The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Tuesday, March 21, 2017 — 5
‘Belko’ puts on a pointless
display of turgid violence
ORION PICTURES
John Gallagher Jr. stars in new thriller “The Belko Experiment.”
Interesting premise proves chilling but empty, leaving viewers
without answers to questions broached in new, violent thriller
“The
Belko
Experiment”
starts out promisingly enough.
The idea of being locked in an
office and forced to kill your
fellow employees is chilling,
and John Gallagher Jr., after
terrific
supporting
work
in
“Short
Term
12”
and
“10
Cloverfield Lane,” gives a heroic
and endearingly human central
performance. The pacing is
great, defined by long stretches
of
tension
punctuated
by
sudden, horrifying violence to
create an affecting, if familiar,
portrait of human nature at its
worst. The absolute high points
are the interactions between
the workers, though, as they
try to levee their workplace
relationships into positions of
greater power.
“Belko” is at its best in its
first half — as it soon abandons
all semblance of being a smart
thriller in favor of becoming
a mindless gorefest. All of the
shock
and
discomfort
that
accompanied the violence in
earlier, better scenes is replaced
by a numbness. Nothing that
is portrayed on screen has
any weight, and this applies
most of all to the cast. The side
characters that the audience has
been following for the entire
movie are often killed off before
they are given a chance to affect
the story in any meaningful way.
After the umpteenth pointless
character death, one can only
wonder why writer James Gunn
(“Guardians of the Galaxy”) saw
fit to introduce these characters
in the first place. Was it a
misguided attempt to make his
script feel like it had greater
stakes than it does? As it is,
most of them are
cannon
fodder,
extras of a movie
they
ostensibly
star in.
This
mean-
spiritedness
takes
its
toll
after
a
while,
and “The Belko
Experiment”
becomes a truly joyless slog
to watch. The moment a dog
randomly
shows
up,
you
mentally brace yourself for it
to die horribly, as well. By the
third act, it has descended into
violence for the sake of violence.
It’s not fun, smart or even all
that scary. It’s just sadistic.
Characters
do
outrageously
bloody battle with slogan like
“Brings the world together”
painted on the walls behind
them, because director Greg
McLean
(“The
Darkness”)
thought blatant irony would
make the proceedings more
bearable. It doesn’t.
In fact, for a film written
by the man behind one of the
best and funniest comic book
movies of the last decade,
“Belko” stumbles in its writing
more than anywhere else. He
tries to inject his signature
humor wherever he can, but
the jokes, few of which land
anyway, can’t contend with the
harsh, dreary atmosphere. The
natural questions invited by the
premise cause a
glut of exposition,
as
well,
and
no
matter
the
strengths
of
the
performers,
no
one
could
have
made
the
resulting
clunky
dialogue
sound
natural.
As “The Belko Experiment”
draws closer to its conclusion,
there has been so much build-
up to answers to the questions
viewers have been asking that
the eventual answer can’t help
but be disappointing. There’s
a climax that, like much of the
rest of the late-film action, is
completely hollow, and it ends
with
the
textbook
sequel-
baiting ending that modern
horror apparently demands. It
starts with strong footing and
ends having fallen flat on its face,
reaulting in an hour-and-a-half
of turgid, senseless bloodshed. If
it was saying something unique,
it might be more worthwhile.
JEREMIAH VANDERHELM
Daily Arts Writer
FILM REVIEW
NETFLIX
Netflix’s new superhero series “Iron Fist.”
‘Iron Fist’ stumbles, fails
to establish a new identity
Yet another adaptation in Netflix’s string of superhero
successes, “Iron Fist” doesn’t quite know where it is going
Over the past half-decade,
superheroes
have
come
to
dominate
Hollywood.
With
ten superhero films released
from 2015 to 2016, and another
25 slated for release through
2020, there doesn’t appear to
be an end in sight for comic-
book franchises Marvel and
CAPCOM. The latest entry into
this superhero universe comes
in the form of Netflix’s “Iron
Fist,” a television adaptation
of the comic-book series of the
same name. Slow and lacking
a clear direction, “Iron Fist”
struggles to develop an identity
and craft an entertaining plot
capable of exciting viewers.
In the series, protagonist
Danny
Rand
(Finn
Jones,
“Game of Thrones”) returns to
his previous home in New York
City after spending 15 years
training in martial arts. There,
Rand discovers that the business
his father co-founded, Rand
Corporation, is now ran by his
father’s unscrupulous former
business partner, and he sets out
to regain control of his family’s
legacy. “Iron Fist” is held back
by its meandering storyline,
which is to blame for the show’s
sluggish
pace.
