I shouldn't knock white trash. They are my "people", after all, and have the
same right to life, etc. as I do. But what a waste of space. As the world's
population explodes toward SRO (standing room only), I find myself eyeing my
country cousins like Charlie Chaplin in "The Gold Rush" when he and companion
Black Larsen starve in their Alaskan cabin. Larsen turns into a big chicken.
White trash turn into bedspace.
Imagine my dismay to find people not only tolerating white trash but marketing
TOWARD them. Taco Bell expands its menu, adds bacon and takes out the low fat
taco mush, Sportsmart peddles sweatsuits to people who sweat when they stand too hard,
and Hollywood puts out "Armageddon".
(Even more damning, Hollywood actually put out two "Armageddons," one called
"Deep Impact," starring Robert Duvall and Tea Leoni. I don't criticize it
because I never saw it. If I do, you can bet I'll rush out and change this
column, by crayon if I must.)
At first I welcomed these asteroid impact stories. They're overdue. If you
read a lot of New York Times bestsellers in the mid-'80's, you may have
noticed two asteroid books by the same pair of authors, Larry Niven and Jerry
Pournelle. One, "Footfall," posits aliens who, in the process of conquering
the Earth, drop an asteroid into the ocean, making everyone miserable and
mobilizing the human race to fight back. They also had a spaceship made out
of atom bombs. Check it out.
"Lucifer's Hammer," their other book, is a little more straightforward:
what if a comet hit the Earth? Sure, if you stood next to the spot where it
dropped, you'd be killed but good. But what about the other 99% of the Earth's
surface? We know people would survive, but how and for how long? There's also
a nifty bit where a bunch of scientist types compare the impact to an ice cream
sundae several miles wide splatting, complete with a mile-wide cherry and nuts for
secondary asteroid impacts. You'll never see dessert the same.
Not so "Armageddon". Just in case science gives you the yawns, the director, Michael
Bay, cuts back and forth between the concerned faces of Billy Bob Thornton and
the other, I guess sub-heads, of NASA when it comes to light that the chunks
of meteorite that hit Manhattan are only the first taste of an asteroid "the
size of Texas" about to hit the Earth. You therefore know you NEED TO BE CONCERNED,
because everyone has on a SERIOUS FACE and is illuminated by SOMETHING BLINKING.
Even better, when an Egghaid Scientist starts explain how big the asteroid is in cubic
miles or, worse kilometers (Jesus didn't use metric, did he?), Billy Bob comes to the
rescue with his "size of Texas" schpeal. Hmmn, is that the diameter of Texas or, for
instance, the top three feet of the state of Texas? Does it have a capitol?
Maybe I don't need to know. Because an asteroid hitting the
earth is too important to waste time on actual science.
In fact, every time you think you deserve an explanation, the movie serves you
up an argument. During the neutral buoyancy sequence (the big pool, remember?),
A.J. (Ben Affleck) continues drilling despite the warnings of the NASA scientists, and the drill
breaks down. Harry Stamper (Bruce Willis) storms out of the control room to yell at him.
Later, on the asteroid, when the fate of the Earth depends on the team drilling 800 feet down
(why 800? most likely because the writers needed a number and 800 was more than twenty and
not far from the highest number they could count to), A.J.'s instincts pay off.
But why? As far as I know, A.J. is the product of a million years of human evolution, most of it spent on
African grassland. In space, A.J.'s instincts betray him, try to get him to throw up inside
his space suit because he is constantly falling, or to take off his helmet to get a breath of
fresh vacuum, or to take a nap in the shade where the temperature falls to a cozy minus two
hundred degrees Fahrenheit. And Harry Stamper invented the drill only recently (out of bullshitions
and waxed kitten fur), so NOBODY knows how it will react, especially in a vacuum where you don't
have the advantage of air or water to conduct heat away.
By the way, for the rest of the movie Stamper shows no signs of creativity beyond
an ability to swear and make the vein in his temple throb. I secretly believe he stole the design for his
drill from a bankrupt Kuwaiti oil company, which is why he doesn't seem too upset when he finds out NASA
co-opted the design. Sure, this kind of thing goes on all the time in the drilling world; it's getting
so you have to put copyrights on every gear in your drive train, man.
Do you really need to know why NASA scientists added 800' of extension cord to manually set off
their nuclear bomb? No! The actors can instead argue over who gets to do it, Rockhound (Steve Buscemi)
despite his "space dementia". They draw straws. Does it matter where they get the straws? No, better to argue
about not drawing straws. That way, you feel tension because they might just pull out a pack of cards and
give it to the highest draw.
When A.J. drew the short straw, by the way, I saw my prediction come to pass. As soon as I saw the
dynamic between A.J. Frost and Harry Stamper, I knew one would end up dead and it had to be Harry
because A.J. is in love and Harry is a pitted old man with Bruce Willis' hairline. Like clockwork.
You can spot these things when you have all your teeth.
Do you need to know where NASA kept its top-secret, super-powerful space shuttles all this time? No!
