In the interest of full disclosure, I work pretty closely with the director of Adrenaline, Scott Hansen. He’s going to be directing the forthcoming feature film I’ve only spent, oh, all of the past two years working on and raising funding for, so any accusations of bias would be well understood and duly noted. That said, as with the last time I reviewed a friend’s side project/labor of love, I will make every effort to leave the heavy baggage of friendship/business partnering at the door, and focus squarely on the project at hand.

So, Adrenaline. The hook is pretty entertaining, and surprisingly well done for a short demo (the film clocks in at roughly 27 minutes). A huge pharmaceutical company is broken into, and the perp makes off with some “experimental chemicals.” Now, as anyone who has ever seen a horror movie in their life knows, “experimental chemicals” usually do one thing - turn the poor bastard who picks them up into some sort of Evil Freakshow of Death and Doom. Such is the case here.

Except, when we meet him, the perp isn’t yet transformed. That’s because the infection works in a pretty unique way: The infection becomes stronger as the victim’s adrenaline levels are raised, sort of in the fashion of a reverse “Crank” setup. So when our hero cops make an attempt to collar the perp for the theft in the first of many high-speed, MTV-style chase sequences, they only succeed in pissing him off and giving him the newfound ability to do things like leap over security fences like it was nothing.

From here, Adrenaline aims to impress the audience with more chase sequences, stunts, special effects, greenscreen work, splatter gags, aerial shots, and digital 3D than you’ve probably ever seen in a film that cost $2500. Yes, Adrenaline only cost $2500 to make, and when you watch the movie, you’ll come to the same conclusion that I did - anyone who can make something look this good on such a low budget is a director to watch out for in the coming years.

If I must have nitpicks (and being me, of course I must), I’d say that for all its visual glory, Adrenaline drops the ball pretty hard when it comes to making the most of its hook from a story perspective. Hansen does what he can with the script written by Charles Tuey, and budget was obviously the paramount concern, but Adrenaline has got to hold the record for the least amount of dialogue ever put to a 30 minute reel. One can’t help but wonder if a few brief segments of exposition might have better served the project as a whole than some of the more ambitious but less believable gags, like the oh-god-not-again “Matrix” slowmo bullet-from-the-gun that makes an appearance in the first 8 minutes just because.

Regardless, if Adrenaline falters in some aspects, it’s only notable because the production values, visual effects, and the project overall blow away the usual dreadful expectations for low-budget shorts. Indeed, the biggest compliment that I can give Adrenaline is that by the time the credits rolled, I was pissed that Hansen hadn’t been given the story or the budget to expand it into a feature. With my low attention span and even lower tolerance for Typical Filmmaker Bullshit, that’s high praise indeed.

Go pick up a copy, and make sure you take a close look at the “Chasing Vengeance” trailer when you do!

1. Across the Universe

The preview pretty much lets you know what you’re in for, but it’s so pretty you ignore your better judgment and slog through it anyway. I’m not talking about a horrible relationship here, but Across the Universe, Julie Taymor’s pretentiously bad visual fellatio to the Beatles. It’s the kind of movie where we open with some ridiculously good looking lad, on a gloomy, empty beach, staring across the ocean while singing about the “one who got away.” This is the opening scene, and it only gets worse from there. It’s bad enough when screenplays exist simply to move us to the next pretty visual on screen; it’s nigh unbearable when the story plays second fiddle to the goddamned soundtrack. Oh, our main character is named Jude! Someone says “hey” to him! A girl named Prudence cones in through a window! Two unsympathetic brats fall in love during the chaos that is Vietnam-era America, and the film has the balls to ask us to *care* about these little shits making kissy faces at each other. Yes, Taymor’s film is, from a visual sense, an awesome thing of beauty. It’s also the poster child for promptly amputating the hands of any art student who dares to open up Final Draft.

