? So a putative cure for cancer unleashes a deadly virus that wipes out 90 percent of mankind and sets loose a gaggle of vampires to devour whomever’s left. My primary-care physician had to have been a consultant on this thing . . . Has his M.O. written all over it . . .
? How on earth did they get those shots of New York City—from the East 50s down to Greenwich Village, with a stopover in the Flatiron District, FT’s hood? I mean the desolation, the overgrowth, the debris, the sense of impending doom—either they just CGI’d the heck out of the place or they used stock footage from the pre-Giuliani years . . .
? Will Smith has this wonderful capacity to express both rage and terror with a single facial expression. Must have come from all those years working in network television . . .
? So Spam and G5 iMacs survive the pandemic. Is there a connection? Must examine my motherboard . . .
? The director, Francis Lawrence, paces this thing perfectly. Just as the more meditative and weepy scenes threaten to narcotize—BOOM! We’re back in action. No slack, and just enough down time from the carnage so as not to overwhelm the senses. Lawrence’s biggest previous credits include both the vomitous Constantine and a Britney Spears music video—so someone was taking a risk on this guy big time.
? Most unbelievable element: Will Smith’s apartment, a townhouse off Washington Square Park. I don’t care if he is a lieutenant colonel, a research scientist, AND the last man standing on earth—there is no way he can afford that crib . . .
? Maybe I’m overly sensitive because I was living in Manhattan on September 11, but the “ground zero” references can only evoke the devastation wrought on that day. Just a sign of these tense times, or rank exploitation? Don’t know how I feel about it yet . . .
? What was the deal with the extended Shrek video repartee, with Smith reading Eddie Murphy’s and Mike Myers’ lines? Was he trying to prove he should have been given the gig?
? Film contains perhaps the most emotional “death of a mannequin” scene since Andrew McCarthy wept over Kim Cattrall .
? “God didn’t do this,” Smith’s character says, “We did.” Then five minutes later he’s screaming at his “savior” that there is no God. What gives? Did someone forget to do a coherence check on the multiple versions of the script? Nevertheless, there is definitely a Christian-friendly theme of God’s providential care in the face of horrific tragedy and the power of self-sacrifice to bring hope out of despair. Can it be that Hollywood managed to transform a B-movie monster flick (albeit with an A-movie budget) into suitable Christmas fare? Think so . . .
Postscript
? Speaking of vampires, Frank Langella will probably be looking at his first Best Actor Oscar nod this year, for his portrayal of an out-of-print novelist and object of a grad student’s affection in Starting Out in the Evening . He manages to hit just the right notes in depicting a waning writer’s quiet desperation to hold on to his dignity and artistic integrity—the kind of role that would have had Al Pacino chewing the scenery and spitting on his costars. Expect Langella to lose this year to Daniel Day-Lewis but come back big next year with Frost/Nixon , for which he won his third (?) Best Actor Tony when it ran on Broadway. I once had the presumption to give Langella advice. He was sitting in the CitiCorp Center Food Court early one January morning several years ago. He was starring in a one-man show based on the career of British stage actor Edmund Kean at St. Peter’s Lutheran Church next door. I just walked up to him and said I thought he was the most underrated and underused actor in America, and that he should pursue film roles worthy of the talents he displayed repeatedly onstage—like a big-screen adaptation of Benito Cereno . (Langella had starred in Robert Lowell’s stage adaptation back in 1964!) He was quite taken aback, flattered, and wished me a happy new year. I then went back to my cruller and coffee . . .
