton to - a basic, barebones release. It’s a shame, really. The appreciation for the film has only grown with time. Certainly something could have been made to celebrate its staying power.

As with most Sandler movies, however, The Waterboy appears destined to be discounted as nothing more than a simple star vehicle for a once popular cultural icon, a funny man who’s since felt the need to spread his thespian wings. For some reason, amusing people are compelled to explore their darker side, and it’s not without its drawbacks. Those who liked you before hope you return to the ridiculous, while those who found your forays into drama mildly amusing slam you for going backwards. Had he continued to combine types, to take certain cinematic categories like the thriller and meld it into his particular style of satire, Sandler would still be on top. He wouldn’t have to dive between current filmmaking fads to earn his considerable keep. The Waterboy once argued for where this comedian’s career could flourish. It’s all been downhill and sideways since then.

by Bill Gibron

2 Aug 2009


In the most controversial scene in the equally scandalous Tropic Thunder, Australian actor turned black man Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.) tries to explain to hack action star Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller) why his performance as the mentally handicapped character Simple Jack failed to earn him any serious professional credence. “Everybody knows you never go full retard,” says the saucy Aussie, arguing that performers who cross the border from artificial into far too real become awards season liabilities. Truth, according to Lazarus, must always be tempered with a wink of and nod to the audience.

Billy Bob Thornton would probably have a bone to pick with said sentiment. For his Oscar nominated (and eventually winning) work in Sling Blade, he was 100% committed to making his slow-witted manchild Karl Childers a real, if rather bizarre, representation of a handicap gone horrifically wrong. It’s not just that this memorable man is a murderer. It’s that Karl contains so many facets of innocence and naiveté that we wonder how he ever came to kill. The answer is part of this movie’s masterful narrative drive and personality detail.

Having been locked up in the State Institution for almost two decades, Karl is deemed to no longer represent a danger to himself or others. While facility director Jerry Woolridge would like nothing more than to let him stay, the government deems otherwise. Returning to his hometown, Karl meets up with a young boy named Frank Wheatley. He lives with his mother Linda and her abusive boyfriend, Doyle. After initially taking up residence in the back of the machine shop where he works fixing appliances and motors, Karl is invited to stay with the Wheatleys. There, he learns of Doyle hard-drinking destruction of the family. Fighting the urge to remedy the situation the same way he did several years before, Karl contains himself. But all it takes is one insensitive spark to set him off, and Doyle is, if anything, predicable with said fireworks.

Arriving out of nowhere to become the buzz of 1996, Sling Blade brought then mostly unknown actor/writer/director Billy Bob Thornton to mainstream prominence. His feature length treatment of a formerly short film project propelled him to the A-list of hyphenated talents, trumping almost all the work he had done for the decade before. From 1986’s Hunter’s Blood through Chopper Chicks in Zombie Town, Thornton struggled. But his co-starring and co-scripting duties on Carl Franklin’s cult phenomenon One False Move proved that there was more to this musician turned thespian than genre schlock. By the time Some Folks Call it a Sling Blade was turned into a major motion picture, Thornton had Childers down pat. Allowing the rest of his cast to be as natural and organic as possible gave the unlikely hero of this post-modern Southern Gothic a chance to be as arc and allegorical as possible.

Indeed, one has to remember that Karl represents more than evil returning to the town of its source. He’s not just some brain damaged delinquent who’s unsure of his own sinister edge. As Thornton writes him, Karl is in complete control of his faculties. He’s just slow and insular, lost in the wounded, wicked world he creates inside himself. He knows right from wrong, but he also understands that, sometimes, morality plays no part in one’s personal duty. From the killing of his momma when he was a kid to the constant threat he appears to represent, Karl is karma, humanized and humbled.

We can see the how the horrid Doyle Hargraves becomes the latest target of his internal ethical dilemma. Karl just wants to protect new found friends Frank and Linda Wheatley. But this is one simpleton who sees beyond the basics. He realizes what someone like Doyle does to people. It’s not just that he brings out the worst - this is one angry, antisocial monster. It’s a revelatory move to make the former murderer the good guy in your faraway fairytale. Frank and Linda should be afraid of Karl, but his implied cruelty is nothing compared to the nastiness they already know. Thornton never turns his creation into something horrific. Instead, Karl becomes honor, the voice of violent reason in a situation otherwise structured on clichéd concepts of loyalty and flawed gender politics.

As an actor, Thornton is terrific. He never once falsifies who Karl is. From the voice pattern to the physicality of the man, this is someone we believe can and does exist - even within the surreal dynamic he seems to inhabit. Still, as the commentary track on the recently released Blu-ray version of the title reveals, Thornton was working on the character for years. It was kind of a catharsis for him, a way to totally get lost in a personality and then running with the foreign feeling identity. Lots of actors have done it before, with or without going “full retard”, but the truth is that Thornton’s turn remains more than great. It’s iconic, that celluloid rarity destined to live on long after he’s been forgotten as a part of film.

And his eye for supporting casts is equally clever. The late great John Ritter shines as a gay man quietly maintaining his dignity in a known den of bigotry, and Natalie Canerday is equally good as the mother who must balance the needs of her kid with the kind of support someone like Doyle can represent. Robert Duval’s devastating cameo as Karl’s impoverished dad and Lucas Black’s beautiful turn as Frank finds Thornton leading an undeniably talented group of performers. But it’s Dwight Yoakum who’s the real visceral epiphany here. The honky-tonk hero, a country icon indebted to the good time vibe of Buck Owens and the streets of Bakersfield, he’s the dictionary definition of a villain. Doyle is not just a man who answers issues with the back of his hand. He’s someone who doesn’t care that this is all he’s capable of. Call it a power play or a coward’s way out, but he’s that undeniable force of fear that everyone has to contend with - everyone except Karl, that is.