2. I’m Not There

Anytime a film relies on a gimmick like having a bunch of different actors play the same character in different sequences, immediately package all prints of the film, load it on a plane to France, tie up the director in the cargo hold, and blow it out of the sky halfway. Across The Universe is probably the more hateful film, but at least it gave me something to look at. I’m Not There reeks of the kind of thing one coughs up when given millions of dollars and a group of A-listers with which to make a love letter to a childhood hero you spent years reading up on. It’s obvious the screenwriters and director were intimately familiar with Bob Dylan. Now if they had been so kind as to let some of us who aren’t in on the fun, they might have a movie on their hands, instead of a clusterfuck. Oh, and for the record, there’s not a person on Earth interesting enough to make a 2 and a half hour biography on. No, not one.

3. Transformers

Perhaps it was asking too much to expect anything good to come out of a Michael Bay film based on a toy line of robots that turn into cars, but I kept hope alive… until about 20 minutes in. Transformers fails by trying to be way more than it is. Between the previews and the cinematography, it’s obvious Bay wanted his own Independence Day. What he came up with was an overly long, sloppily paced film with an identity crisis. I paid for a movie about GIANT ROBOTS FIGHTING. What I got was Small Soldiers meets Three Kings meets Hackers meets The Leftover Gag Reel From Good Burger. The 20 minutes at the end show what could have been, had the movie focused on the only thing it could have hoped to do well, but to get there, you’ve got to watch one of Hollywood’s most overhyped young stars stumble through a painful performance of epic proportions with a script forged in the fires of suck.

4. Saw IV

I count myself a Saw fan, and the first three films combine into a refreshingly bleak trilogy with a satisfying conclusion. Of course, making three pieces of successful, profitable entertainment isn’t good enough when there’s money to be made, and so the first of the second trilogy of Saw films makes its way to the screen. All the same visual tricks are whored out once again by series veteran Daniel Lynn Bousman, but Saw IV marks the first time where the creators of the first film didn’t pen the script. It shows. For while the Saw series has always been about unrealistically contrived circumstances leading up to a big reveal at the end, the payoff has usually been worth the suspension of disbelief. For Saw IV, they don’t even bother to explain motive, instead blueballing audiences for Saw V. The shark has been jumped, and how.

5. The Brave One

Jodie Foster makes a failed attempt to channel Charles Bronson in this by-the-numbers thriller, continuing the cinema’s obsession with romanticizing New York City, even while asserting that it’s the kind of place where a Leading Lesbian can’t take a walk at night without having her dog stolen and her hot exotic boyfriend killed. The film looks even worse when you take into consideration another flick, Death Sentence, did this sort of thing much better in the same month. The critics largely panned that one, saving their praise for the “classy” revenge film. Whatever.

Lair

Sony once held this Panzer Dragoon ripoff up as a showcase title for their next-gen console. That, as the saying goes, was a mistake. Yes, Lair thrills with epic landscapes and graphics nothing short of extraordinary. Watching enemy dragons flood the skies while troops wage medieval era battles on the ground makes you eager to hop into combat on the wings of your very own firebreath. Too bad once you do, things become harder to control than a bladder after 8 glasses of water. If only the developer had possessed the common sense to implement a more traditional control scheme, this could have been one of the year’s best. As a glorified tech demo for Sony’s Sixaxis tilt sensor technology, it only confirms what we already knew to be true: The PS3 is no Wii.

Bioshock

A good game, one of the year’s best, but also a striking portrait of the limitations of the medium in its current state. Bioshock has been universally lauded for its atmosphere, story, and forcing the player to make “moral choices;” but at the end of the day, Bioshock’s narrative pretty much comes down to Libertarianism: The Shootyfest, and like in every game since the beginning of time, “moral choices” in the city of Rapture come down to killing things you shouldn’t want to and gaining the power of a minor god, or being a pacifist and not being able to finish the game because you’re an emasculated virtual sissy. Bonus points for letting me open fire (from my gun -or- directly via my genetically altered hands) on mutant children.