You shouldn't wonder why a civilian space agency that farms its contracts out to civilian aerospace firms
like Boeing and Lockheed would need or be able to make anything Top Secret, especially when public
knowledge of this kind of cool technology might help NASA get more funding. Why isn't anybody sad because Paris
melted? Don't ask! Argue!
In place of character, the movie gives you action. Not long after credits roll and we are treated
to the special effect of the "dinosaur killer" hitting the earth, Harry Stamper catches A.J. in bed
with his daughter, Grace (Liv Tyler). This would cause some tension even in real life. To the more
sophisticated audience, it showcases the eternal struggle between youth, wisdom and sexuality. To the
white trash audience, it's funny 'cause Harry chases A.J. with a shotgun. As white trash, you might
sympathize with being chased by your neighbor/uncle for sleeping with your neighbor's daughter/second
cousin. The shotgun might even be the same. As an attentive movie watcher, you might wonder why
he fires without regard to safety on his own oil platform, where any stray spark might set off an
explosion, at best stranding them in the middle of the ocean, at worst baking them into Hiroshima
silhouettes on their own rigging.
After Harry decides to use his experienced team of drillers in place of NASA's astro-nuts, he gives the
government the task of picking his men up. Not an easy task, even though stern-faced government types picked
Harry up no more than a day before, it is more than enough time for the team to disperse to the ends of the
Earth. One heads to a bar to pick a fight with the ornery locals (probably the same ruffians whom Nicholas
Cage had to kill in ConAir), another flees a column of state troopers on his Harley. If you're white
trash, it's cool they didn't show all these guys actually leaving the oil rig, getting on airplanes and flying
to all these goddamned places. You just know where they come from and it's a big to-do to get them back in
line.
In place of dialogue, the writers used the copier. From the initial action of the broken oil line
to the final action of escaping the asteroid, the actors shout gems like: "Go! Go!", "We've gotta go!
We've gotta go!" "We can't! We can't!" and "We're leaving A.J. behind!" "What? We're leaving A.J.
behind?" In case the stunning dialogue doesn't remind you, this last takes place during the explosion
caused by faulty pipes and a rather poor decision to "turn on" the gravity on in the aging Mir space
station. So one page of dialogue can be stretched to four, especially when you throw in some special
effects. After all, most of your intended audience barely speaks English as a first language. Just
soft grunts and hoots, then wash your sweet potato in the stream.
I must confess this now: I hate Michael Bay. Ever since I went to see "ConAir" with my old
my roommates Adam and Fred, I have held a secret need to assassinate the director of
"Bad Boys", "ConAir", "Armageddon" and numerous TV commercials. Some people break out
of TV to stunning success. Look at Spielberg or David Fincher, director of "Seven", "The Game" and
enough Nike ads that, during the shooting of "Alien 3", one producer called him a "shoe
salesman". These people work hard to convince investors to give them a shot at the big screen. Bay,
I get the feeling, bathes in the money Jerry Bruckheimer, his producer, sends in truckloads. His movies
all look like crap confidently spliced together.
I hate Bruckheimer, too. Every movie he produces makes me feel like I'm watching a straight male's
gay porn. Or a bunch of National Geographic videos edited together into a movie about rams and mooses
butting heads from every conceivable angle. In my ideal world, Bruckheimer steps in front of the bullet meant
for Michael Bay, and both go down spitting blood.
I have not one shred of evidence to support this but I nevertheless state it
as fact: Bruckheimer added the doughnut. If you only saw ConAir once, you
probably remember it. The wounded albatross of a plane crashes into downtown
Las Vegas (pity they missed the BILLION square miles of desert surrounding the
glitzy town), Cyrus the Virus escapes and launches himself on a fire truck in
a last minute desperate bid for freedom. Nicholas Cage follows right on his
heels, forgetting in this moment of passion, his sense of self-preservation
and the weepy-eyed and perky nosed wife and daughter waiting to meet him. The
cops, sensing trouble when they see two extremely large men duking it out atop
a moving ladder, drop everything and rev their hogs into action. Part of the
everything they drop is, of course, a doughnut.
Now, I realize no one just sits around doodling and creating mindless
stereotypes. A lot of Chicago's finest waddle into the Dunkin' Doughnuts at
Clark and Belmont and emerge triumphant minutes later with a sack and a large
styrofoam cup. But this has become a comedic convention, like the wacky sitcom
neighbor, who uses your phone and eats all the meat in your fridge, even cliche.
To Bay and Bruckheimer and all their white trash friends, cutting edge.
I grew up in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio... Lakewood, a pleasant place with good
schools and a thriving gay community on the lakefront. I didn't even see my first
white trash until college. Now, though, as the world approaches SRO, I find the
stagnant smell of twice-smoked cigarettes floating in Pabst Blue Ribbon,
ketchup sandwiches and the ubiquitous SPAM nearly omnipresent. They have invaded,
our neighborhoods, our schools and our movie theaters. Do what you can to defend
yourself. The Earth's darkest day will be man's finest hour. |
