Worldbuilding, as author P.D. James would find with her novel, The Children of Men, is not easy. Difficult it may be to sidestep the usual comparisons to the worlds that would seem similar to a unique idea, The Village does quite well in side-stepping the potential collations and references. It is no surprise that M. Night Shyamalan manages this with ease. Although his Victorian-era-like feature relies on the drab clothing and community spirit of a small village, it is not until the howls and wonders of the fields beyond the hamlet are focused in on that any turn for originality is presented. Lucky for audiences, that is immediate. The low-hanging camera focuses on an elated and embarrassed Adrien Brody, clapping, cheering and soon falling quiet when nobody joins in with his love for the ominous.
Kill he does. Michael Myers, that is, not the abstract concept of a nonsense holiday used as an excuse to drink and scare. Halloween Kills gets itself off on the wrong foot by implying those nobodies who know nothing at all about movies are correct in assuming that the white-masked Haddonfield slasher is named “Halloween,” and not in homage to the Canadian actor. But trivial details like this are not a problem for David Gordon Green, whose desire to remove anything credible or interesting about the promising series so far has been a massive success. In just one feature, Green has turned this intricate and faithful reimagining into a messy, latter-stages-of-the-1990s piece of indifferent filmmaking.
Heroic actions usually blossom on the screen. Actors are one thing, but why bother with professionals? How better to bring them to life than to get the heroes themselves to relive their actions? Anthony Sadler, Spencer Stone and Alek Skarlatos prevented a terrible, terrible act. True, but director Clint Eastwood must showcase that intensity well. His patriotism filmmaking phase, the ones that show the ordinary heroes in all of us, do come across as a tad old hat. But there is something relatively welcoming about it. His thoughts and his theories about what it is exactly that makes an American hero is straddled by a deep respect for the military. But that is what pushes him to make bold choices in casting, writing, and directing.
We are barely comfortable hearing our own thoughts, so how Nick Marshall (Mel Gibson) handles hearing the thoughts of every woman around him is beyond us audience members. But there is an impassable, fascinatingly strange sentiment to What Women Want that, inevitably, settles on the mind rather uncomfortably these days. His cocky charisma is unwarranted and odd, but the main crux of this feature from Nancy Meyers. In Meyers we trust. If she wishes for us to put our faith into Gibson as what a whole gender wishes to be infatuated with, then who are we to disagree? What Women Want is disastrously interesting, its inherent charm is the inevitable change that will occur, but whether that change is redeeming or not is not on the mind of Gibson, Meyers or anyone else.