Call of Duty 4

Much like RE 4 was considered a rebirth for all things zombie, Call of Duty 4 has been hyped to the high heavens as some sort of messiah for a series that should have died out a long, long time ago. Really? Really? Okay, so instead of endless waves of respawning Nazis who just seem to shrug off the shots from my M1 Garand, I’m shooting endless waves of respawning Arabs who just seem to shrug off the shots from my M16. Fabulous. “BUT THE MULTIPLAYER,” the fanboys and sell-out gaming press might scream. Since when did having a great online experience become an excuse to make your single player campaign a wash, even when it only lasts under five hours? Ghost Recon Advance Warfighter did so called “Modern Warfare” a lot better… a year ago. Hey, Infinity Ward, note to self: It’s called a “cover system.”

Ratchet and Clank Future: Tools of Destruction

Lovable fuzzy critters with guns and a classy robot sidekick remain the formula for success as developer Insomniac wisely resists the urge to reinvent the wheel on the PS3, instead giving us what we wanted all along: The shoot-jump-boom-yay style of gameplay that made this series so phenomenal to begin with. The story is a load of nonsense, but you don’t really buy a playable Pixar movie for the story. You buy it because if you don’t, you pretty much hate fun.

Manhunt 2

Rockstar Games completely drops the ball on the second installment of their killing fetish series. Where the first game’s story was flooring enough to make you tough it out through the often infuriating stealth gameplay, Manhunt 2 weaves a tale that is as boring as it is predictable. A “twist” you’ll see coming a mile away serves as the hook for repetitive killings and maimings through the game’s 15 chapters, and while most sequels make an attempt to one-up their predecessors, Manhunt 2 manages to ruin the very executions that made the series a hit in the first place with overly intrusive blurred filters and red hues. Why should I make the effort to stalk a guy long enough to get the “red” kill when I won’t even be able to make it out? I didn’t even bother, and neither should you.

Clive Barker’s Jericho

A cool premise gets muddled by frustrating gameplay and loose controls. A team of Spec-Ops trained in witchcraft are sent in to make sure God’s first, failed attempt at creating something in his image stays contained. While I’m always a fan of using Christian mythology in other, better written works of fiction, Jericho quickly devolves into you making a mad dash to heal your braindead teammates every five seconds before squad 14521 of nigh-unkillable crackshot nasties overwhelm you. Most of the negative reviews point out Jericho’s linear design, but I find it hard to see how this game would have benefited from the addition of a Warthog and 500 miles of track to drive it through. If you must, rent it, like you would any throwaway B- horror movie.

Rock Band

Bless you, EA. Now we get to watch self-important musicians of all stripes, not just guitarists, get their panties in a tizzle because the gratification they’ve worked “so hard for” is now available to everyone, even those who might not be inclined to spend every waking moment practicing. The song list is nowhere as good as the first two Guitar Hero games, but the instruments themselves are a blast to play, especially with a four-piece band assembled. Rock Band is clearly aimed at a more casual audience than its predecessor, with the exception of the drums: If you can play those in expert mode, you can play for real. Still waiting for the White Stripes downloadable content so I can finally 100% something on hard.

Assassin’s Creed

As much fun as running around on rooftops can be, it’s not enough to justify a whole game. At least, not the way this one was marketed. Assassin’s Creed was pitched to gamers as an action game, when really, it’s more of a 3D evolution of the point-and-click. The combat is a chore, the gameplay mechanics are almost insultingly simple given the convoluted control scheme, and the story is– well, you’ll see. A decent rental as a hack oddity, but 9.0 scores? Please.

Ghost Squad

A lightgun shooter, retailing at full price, that you can beat in under 10 minutes. Next.

Resident Evil: Umbrella Chronicles

Maybe if bullets didn’t just bounce off zombies when I shot them in the head, this game might be as satisfying as its “greatest hits” premise.

Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune

“Gears of Persia” meets Indiana Jones: A slick experience that combines great pacing, snappy dialogue, tight gunplay and spiffy acrobatics into one package. A few more like this, and the PS3 might actually cease to be a joke.

Super Mario Galaxy

A worthy follow-up to Mario 64 that will make you feel old.