Seemingly
intent on portraying even the
most granular, uninteresting
details of Rand’s life, the series
gives off a leisurely feel, as
if it doesn’t care to condense
anything. Toward the end of
the show’s premiere, in one of
the strongest examples of this
quality, “Iron Fist” devotes a
whole scene to depicting Rand
meeting a homeless man named
Big Al (Craig Walker, “The
Cobbler”) and using his phone
to read a news story covering
the death of his parents 15 years
prior. Becauase he was on the
plane crash with his parents,
Rand is already aware of their
death, and this — coupled with
the fact that Big Al later dies in
the episode — makes the entire
scene feel utterly unnecessary.
By subjecting audiences to these
meaningless bits of Rand’s life,
“Iron Fist” reveals that it has
little idea of the type of show
that it wants to be.
Along with its lack of identity,
“Iron Fist” suffers from writing
that often spoon-feeds the plot
to viewers. Despite its gradual
pacing, the series
constantly works
to
ensure
that
its
storyline
is
clear, oftentimes
becoming overly
transparent.
Ostensibly,
the show perceives itself as
confusing, and hopes to avoid
audiences developing a similar
sense. In an almost-comically
bad instance of “Iron Fist”
spoon-feeding viewers, Rand is
attacked by the same menacing
security guard, Shannon (Esau
Pritchett,
“The
Narrows”),
who he fought earlier in the
episode. After disarming the
guard, Rand loudly professes:
“You’re the security guard from
Rand [Corporation]” to identify
Shannon for viewers, but then
asks him “Who sent you?” not
five-minutes later. Such lines
effectively kill “Iron Fist” ’s
momentum and further dilute
the show’s quality by preventing
audiences from experiencing its
storyline naturally.
Throughout
its
marketing
materials for “Iron Fist,” Netflix
made a concerted effort to
highlight Jones’ role as Rand in
the series. As the poster-boy for
the show, Jones’ performance
was used as one of the selling
points for “Iron Fist,” especially
given Jones’ strong work on
“Game of Thrones.” While Jones
certainly isn’t the weakest link
of the series’s cast, he doesn’t
deliver a particularly impressive
or
meaningful
performance,
and he does little to distinguish
Rand among Marvel’s growing
roster
of
superheroes.
Unfortunately, Jones’ slightly
above-average
interpretation
of Rand represents the best of
the show’s cast, with Jessica
Stroup (“Prom Night”) and
Tom
Pelphrey
(“Banshee”)
disappointing as a brother-
sister
antagonist
duo. Even Jones’s
former “Game of
Thrones” co-star,
Jessica
Henwick
(“Star Wars: The
Force Awakens”),
is
emotionally-
restrained in her role. This cast
should be better, and it will have
to improve to keep audience
members’ engaged with the
series.
It’s not all bad for “Iron Fist.”
The show’s cinematography is
well-done and includes several
gorgeous shots of New York
City that portray “Iron Fist” ’s
diverse backdrop. Avoiding the
typical cliché sweeping shots
of the Empire State Building or
the city skyline, these scenes
attempt to highlight the city’s
underbelly and the different
sides of New York. It’s an
interesting take, one that serves
to almost revitalize and rebrand
a city that has been featured in
countless superhero films and
shows alike.
While the show may be visually-
appealing, “Iron Fist” ’s struggles
with
plotline
and
pacing
remain, looming large over
a series that, in its current
form, doesn’t inspire viewers
to return beyond the poorly-
executed pilot.
CONNOR GRADY
Daily Arts Writer
TV REVIEW
“Iron Fist”
Series Premieres
Netflix
“The Belko
Experiment”
Orion Pictures
Rave Cinemas,
Goodrich Quality 16
Pop music, sexuality
and the gay duckling
Intersections of sexuality and music, and the ducks in between
When I was four years old, my
parents gave each of their three
sons a pet duck. You can’t do
much with a pet duck, so most of
the fun was deciding on a name.
For weeks, my duckling went
by two different names: Elvis
and Britney (Spears, of course).
Eventually, I firmly settled on
Britney, and shortly thereafter
she was attacked by a local clan of
raccoons and put to rest (may she
rest in peace).
Fast-forward 15 years: I sat my
parents down in our living room,
a short 100 feet away from the
scene of Britney’s tragedy, and
told them I was gay. Saying “the
word” took me a half hour in itself.
I danced around it, using phrases
like “my boyfriend” and “dating
him” instead. I couldn’t decide if I
wanted to articulate my sexuality
or not because, just like with
Britney’s name, I’d always been
an indecisive kid. My parents had
hours of questions that evening,
but I had just as many for myself.
I remember going back to Ann
Arbor for my sophomore year,
looking for answers for both
myself and my parents thinking,
“I have absolutely no idea what
I’m doing.”
It was true, I had no idea what
being openly gay meant. But I
knew of someone I could ask for
help: Britney. No, not Britney the
duck, not even Britney Spears
herself, but rather Britney as a
cultural element — pop stars’
emboldening lyrics and the fan
bases they draw.
I’d always lacked a community
growing up, never loving sports.
