The Time Machine: Review By B. Alan Orange

Code Orange Alert #38773: The Time Machine

Talk about putting the dead to sleep. Christ, this thing is boring. Those yawn-inducing special effects nearly waxed me into a well-deserved coma. What movie were you watching, Gregory Weinkoff? It's my personal belief that you, Sir, are a vacuum of cultural stupidity. Wait a minute...I was the one who said I liked Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas. Never mind the personal attack. I didn't mean it. Still, I have too wonder who's paying whom? You couldn't have possibly enjoyed this f*ck-box of a film. It's a straight shot of Robitussin for the nearly blind, and the bitch doesn't even come with a pillow. I guess you can't trust a film critic to save your life in this town.

I don't want to time travel. I'm tired. My future's bleak enough as it is; I don't need to wallow around in the unappealing aspects of my destiny. And, heck, according to this geriatric waste of precious time (I'm betting most viewers, upon answering the question asked by the film's poster, "Where would you go?" are going to respond, "Back to the Box Office for a refund; but, alas...) you can't change the past. Ain't that the sh*ts? What good is a time machine if you can't change the past? Well, you could go into the future and buy a Sports Almanac, but Robert Zemekis already proved that a flawed plan.

The giant, lumbering contraption that Guy Pearce builds in his greenhouse is useless. It doesn't even move. Guy doesn't really go anywhere. He stays in the same stationary spot for 802761 years, never venturing very far from his handmade clock-block in convention. I've got to tell you, things look a lot better right here, right now. This chair is comfortable, the food's decent, and I'm sleepy. I think I'd rather stay home and take a nap. It beats being chased by a hungry albino hippie hopped up on herbal steroids. They can build giant metal fortresses in the shape of a wicked beast, but they can't make a pair of sunglasses? Shame on them.

Guy Pearce does not a hero make. He's about as appealing as a glop of hemoglobin dried in snot. The man is a villain, through-and-through, and he should give in to stereotyping. Pearce is a lousy protagonist. With those sunk-in heroin cheeks, he's a dead ringer for the film's own spooky cartoon-like Morlocks (who look to be wearing paper mache heads); they must surely be descendants of the Pearce bloodline. I don't mind watching this guy in Count of Monte Cristo; he's smarmy and deserving of the countless deadly jabs to the gut he received in that film.

A warm, blood-pumping tool is what's missing from this updated version of the H.G. Wells classic. The Time Machine '02 is sorely lacking in a human nature of any spirited kind. And why is Mark Addy still playing Fred Flintstone? That's not really the right persona for an 18th century English Chap. As Guy's one and only friend in the movie, it's as if Addy's doing the episode where Fred got conked on the head by a bowling ball and started to believe he was a scholarly sophisticate. What gives, Fredrick?

The movie starts slow, like sap drifting down an aged tree. It's at a snail's pace. The Time Machine never fully grabs one's attention, meandering about as if it's got all the time in the world; a poor map upon which to lay out a time travel adventure. There's never a sense of urgency or conviction in Pearce's core plan of execution. His girlfriend is shot and killed, he spends four years building this unorthodox time-transposing sofa, and the only thing he can think to do with it is travel so far into the future that there's absolutely no-point to his journey? Sure, he meets some hotty named Samantha Mumba, but couldn't he have stayed in 2030 and found a sweet pole-jerker interested in an eccentric man? There are no fast food restaurants in the year 802761. No nudie clubs, no movie theaters, no beer, no soda... Nothing except some shoddy windmills and a couple of lampshades tacked onto the side of a canyon. And the only people running around are a bunch of dirty hippies. What kind of life is that? It's not like he has to stay there. He could leave and go to any point in history that he wants. The only limitation is that he has to stay in New York.

Guy's time traveling techniques are a little skewed. It's a given that he'd go back a few days to save his fiance (after all, that's why he invented this hour-consuming gadget). Once he realized it wasn't going to work out, in a plot thread reminiscent of Devon Sawa's Final Destination (which sees the girl trampled by a horse and carriage after she's saved from her first death), he should have put his exquisite machine to good use. He could have taken a nice vacation and enjoyed the fruits of his labor. No, not pretty boy Floyd. There's no discernable reason for him to hold over in the year 2030, but that's where he takes his first sightseeing journey. Me? I'd nibble at the decades, spending a day in each year at a backward pace (so I could cash in my winning lottery tickets and live like a king).

Let's see: I just lost my soul mate, so meaningless sex is all that's left. It's not like I'd have to make friends, and if I did; I could remember their year and visit them often. The machine doesn't move. They'd still be there when I got back. And at that, if I did meet some cute stripper chick, I could travel to 1979 and write every hit movie for the next twenty years, starting with Back to the Future and Bill & Ted, and live a comfortable life. Guy doesn't do any of these things; he just goes to the library (For God's sake, the man doesn't even take a pit stop in 1977 to see Star Wars). He never shows any awe or wonder at the changing world around him. The dickshark's too smug to care. Where's he going anyway? Can a man be so cool that he shrugs off the orbital destruction of the moon? Wouldn't the rest of us stare up at the sky in amazement? My jaw would be on the floor. Obviously, after losing his one and only, Guy is unaffected by just about everything. New York's pretty close to the ocean, wouldn't the obliteration of the moon cause giant waves to drown Pearce's little time machine?

Ah, it's a moot point.

There are some fun time-lapse sequences that eventually see Guy a billion years past evolution (all of which can be seen in the trailer and TV spots). And Orlando Jones is funny as a hologram lost in a Morlock cave; I guess that's how those dirty 802nd Century hippies perfected their present day accents. Yeah, there are some amazingly stupid ideas spit forth in this thing, and it's good fodder for a late night bitch session at the local coffee shop. The one element that bothered me most? 2030 is only thirty years away. Here, the era is presented as a 50s-style cliche. It looks like the stereotypical, Twilight Zone version of the future. With a few slight alterations, New York today looks exactly like it did in 1972. Are you telling me we're going to advance to a Jetson's lifestyle in that short period of time? I don't think so. 2030 New York is going to look pretty damn close to 2002 New York. Don'tcha think? (give or take a building or tow.)

If you're looking for that elusive cure to insomnia, I think you might find it in The Time Machine '02. It's a pure bastardization of those earlier works based on H.G. Wells' thesis, and it's a little sad to watch it wilt on screen. With the exception of one Morlock chase scene, this thing's a bland blender full of chopped up aphorisms. All I can do is scream, "March 22nd!! Blade 2!!" And hope this film passes quicker than a belly full of Quizno's clam chowder. (Is that a rat in my sandwich? And why is he wearing a pirate's hat?)

Why am I so bitter? What's going on here?

I just don't know. I do know that Billy Mays brought back the idea for Space Bags from the future. It's knowledge I'm not really supposed to have.

Sue me.