“Tragedy” - Hundreds of thousands of people die every day on the planet. Death itself does not a tragedy make. What does, then? Perhaps violent death, en masse, is the criteria? Verily, I say unto you, in the time it took any given member of the deceased to down a keg of beer, hundreds of people meet far more gruesome ends. But since these people reside in counties, cities, and even entire countries we have deemed as below our lofty standard, the word is not applied. Geraldo Rivera will not be shedding tears for them, Fox News will not be running a special two-hour report on the subject featuring the same half-dozen 8 second clips intercut with hyperbolic commentary, and Tim Kaine will not be flying out for photo ops.

Because Virginia Tech is an elite school attended by suburban youth, we weep. We mourn. We gnash our teeth with outrage. They had their whole lives ahead of them. Now they will never have a 401k or a six-figure job or babies to send off to their alma mater. We throw up our hands in agony and wonder what it’s all for.

Before you fire off the hate mail, swallow your bile and please understand that this is a new era. This is the new George, a George whose misanthropy is tempered by the forces of reason and logic and (dare I say it) a twinkling of human empathy. My needlessly provocative endorsement for the senseless wholesale mauling of well-adjusted, youthful dolts died with my spare tire and neckbeard. What good does it do to eliminate a classroom full of blissfully ignorant booksmart yuppies? Yes yes, a war against stupidity and youthful indiscretion and all of that. But like Klendathu arachnids, there will always be more to replace them; you simply can’t nuke them all when the very planet is an ecosystem designed to allow them to thrive. Realizing this, is it not better to simply spare ourselves having to hear the media weave epic mythos of these youth for the next four months?

For one self-centered exchange student, the answer was an emphatic negatory. He did not care how many lives he would disrupt. He did not care how much valuable news time his actions would divert from important, life-changing stories like the Anna Nicole Smith saga or the Don Imus Jerseyan Faux Pas. No, what’s of utmost concern is that some vacuous priss left Cho Seung-Hui for a flashier specimen, his brain couldn’t cope, and so he killed 30+ people. Breaking up is hard to do, but this is too much to excuse.

My inner lonely fat kid, that piece of myself that will never completely die, can sympathize with crimes of passion, given proper circumstances. But for fuck’s sake, this was college. Nerddom is practically a subculture of its own on campus. One very prestigious school I visited had signups for video game tournaments sponsored by student government! A dorm party I attended had a NES with Mario 3 as a focal point of attention, and a rather photogenic young lass was in a daze. When I asked her why she was so spaced out, her response chilled the bone: “I’m sorry, I was thinking of Warcraft.” So a flaky bitch left Cho Seung-Hui. Big deal! We’ve not quite hit critical mass yet, but nerds are inside 20 years away from becoming the new hipster cool. A smart Asian kid like our killer should have recognized. Hide your daughters while you still have time, shitheads!

Perhaps the girl meant more to Cho Seung-Hui than a mere fling. Perhaps he became emotionally invested. To quote that mean prick Alec Baldwin: I got no sympathy for you. Going to a college campus like Tech with any hopes of securing a serious relationship is like heading to Utah with dreams of finding work as a cameraman for a pornography company. People do not go to college to fall in love. It does happen, but nobody with a functioning brain expects it to. No, the current party line dictates that young people go to college to “find themselves.” And you know what that means: Pseudo-intellectualism, a pop-culture reference arms race, and as much random drunken fucking as possible. I do not go to McDonalds and expect to find fine cuisine. And if I do, I don’t shoot up the golden arches when I am let down as a result of my own stupidity. You knew the deal going in when you accepted the job of a college student. At the risk of getting all Bauer on your membrane for a second; to do that job right, you must never, ever forget to stay detached. Hell, you were a writing major.

So why can I sympathize with the Columbine kids and not this guy? Because high school kids often lack any sort of real support system. They don’t know what the fuck. Counseling is a joke in grades 1-12, and the rule of zero tolerance rules the day. Kids are confused as shit in middle school and high school, and more often than not are left with no true source of direction, save the brainwashing of church youth groups which lure in the impressionable with promises of free pizza. Cho had more than dogma sponsored Pizza Hut to turn to; he had a campus full of willing young women he could have hate-fucked until old what’s-her-name was nothing more than a vague memory. Of course, that might have required him to cease taking photographs of himself in hunting vests, guns akimbo, like some rejected extra from a John Woo movie.

