This film is exactly as good as any of the Fast & Furious films, Expendables or Megs 1&2. It is WAAY more fun and watchable than the last Jurassic Blah film. It is not as good as The Bourne Identity or Oceans Thirteen. It is not trying to be The Bicycle Thieves or The 400 Blows.
Why the hatred for a simple, popcorn action film? Maybe some people just don’t like seeing young women as action stars? Because they’re “unbelievable.” Really? To say they’re unbelievable means you believe ancient Arnie or Harrison Ford can leap about like spider monkeys. (Clue – they can’t.)
All the central actresses delivered great performances from what was, admittedly, occasionally lumpy dialogue. (But still better written dialogue than A New Hope, let’s be honest.) And the supporting cast were also excellent, the bit on the rocky beach with Love Interest Bloke was genuinely touching. I liked that the head kidnapper got to deliver an anti-US imperialism speech whilst twirling his moustachio. BADGES? WE NEED NO STINKING BADGES!
Okay, there were some silly bits. But Will Smith punched an alien in Independence Day – you don’t watch popcorn action films for cinema verite. In fact, partially what defines an action film is ridiculous stunts that make you throw said popcorn at the screen. The third act of Sheroes has plenty of those moments, you’re gonna need a bigger bucket.
Criticisms: there is some choppy editing going on. Like the last scene when they end up next to the plane but the audience is given no wide shot before they get there so it appears as if by magic. And what’s with the weird held shot when they’re walking up the stairs? I feel like they’d planned to throw a comic book filter on or something but couldn’t be arsed in the end so it ends up well stilted.
But I’ll forgive all that for the sense of fun, the beautiful scenery and the way that, unlike the increasingly pompous Fast series, this film blatantly does not take itself seriously. There’s no grave musings on the importance of FAMBLY here. Just women fucking around, having fun and shooting a shit ton of bad guys. YAAAAY!
I had such a fun time on Friday night, DJing at Electric Daisy in Derby. Although it had pissed down earlier on, we were lucky with the weather and it was a fine, slightly chilly night. Both Hexial and James Glew did cool sets of very catchy, flowingly melodic bleepy bloopiness. And I did my bit with a serving shiny, bobulating beats, the majority from this year.
You know those capitalist evangelists, those disruptive entrepreneurs that insist that capitalism will fix everything and we’ll be in this amazing future of AI-generated infinite wealth er… for.. everyone.
Apparently, they’re full of shit.
The common notion that extreme poverty is the “natural” condition of humanity and only declined with the rise of capitalism rests on income data that do not adequately capture access to essential goods.
Data on real wages suggests that, historically, extreme poverty was uncommon and arose primarily during periods of severe social and economic dislocation, particularly under colonialism.
The rise of capitalism from the long 16th century onward is associated with a decline in wages to below subsistence, a deterioration in human stature, and an upturn in premature mortality.
In parts of South Asia, sub-Saharan Africa and Latin America, wages and/or height have still not recovered.
Where progress has occurred, significant improvements in human welfare began only around the 20th century. These gains coincide with the rise of anti-colonial and socialist political movements.
I just finished Scale by Greg Egan and, as usual, I’m left with a hurty brain but also an intriguing story.
So, yeah, wild premise that’s not fantasy it’s (very) Hard SF. Here’s a link to The Science Of Scale.
(WARNING – heavy physics in that linky.)
So there’s all that but the actual story is far more about the human condition, politics, fear, love, community. Egan’s use of scale is an ingenious invention that will make you ponder ‘what if.’
Here’s an excerpt:
“As the phone started ringing, the leftmost indicator bulb in the row of seven lit up, blinking in time with the jangle of the buzzer but bright enough to shine clearly through the red gel and a patina of dust. Sam hesitated, doubting his own eyes for a moment, then tempted to assume a wrong number and spare both parties the nuisance of a protracted conversation.
But he couldn’t let the call ring out. Even a wrong number from Scale One would be the most interesting thing that had happened to him all week.
He lifted the handset. “Lucid Investigations,” he announced, then he jabbed the DONE button. The exchange let him hear the slow bass rumble as it replayed his taped voice three octaves deeper, then he listened in as it gathered the reply. He could follow most Scale Three and Scale Five speech effortlessly, but he struggled to get any purchase on the tortured syllables splayed out in these strange groans before the exchange stepped in and spared him the effort.