Pop stars filled that space. Akin
to how sports unite fans in
competition, fandom was my
sport. I was a “Little Monster,”
which meant that I rooted for
Lady Gaga to “win,” whether it
was beating Katy Perry on the
charts or besting Madonna in
critical acclaim. As sports fans
read player stats, I researched
chart positions. Pop star feuds
were
my
March
Madness
brackets, Pharrell Williams and
Max Martin my Harbaugh.
Fandom gave me the same
sense
of
competition
and
camaraderie my friends on the
football team had, and I developed
a love for the communities each
artist fostered. When summer
came around, and subsequently
pop music albums were released,
I pledged allegiance to a team;
was I a player in Rihanna’s Navy,
Beyonce’s Beyhive or even Taylor
Swift’s Swifties? Regardless of
whose colors I wore, in each team
I experienced a culture that was
inclusive, fun and, often times,
very queer.
Vibrant stan culture aside, the
pop stars I fell in love with offered
music that made me feel normal.
Their lyrics were empowering
and loud — two adjectives I
lacked as a closeted kid in a rural
Midwestern town. Pop surges
with
strong
beats,
inspiring
statements and
bold
outfits;
these
flooded
me
with
a
multisensory
wave of distilled
confidence.
I’d
grown
up
obsessing
over
pop
music
behemoths
like
Michael
Jackson,
Lady
Gaga and Prince,
all artists whose
grandeur
and
pounding
synthesizers
injected
confidence into
my
self-image
that it lacked on its own.
Prince’s Purple Rain — the
first album I purchased when
my dad gave me his old turntable
— blurred the lines of sexuality
and gender, and made me feel
okay to be confused. In “I Would
Die 4 U,” Prince, an artist both
accepted by mainstream culture
and generally deemed “straight,”
opens with “I’m not a woman, I’m
not a man, I am something you’ll
never understand.” I replayed
that introduction hundreds of
time on my iPod Classic, thinking
if mainstream ’80s pop music
can accept these lyrics, then 21st
century society has to be OK with
me.
Even
more
influential
was
Lady
Gaga’s
Born This Way.
When
it
was
released, I was
in 9th grade and
finally beginning
to
associate
the word with
how I felt about
guys. Songs like
“Hair” preached
individuality,
with
Gaga
belting, “I just
wanna be myself
/ And I want you
to love me for
who I am” — I
couldn’t have said it any more
directly myself. Gaga’s album
exuded love, a feeling I needed
during a time in my life when I
felt displaced. Born This Way was
monumental, both critically and
on the charts, and its widespread
international recognition helped
me entertain the concept that
society would accept me if I was
to come out; it was the catalyst for
owning my sexuality.
Pop music wasn’t just an
internal inspiration though — it
also gave me tangible friendships.
This past summer, I packed up
my brother’s red Ford Focus and
drove from Michigan to L.A. I’d
never set foot in the city of Los
Angeles before, and the number
of people I knew in Southern
California could barely be counted
on one hand. I was scared.
The first few weeks were
lonely; I had no friends and no
known avenues to meet people.
I’d come home from work, make
dinner and binge-watch “Gilmore
Girls” (I finished all seven seasons
in less than three weeks). With
“Gilmore Girls” finished, I had to
stop moping and take the advice a
friend of mine: To not be afraid to
do things alone.
That week, I met a friend-of-
a-friend for a beach concert and
began chatting with some of her
work friends — Katy Perry had just
dropped a single right as Britney
debuted “Make Me… ,” and fan-
bases were shocked, pitting the
Britney Army against KatyCats
(?!). This offensive single release
tactic wasn’t new to KatyCats,
as they’d fought a similar battle
when Katy released “Roar” in
conjunction with Lady Gaga’s
“Applause” in 2013. Katy cut into
Gaga’s downloads significantly,
tainting the entire album release.
When
I
received
a
text
about the #drama, I let out an
“ohmygosh” under my breath.
Concerned,
the
friend-of-a-
friend asked if everything was
okay, so I gave him the update.
Immediately, his face flushed:
“How could Katy do that to
Britney? I’m SHOOK!”
The stranger, named Caleb,
ended up being one of my best
friends for the summer. I went
from watching five episodes of
“Gilmore Girls” a night alone
to spending every weekend on
Santa Monica Blvd, where gay
bars played music by the very
artists that inspired me to go
there in the first place. My L.A.
experience completely changed
because of that simple pop star
interaction.
Whenever I reflect on coming
out, I think of Britney (the duck).
I so badly wanted to name her
Britney, but it would’ve been
more socially appropriate to
name her Elvis. This dilemma
served as an important precursor
for my life rolling forward — the
notion that my love for music
and my identity as a gay man are
inseparable. In a way, with every
new person I meet and every
new workplace I enter, I make
a decision. More often than not
now, I choose Britney over Elvis.
MUSIC NOTEBOOK
DANNY MADION
For the Daily
Their lyrics were
empowering
and loud —
two adjectives
I lacked as a
closeted kid
in a rural
Midwestern
town