Every now and then, it happens. A really good summer movie comes out. And I use the term “summer movie” like it’s a genre. I’m talkin’ lots of action with the right amount of humor and some star power. Something a little louder and more spectacular than the films next to it at the multiplex. Ear-ringing entertainment. A fun machine, a crowd-pleaser, a button-pusher, a fresh polish job on the old Hollywood sign.
Now, I still get down with the low-budget underground and I have a favorite seat at my local arthouse, but I can’t shake an abiding taste for the big-budget summer spectacle. It’s not an easy thing to maintain because most of those films are terrible, but I still like the potential for a good rollercoaster ride. After all, like many film buffs, there’s a part of me that’s still a 12-year-old kid and, while I don’t let the little jerk run my life, I still try to take care of him. He especially likes going to the movies.
And he dug the hell out of Jurassic World. When we left the theater he was watching the trees and buildings, looking for killer dinosaurs, ready to leap into action if needed.
On our way to the car, the 38-year-old me tried to explain to him the transparency of the film, its shameless flogging of well-worn formulas. There are the cute kids in danger with some pasted-on familial drama to ratchet up the pathos (the teary scene where the boys speculate about how their parents might be secretly divorcing, oh boy). There’s the personal friction between the leading man and lady that we just know—because we’ve seen it a thousand times before—will lead to a romance. There are the faceless side characters—this film’s Star Trek redshirts—whom we instantly mark for death by dinosaur. It’s a film that doesn’t feel so much written and directed as it was cooked straight from an old recipe, its salt and sugar measured to the dot.
The 12-year-old wasn’t hearing a word I said, though. He was too busy jumping around. A flock of birds flew overhead and I could tell that in his imagination they were marauding pterodactyls.
About the only surprise here are some vicious deaths. One mostly benign supporting character dies spectacularly and horribly, thrown around like a rag doll. Then there’s the nightmarish scene in which winged beasts attack a large group of innocent theme park visitors—and finish off several of them.
The 38-year-old me and the 12-year-old me both agreed that was some cool shit. We high-fived and I decided to shut up about the film’s flaws and just let the kid be excited. I don’t let him eat sweets anymore so movies like this are where he gets most of his sugar.
(I didn’t mention this to him, but I also enjoyed this movie’s simplicity. Unlike a lot of other blockbusters today, this doesn’t try to create a big universe. It’s a self-contained piece that doesn’t even set up a sequel—though there probably will be one. It references the previous movies so lightly that you can be like me, who saw Spielberg’s Jurassic Park once twenty-two years ago and never caught the follow-ups, and still have a good time.)
We also liked hero Chris Pratt in a way we haven’t enjoyed a movie hero much since Indiana Jones. Pratt’s entrance is a great scene, packed with danger and mystique, that keeps you unsure for awhile whether or not he’s smart or crazy. He’s the film’s not-so-secret weapon, naturally rugged, funny and intelligent in a way that comes off like he’s the next Harrison Ford. Like the kids in the movie, we feel safe when he’s around. The guy’s got a future.
Meanwhile, the 12-year-old me looks like he’s not growing up anytime soon. Sometimes he goes out to play and I don’t see him for awhile, but he always comes back. Usually at the movies. He also goes away whenever he wants, but after this movie he stayed for the whole show and then for the whole ride home.
See ya around, kid.