Review by Charles Cassady, Jr.
The Cleveland Movie Blog observes with respect the
passing of the legendary Shirley Temple Black, the former child actress who was
once the biggest star in Hollywood
- arguably the whole world.
Shirley Temple was lucky to have had her illustrious
heyday during the Great Depression. Because, if all our other child superstars
are anything to go by, could you imagine how badly Shirley Temple might have
turned out...had she worked in the movie industry of today? Especially for
Disney? Ugh.
She'd be all grown up and "twerking," in the
world's first secret internet sex tape shot especially in Real3D v.2.0 (a new
process illegally developed by James Cameron's delinquent kids). She'd be
listed in chemistry textbooks for being found addicted to substances new to the
Periodic Table of the Elements. She'd be facing deportation to the
International Space Station after breaking disturbing-the-peace laws in every
sovereign nation. She'd be having petitions signed against her by Justin
Bieber, Amanda Bynes, Lindsay Lohan and (via Ouija board) Emperor Caligula of
Imperial Rome. All agreeing that adult Shirley's antics are way outta line.
Yes, the icon's passing does make one think of the
present day - and extrapolate into our grim future. Allow me to dare and
speculate when the 21st century's own most notorious fallen child idol, Miley
Cyrus, finally goes to her own eternal rest after a lifetime of decadence...
I picture a deceased Miley lying in state, her emaciated
body wasted by long years of vice, drugs and sex. The eyes sunken in skull-lined
sockets in a deeply creased face. Her skeletal limbs wrapped in gray,
parchment-like skin. Patches of sparse, thin, white hair on her bony scalp...
Don't worry, this is still a long time off. When Miss Cyrus is, like, age 27 or
even 28.
(And the mourners filing past her coffin will say,
"At least Miley was always a class act. Not like the new breed of child
stars we have now. They're really out of control...")
Point is, time is a very subjective kind of thing. That's
the message, in part, of Peter Mettler's new nonfiction feature THE END OF
TIME. This is one of those impressionistic filmic essays, very unconventional
and non-bound by structural elements as it explores, well, whatever. Usually
I'm pretty intrigued by this semi-experimental type of documentary, in the way
so many of us were transfixed by KOYANISQAATSI. I just get carried away by the
wash of images and audio.
But this THE END OF TIME left me rather cold a lot of
the, er, time. After a while I sort of got annoyed with the sense I was
watching a science docu from which one scarcely learns ANY science.
Meaning big thumbs-up from school boards across Ohio,
at least.
THE END OF TIME begins with stock science-footage of
historic high-altitude parachute jump in 1960, during which, according to the
aerospace guy who did it, time seemed to stand still. We then go to (without
any real intro or elaboration) to the underground CERN complex, for a
walk-around the incredible support technology for the giant
particle-accelerator ring in which physicists study basic bits of the universe and
try to comprehend the Big Bang (and, hence, goes back into time, sort of). Then
to Hawaiian islands, for scenes of molten lava spewing forth from an active
volcano and straightaway solidifying into bits of the rocky island that have
been here for eons. A lone homeowner in a community that was wiped out by years
of lava flow continues to persevere here, and he says that time sure seems to
run at a different pace when one is so isolated, amidst the apocalyptic eruption-scapes.
Then onto Detroit, Michigan,
where a ruined, deserted city is in a state of vast, slow decay, as its own
time appears to have run out.
THE END OF TIME makes one indeed contemplate time, and
while it's a cheap shot indeed, someone's gotta say it (and Mettler, who
previously did the similarly unconventional think-piece MANUFACTURED
LANDSCAPES, may even be after this reaction): like, man, when is this thing
going to be over!? At 114 minutes it's on the leisurely side for a nonfiction
film, let alone a basically plotless marathon of contemplation and imagery.
Art-house intellectuals quite adore this, as offbeat and
refreshingly non-formulaic. Indeed it is. But take it from me (and I was just
as surprised as you), that watching lava dry and watching paint dry can be very
much the same thing. Moreover, I couldn't help but think the film brazenly borrows
motifs and visuals from previous documentaries such as THE CITY DARK, DETROPIA,
the Ron Fricke/Mark Magidson collaborations, a whole mini-genre of photo
exhibits detailing the decomposition of Detroit.
And, of course, Werner Herzog's short subject LE SOUFRIERE, famously about
a mountain-dweller in Central America refusing to
evacuate despite a volcano eruption. A meanie critic (like, one who makes fun
of Shirley Temple) could say this film commits the double sin of not just being
boring but blatantly derivative.
So does it make me a Philistine that I wasn’t into END OF
TIME more? Like the geeks who would complain that there’s no mention of Doctor
Who or the Batman villain who’s most time-oriented, the Clock King? I guess the
fact that I even know there is a Clock King is pretty damning all in itself. In
my feeble defense, I did find grokk some parts. How the high-tech circular
plates and fittings of advanced physics research equipment resemble the
religious mandalas of Buddhist shrines. How all astronomy essentially looks
backwards in time. How Detroit is
in worse shape than Cleveland…
No kidding. The Michigan
part of Mr. Mettler’s journey through space/time takes us to the Detroit
Electronic Music Festival, which is apparently one of the few signs of life in
the Motor City
now. I guess a DJ there has some observations to make about time (though for
the life of me I can’t remember what they were). But it got me to thinking, oh
man, when your post-industrial city is taken over by “video artists” and music
festivals constantly, forget it - you’re done. That just means the whole
metropolis is so dead, deserted and empty-storefront-festooned, that whack-job
performers can rent whole streets out dirt-cheap to stage their happenings.
And thus it doesn’t bode well, to my way of thinking, that
Cleveland’s got, like five or six
of these regular festivals throughout the year. Now look who’s running out of
time.
R.I.P. Shirley Temple, hopefully tap-dancing in heaven with Bill "Bojangles" Robinson. Thanks for getting us through
the last Depression. For this one, it’s pretty much HOBBIT sequels and Grand
Theft Auto V.
[Reviewer epilogue: As Bob Ignizio will attest, I was horribly past-deadline late in posting this review. So, regarding my lukewarm opinion on this flick, you can take into consideration my own unhappy relationship with time.] (2 1/2 out of 4 stars)
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