We’ve come to expect it. Every spring, the snow melts (or, as with this year, sticks around for several unpleasant weeks for no good reason), the flowers bloom (less they are covered in ice or uprooted by tornados) and Hollywood unleashes its dregs, celebrating its end of the year awards by reminding us once again of how legitimately mediocre most movie months really are. January through April film are always a chore, since they represent the landfill where all studio cast-offs end up. Even when something hits and becomes a phenomenon—like 300—it’s typically surrounded by trash, and as the weeks go by and the garbage piles up, it requires the grand sweeping gestures of the summer tentpoles to clean it all up. That’s why parsing through the last four months to find the Best and Worst can be so maddening. Sometimes, all you’ve got is cinematic compost. In other instances, the cream of the crop is something far outside the studio system.
In the case of 2014, what we find is that, in the arena of good, there are very few mainstream entries. Sure, About Last Night was decent, and Captain America: The Winter Soldier was sensational, but they couldn’t beat four films from outside the norm to find a place on the list (for the record, we do have one commercial hit here). On the other hand, finding bad movies was like shooting rotting carp in a tin container. While Labor Day, Hercules 3D, and Dark House all dared to broach our compendium of crap, it took far worse examples of the spring ‘thaw’ to enter our illustrious ranks. Remember, this is only our opinion. We here at SE&L are sure some in the readership are already apoplectic over our failure to include the latest post-Avengers adventure into the Top Five, while others may defend perhaps one choice on our Worst of overview. Whatever the case, no need to worry. The blockbusters will be here shortly to help us forget.
Your first warning should have been who created this post-modern horror mash-up mess. You see, I, Frankenstein comes from the mind of Kevin Grevioux, creator of the graphic novel upon which it is based. He’s also responsible for the Underworld franchise. He’s apparently fixated on the notion that, when all normality fails, the stuff of nightmares will have nothing better to do than go slo-mo wire fu on each other over past vendettas and flimsy folklore. Granted, for an African American artist to become so heavily ensconced in the genre mainstream is to be applauded. That his work is so meandering and mindless is something else all together.
The first film in this now burgeoning unfunny parody franchise was painful. It featured disconnected moments of supposed humor which were neither clever nor comical. So what does a studio do when it sees misplaced audience dollar signs? It orders up another made on the cheap installment. Marlon Wayans, who can be quite charming when he’s not acting like an idiot (see his work in Requiem for a Dream or The Heat for proof) has decided to outdo (and out dumb) the horribly hackneyed Seltzer/Friedberg duo at their own obnoxious spoof game. The results stink of stale jokes, uninspired satire, and no real idea how to legitimately lampoon something.
Vampire Academy isn’t a movie for the uninvited or the uninitiated. If it were any more niche, it would be made for one single career gal living in a loft apartment somewhere in BFE, Missouri. It drops us directly into the middle of this ripped off from Ancient Rome folklore and then keeps fiddling with the finer points knowing full well that only those versed in Ms. Mead’s mangled universe will ultimately understand just what in the Sam Lawson is going on. Sure, endless voiceover narration tries to keep us up to speed, but for the most part, it just adds fuel to our confusion.
No movie from the spring of 2014 was more painful than this one—sometimes, almost literally. The unnerving use of a shaky cam strategy, one that abandons the static surveillance ideal from the previous four (sigh) installments, sent many a moviegoer to the lobby in fits of celluloid nausea. Then the equally stupid story caused even more discomfort. It’s hard to tell which was more egregious, the obvious pandering to a heretofore underserved Hispanic demo, or the lame way in which these Latinos were portrayed. If a movie can be a hate crime to both a race and an artform, it’s this one.
When Akiva Goldsman unleashed his own little passion piece of magical realism manure on unsuspecting fans of Colin Farrell (as if there are any still out there in moviegoer land) called Winter’s Tale, lovers of the book by Mark Helprin should have sued. Sure there’s miracles, mystical entities, and a scarred Russell Crowe as one of the Devil’s own, but all that bumbling brouhaha needed someone with skill in this particularly precarious cinematic subgenre, to really work. One false step and you end up with one false film. Thanks to Goldsman’s untried eye behind the lens, and a laughable amount of cinematic claptrap, the end result was something ridiculous, not revelatory.