With Thornton’s keen eye and Daniel Lanois’ laconic musical score, Sling Blade provides a level of dread and anticipatory suspense into what is already a classic character study. Indeed, this is one of the few multi-genre successes, working well within the categories of drama, comedy, thriller, and mystery. It’s an ensemble where one man is clearly the main focus, a tour de force where everyone gets to share in the critical praise. Thornton would go on to a rollercoaster career in Hollywood, courting success and scandal as only the truly gifted and incorrigible can. No one can take away what he did with Sling Blade. In fact, he can make a million Armageddons and a bunch of Bad News Bears and still not tarnish this terrific film. Whether or not it takes mental deficiencies too far, one thing’s for certain - Thornton triumphs in an arena where few of his colleagues have excelled. Sling Blade is the exception that defies the rule.

by Bill Gibron

1 Aug 2009


The rap against remakes is simple - it’s been done before…and usually better. So there’s no need to do it again, right? Sure, Hollywood currently tries to sidestep such suggestions by using words like “reimagining”, but the truth is, the original source material for most revamps is better, more arresting, and more interesting than their updated counterpart. This is especially true of Nature’s Grave. A virtual shot for shot redo of the amazing 1978 Australian thriller Long Weekend, this story of man vs. nature was one of the most disturbing, unsettling fright films of the last three decades. In its new, “improved” version, also scripted by Weekend scribe Everett De Roche, we have the same themes of environmentalism, ecology, and the eventual retaliation of a pissed-off animal populace. Sadly, the casting choices and name behind the lens all but sinks this redux’s potential success. After all, it was already done before…and much, much better.

Peter and Carla are a married couple who’ve been through a rather rough patch, relationship-wise. He’s apparently just broken off an ongoing affair, while she’s had an abortion, the result of her own secret sexual indiscretions. Hoping a long weekend by the sea will rekindle their love, they pack up the Range Rover and head out to parts of Australia unknown. Hoping to eventually meet some friends at a remote campsite, the pair gets lost almost immediately. After spending a night in the car, they eventually reach their destination. Right off the bat, things do not go well for our duo. She hates the wilderness and he’s too busy playing macho outdoorsman to care. Then odd things start happening. Animals start attacking. A strange shape in the water eerily floats by. Nights are filled with peculiar noises. Days are filled with confrontations and fear. Before long, both want to leave this long weekend away from the city. But nature has other ideas about what to do with these two.

Nature’s Grave violates one of the first rules of remakes - if you’re not going to be as good, or try to improve on, what came before, you really shouldn’t bother. In the 1978 original, a menacing John Hargreaves drove a dowdy Briony Behets to the point of hysterics with his flailing false bravado and cruel carelessness. While neither actor was Shakespearean in quality, the appeared real and authentic, looking like typical Australians about to have the worst extended holiday ever. In this unnecessary update, James Caviezel proves conclusively that playing Jesus Christ convincingly is his sole cinematic quality. He is bad here - slipping in and out of accents, either inert or frenzied in how he approaches a particular scene. Perhaps Urban Legend director Jamie Blanks thought that making Peter as unstable as the surrounding wilderness was a wise idea. Or maybe, Caviezel is just that limited of a performer. He sure does love walking around shirtless, however. 

Whatever the case, we never take Peter’s side here. We never feel he’s been slighted or hurt. When he is attacked by an eagle, or threatened by an unknown object in the water, we don’t hope for his safety. Instead, we pray for his death. In the original film, both characters were seen as victims first, possible provocateurs second. But with Blanks desire to tweak everything about Long Weekend for his own motives, our hero goes from complicated to criminal to just plain crazy, while Claudia Karvan’s Carla is part scream queen, part shrew. It’s a one note turn - constantly looking at her husband as a threat, this clearly troubled woman wants very little to do with anything except herself. We never really connect with her inner pain, fail to see why she would stay with this man after the history (and personal horrors) she’s encountered. And yet unlike Long Weekend, which seemed to suggest something significant between the couple, Blanks contains them within a recognizable horror/thriller mold.

As for the director himself, he fails a few of the fright flick basics. He drains all the tension out of the set-up by steering his cast into nearly comic areas of aggression. He telegraphs his dread, offering one too many POV shots of the couple setting up camp. His location is lovely, almost breathtaking in its beauty, and yet there are few extended shots which allow us to feel the scope of Peter and Carla’s isolation. We always feel like our couple is sitting somewhere in an Australian National Park, not some vast unholy wilderness. Granted, toward the end, when bodies begin to pop up and death has to be dealt with, Blanks shows why he was brought onto the project. The ending specifically amplifies the nastiness of the original. But Blanks stumbles more than he succeeds. It’s as if he was so determined to be reverential that he forgot about the reinvention.

Indeed, that’s Nature’s Grave‘s biggest problem - if you seen Long Weekend, you’ve seen this film. Nothing Blanks or Caviezel or Karvan bring to the update expands on our appreciation or enjoyment of the first film, and since writer Everett De Roche has kept each and every original plot point intact, there are no new surprises or twists. There will be those that argue that the real intention of this remake is to give fans that may have missed the movie the first time around another opportunity to see it, only this time in a “new and improved” setting. And it has been 31 years since the late Colin Eggleston unleashed his vision on a mostly uncaring world. But again, mere repetition is not going to earn you an entertainment excuses. You will live - and die - by how faithful you are to the source, or how fresh you approach is. Sadly, Nature’s Grave is neither. It wants to update the whole man vs. nature dynamic for a post-millennial age. Instead, it further fuels the always dicey original vs. remake debate.

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