Bummer Shlockbuster

Like Nanette, we went to see Planet of the Apes this weekend. Unlike her, however, I feel inclined to share some of the deep insights gained by our presence at the Union Square Monstroplex 12 for the crowded 6:35 showing. Oh yes, I'd heard in advance it wasn't "good." That it lacked the satiric punch of its famous predecessor. That it was self-indulgently big and long and overblown and silly. I'd heard all that. And yet -- Tim Burton seemed worthy of the bet, after all. His extravagances and indulgences and hobbyhorses and repetitions have always been, y'know, cool anyway.

Like it says on the bottom of all those fancy brochures for mutual funds "Past Performance is Not a Predictor of Future Results." I can't begin to catalog the badness, the dullness, the lameness of Planet. The barely sketched characters, the plot composed by a committee who probably met only via cell phone conference call while driving in heavy traffic, the underwhelming nature of the visual spectacle, and the muddled and half-hearted attempts to gesture at "themes" (particularly stupid, if at least coherent, is the connection made by the Charlton Heston character between guns and human technological innovation). Tim Roth's shrieking version of Richard III (only the end-of-the-fifth-act crazily enraged Richard, mind you, not the appealing schemer) is almost entertaining. But not quite. Mr. Wahlberg demonstrates Keanu-like ability to look intensely and angrily baffled, while Helena Bonham Carter's ape makeup is apparently sufficient to hide the shame she must, one hopes, feel.