This, apparently, was too much to ask.

George Smith finishes his fights in a timely fashion…

While the socially accepted canon states that the “two minute brother” is the eternal sexual lamentation of women, practice dictates that just as often, the opposite is true. Sure, creative, passionate lovemaking is all well and good, but sometimes it’s the better part of valor to just go through the greatest hits collection so your intended audience can pop off in time for you make a mad dash for the TV to watch Desperate Housewives.

Halo 3 is a lot like that, except the uncreative skank is developer Bungie, and by “make a mad dash for the TV” I mean “make zillions of dollars.” The simple fact is they had to come up with some way to end the story, and lo, they do it in just about the exact way you’d expect. That is to say, the laziest.

Halo 3 (hereafter referred to as Overrated Generic Sci Fi Shooty Trilogy Part Final) is like a greatest hits album of a band that manages a 10+ year career by having exactly 1.5 good songs on each yearly release. As a result, you end up with a lot of pure distilled awesome, but you also end up with the pleasure of paying $18 for a disc with less than 30 minutes of music. To be fair, Halo 3’s running time is a bit longer than that, but not by much.

The one thing 3 gets right over the other games is the pacing. With the exception of the penultimate level (which is the kind of thing you can be drawn and quartered for in Muslim countries because there is a passage in the Koran specifically prohibiting such shitty game design of epic magnitudes), the campaign is always switching things up.

Still, this is Halo, and Halo is a formula.

Level one - reintroduce the chief and assume the player hasn’t ever touched a controller.
Level three - omg warthog.
Levels four through six - Blow up these random things and run your ass around town because we’ve got nine levels of game and only 4 levels of story.
Level seven - holy fuck tanks and/or flying things.
Level eight - Bullshit flood level, serving as one last “fuck you” to the player before we wrap this moneymaker up.
Level nine - WARTHOG AND TWENTY MINUTE RENDITION OF THE HALO THEME.

And that’s it. That’s pretty much all there is. If any of this sounds familiar, it’s because it’s the same sort of thing you did in Halo 1 and Halo 2, only with less of the monotonous bullshit that made those games both overrated and longer than an episode of Seinfeld without commercials. With both of these aspects of the Halo gameplay gone, the confession a Bungie rep made to game outlets after the first game holds truer than ever: This is the same 30 seconds of fun repeated over and over again. Only now it’s in high-def, so prices got bumped up by ten bucks accordingly. Enjoy that standard issue Spartan assault rifle planted up your ass.

*Note - Halo 3 is not a bad game. It is, however, a very short one if you are like me and do not have time in your daily routine to log on to Xbox live and have your sexuality questioned and challeneged by 12 year old boys with the voices of 8 year old girls. If you accept the game for what it is, that is to say a well-designed half dozen or so hours of single player bliss meant to be playable by gamers of all stripes, you will have fun.

If you have bought into the nonsense that this is somehow our subculture/generation’s defining masterpiece on the level of Star Wars or Lord of the Rings, well… the 170m opening day might vindicate your view. Just don’t expect the narrative to blow you away. The fact is there is a decent - if not entirely original - tale in the Halo mythos, the problem is that developer Bungie is more than content to not actually tell it to you. Instead of advancing the plot through the trilogy’s admittedly super slick cutscenes, Bungie decided what fans *really* wanted was lots of unintelligible sci-fi jargon and vague allusions to events that happen outside of the game’s scope.

Then again, to be fair, judging by what I saw at the midnight launch, the Halo Nerd seems to be just the sort of person predisposed to use his dateless nights to fill in the crater-sized gaps in the games’ canon by reading book after book after book of C-rate fiction and comics and piecing together its chronological order and effect on the status of minor bit players in the game universe from a comprehensive wiki run by some neckbeard in his mother’s basement.

I take it back. Bungie, you know exactly who your audience is. You delievered in spades.