When I was about six years old, I remember going to the theater and watching Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park. I didn’t really understand any of the scientific mumbo jumbo -- something about a mosquito and scientists and test tubes -- and frankly, I didn’t really care. But to this day, I still remember everything involving the dinosaurs -- the calm gentility of the Brontosaurus, the insidious patience of the Velociraptors, the overwhelming terror of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Spielberg transported me to a world where dinosaurs not only walked, but thrived. He made me believe dinosaurs were real.
Jurassic World, the soft reboot of the decades old franchise, largely reminds me of the original dinosaur movie. Two teens, Zach and Gray, are visiting their Aunt Claire, the manager of the now thriving dinosaur theme park, Jurassic World. Giving her nephews free reign to explore the island, Claire is too busy recruiting the help of ex-Navy Marine Owen Grady to track down an escaped genetically-modified super-dinosaur, Indominus Rex. Dino-chaos ensues as Owen and Claire must stop the mutant dinosaur before it kills all the visitors on the island.
Colin Trevorrow, the private-to-captain director entrusted with the Jurassic franchise after directing only one indie drama, pays deference to Spielberg’s original film overtly and frequently. The central chassis of Jurassic World is classic Spielberg: children in the midst of a broken home must learn to bond together; the original park gates, tour Jeeps, and night vision goggles get premium callouts; a character wears a Jurassic Park shirt and meta-notes how cool the original “park” was; even Spielberg’s most popular movie monster, Jaws, gets a nod.
Unfortunately, despite Trevorrow’s reverence to Jurassic Park, he lacks the fluid dexterity that made Spielberg such a masterful storyteller. Deft touches of cinematic magic -- a T-Rex gaining in a mirror stamped “Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear”; the unnervingly silent tension of Velociraptors stalking children in a kitchen; the poster-perfect composition of a triumphant T-Rex roaring against a falling banner that reads “When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth” -- are simply lacking in Trevorrow’s film. He pays homage to Spielberg’s mastery but rarely elevates the material to the same gleeful levels of wonder, adventure, and terror. He’s mastered the sheet music but lacks the emotion behind the notes.
This isn’t to say Jurassic World is bad. On the contrary, the movie is one of the most entertaining blockbusters in recent memory. The story is simple and narratively compact; the characters show enough wit and courage to win our trust; and the action is exciting, if not surprisingly efficient. There are even a couple Chekov’s guns sprinkled into the storytelling, allowing for a surprisingly rousing climax that pays off not one beast, but two.
I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that Jurassic World has become such a monumental success. The depths of nostalgia and childhood memories built into the prime moviegoing audiences of 18-33 year olds is simply waiting to be tapped by anything that even resembles the past. For more proof of Jurassic World’s inherent cultural relevancy, look no further than the overreaction of everything from the inaccuracies of the dinosaurs to the antiquated gender politics. It is these sorts of casual sexism charges that have frankly caught me off guard. The movie’s only significant female character, Claire, is uptight, emotional, and only wears heels, so goes the criticism. I fully understand the claims levied against Claire -- she’s practically obtuse and narratively unmemorable -- but lest we all forget, Claire is a human character in a movie about a genetically modified super dinosaur. Monster movies focus on monsters, not the people. And rarely do the human characters in monster movies, whether male or female, elevate beyond ciphers for the expedience of audience identification. Here’s the distant father; here’s the idealistic young person; here’s the protective mother. They are intentionally crafted to be one-dimensional to defer focus to the monster. We rarely complain about the wardrobe of characters in Jaws or Super 8 or Cloverfield or Godzilla; and I frankly don’t fully understand the criticism about Claire’s shoes in this film. But at a minimum, it’s got the people talking so I suppose that’s not an entirely bad thing.
At one point in the movie, Claire leads someone on a tour of the theme park, pointing out that “Consumers want them bigger, scarier, more teeth.” She’s talking about the dinosaurs; but she’s also not so subtly remarking on the current state of blockbuster fever. The customers have grown bored of what we used to offer, she implies. We must experiment to give them something they’ve never seen before. The solution Trevorrow adopts boils down to treading the razor’s edge between paying homage to the old while updating the material for the new. Jurassic World, not unlike the genetic manipulation of its central monster, is a creation spliced from the DNA of superior forebears. But when your lineage is this good, can you really complain?
