District 9

(Note: This article was originally entitled Monoliths of Excess. It's not entirely about District 9, but to write a separate review would require me to watch the film a second time.)



Directed by Neil Blomkamp. Written by Neil Blomkamp and Terri Tatchell. Starring Sharlto Copley, Jason Cope, and Nathalie Boltt.

Tristar Pictures - 2009

One Star of Review! *

After viewing District 9 I found myself walking away not enthralled or even satisfied, but depressed and vaguely grossed out. I had gone in with low expectations given the films anti apartheid pretense. Generally when Sci Fi attempts to delve into deeper issues it almost always ends up coming off ham-fisted, shallow, and more than a little silly. My opinion is that if you're going to make a film about racial tolerance then make that film. Don't bury it in CGI, because in a special effects film, special effects are usually the point.

Currently the movie holds an 88 percent positive rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and if you scan down the review synopsis it's mostly blurb after blurb praising the film for it's high minded ideals. What most of those reviews don't mention is that those supposed “high minded ideals” are dropped in the films last act for extreme gore, profanity, and a visual excess only seen in video games. In fact District 9 really isn't much more than a video game with intellectual pretensions.

Some reviews almost made the film sound a bit light hearted. Make no mistake District 9 is as dead serious as it is unentertaining. It's also one of the goriest main stream movies I have seen. People are disemboweled, torn to pieces, limbs are shot off then stomped on, and a world record was set for heads exploding while the eviscerated chunks cascade into the camera . I feel it necessary to also mention that the number of F-bombs dropped in District 9's last act alone out counts the combined profanity in all the films I've seen in the last two years.

Combine all this with the fact that the film is shot mostly in documentary style which serves to make the violence and torture all that more unnerving. Of course none of this is helped by the scripts constant use of well worn action film cliches (the main alien protagonist even gives the “I won't leave you behind” speech).

In a way watching District 9 was the perfect companion piece to the previous night where I attended a Woodstock anniversary film festival. The perfect summation of the evening would be the instant we arrived and nearly mowed down a woman in her late 50's who was standing in the middle of the road, back turned to oncoming traffic, and chatting obliviously on her cell phone. At what point she did notice the large speeding box of death on wheels behind her, she turned around to reveal a t-shirt with the word “fuck” emblazoned on the front.

I've always felt there was something very pathetic about a generation who considers it's pinnacle a three day rock concert, and that night only reinforced this notion. I skipped the out door impromptu jams, and immediately went in to watch a showing of the Monterrey Pop documentary. Just a couple of short performances into the film, and it occurred to me what a horrid generation of spoiled brats this was.

A generation of people who did not act, but simply reacted. Doing so in the most obvious and shallow ways they could. Every one was drugged, spaced out, and dressed like cowboy wizard hobbits. The musical performances were equally as gluttonous. From Janis Joplin's wholly unrestrained and ear shattering rendition of Ball and Chain, to Hendrix's burning of his guitar, the whole thing was completely and utterly about the spectacle and not the music. In fact most of the acts present couldn't play worth a damn, and those that could were too busy flying around the stage like angry little children.

The film was a monument to a pathetic generation's pathetic excess, and from the screen to the crowd was that generation, bloated, and drunk on nostalgia and cheap domestic beer. It was obvious these people came to act out, and they did. Hollering at the screen, playing drum solo's in their lap, talking loudly during performances, and all adorned in their well worn t-shirts and flower wreaths.

Here was the generation that rebelled against a wealth and affluence unprecedented in world history. A comfort that was handed to them, not earned, and the same generation that would later go on to consume and borrow this country into a financial hole. Now in their old age they were like a pack of wild dogs, rabid, and chaffing for an excuse to rip the flesh off of each other. A feculent stink poured from their dripping maws as they clawed and tore at each other while Grace Slick belted like a glass hammer over some sloppily played blues rock. Even the odiously fluff laden tunes of Simon and Garfunkel couldn't diminish the crowds thirst for blood... blood and Budweiser. As I looked from side to side, wondering how I would plow my way through the rotund walls of rotting hippie flesh, I knew I would be lucky to get out alive.

Coming soon to DVD.