Jurassic World, the soft reboot of the decades old franchise, largely reminds me of the original dinosaur movie. Two teens, Zach and Gray, are visiting their Aunt Claire, the manager of the now thriving dinosaur theme park, Jurassic World. Giving her nephews free reign to explore the island, Claire is too busy recruiting the help of ex-Navy Marine Owen Grady to track down an escaped genetically-modified super-dinosaur, Indominus Rex. Dino-chaos ensues as Owen and Claire must stop the mutant dinosaur before it kills all the visitors on the island.
Colin Trevorrow, the private-to-captain director entrusted with the Jurassic franchise after directing only one indie drama, pays deference to Spielberg’s original film overtly and frequently. The central chassis of Jurassic World is classic Spielberg: children in the midst of a broken home must learn to bond together; the original park gates, tour Jeeps, and night vision goggles get premium callouts; a character wears a Jurassic Park shirt and meta-notes how cool the original “park” was; even Spielberg’s most popular movie monster, Jaws, gets a nod.
Unfortunately, despite Trevorrow’s reverence to Jurassic Park, he lacks the fluid dexterity that made Spielberg such a masterful storyteller. Deft touches of cinematic magic -- a T-Rex gaining in a mirror stamped “Objects in Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear”; the unnervingly silent tension of Velociraptors stalking children in a kitchen; the poster-perfect composition of a triumphant T-Rex roaring against a falling banner that reads “When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth” -- are simply lacking in Trevorrow’s film. He pays homage to Spielberg’s mastery but rarely elevates the material to the same gleeful levels of wonder, adventure, and terror. He’s mastered the sheet music but lacks the emotion behind the notes.
This isn’t to say Jurassic World is bad. On the contrary, the movie is one of the most entertaining blockbusters in recent memory. The story is simple and narratively compact; the characters show enough wit and courage to win our trust; and the action is exciting, if not surprisingly efficient. There are even a couple Chekov’s guns sprinkled into the storytelling, allowing for a surprisingly rousing climax that pays off not one beast, but two.
I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that Jurassic World has become such a monumental success. The depths of nostalgia and childhood memories built into the prime moviegoing audiences of 18-33 year olds is simply waiting to be tapped by anything that even resembles the past. For more proof of Jurassic World’s inherent cultural relevancy, look no further than the overreaction of everything from the inaccuracies of the dinosaurs to the antiquated gender politics. It is these sorts of casual sexism charges that have frankly caught me off guard. The movie’s only significant female character, Claire, is uptight, emotional, and only wears heels, so goes the criticism. I fully understand the claims levied against Claire -- she’s practically obtuse and narratively unmemorable -- but lest we all forget, Claire is a human character in a movie about a genetically modified super dinosaur. Monster movies focus on monsters, not the people. And rarely do the human characters in monster movies, whether male or female, elevate beyond ciphers for the expedience of audience identification. Here’s the distant father; here’s the idealistic young person; here’s the protective mother. They are intentionally crafted to be one-dimensional to defer focus to the monster. We rarely complain about the wardrobe of characters in Jaws or Super 8 or Cloverfield or Godzilla; and I frankly don’t fully understand the criticism about Claire’s shoes in this film. But at a minimum, it’s got the people talking so I suppose that’s not an entirely bad thing.
At one point in the movie, Claire leads someone on a tour of the theme park, pointing out that “Consumers want them bigger, scarier, more teeth.” She’s talking about the dinosaurs; but she’s also not so subtly remarking on the current state of blockbuster fever. The customers have grown bored of what we used to offer, she implies. We must experiment to give them something they’ve never seen before. The solution Trevorrow adopts boils down to treading the razor’s edge between paying homage to the old while updating the material for the new. Jurassic World, not unlike the genetic manipulation of its central monster, is a creation spliced from the DNA of superior forebears. But when your lineage is this good, can you really complain?
