Audio By Carbonatix
Both warning and advertisement, the Terminator films are
technophobic teases, selling tickets by promising this decade’s model
of killing machine: the classic V8 1984 Schwarzenegger; the
bullet-streamlined, liquid-metal ’91 Robert Patrick of T2: Judgment
Day; Kristanna Loken’s 2003 T-X (with burgundy pleather
upholstery).
Terminator Salvation, a departure in many ways, is the first
Terminator with no upgrade. The hardware is clanky and runs on
diesel. Schwarzenegger is present only as a CGI mask. The franchise’s
creation myth—the toppling of humanity by Skynet
computers—has finally come to pass. It’s 2018—time enough,
apparently, for survivors to start dressing like drum circle squatters.
Christian Bale’s John Connor is a maverick officer in the human
resistance. Sam Worthington’s Marcus Wright, last he remembers, donated
his body to Cyberdyne before a lethal injection. He wakes to a blasted
world, carrying a plot twist familiar to anyone who knows their Philip
K. Dick.
Change was inevitable—the established Terminator
formula has been squeezed dry in Fox’s prime-time The Sarah Connor
Chronicles. But among the many things junked in director McG’s
chop-shop is the notion of pleasure: He describes cutting that
“gratuitous moment of a girl taking her top off in an action picture”
(God forbid) to get a franchise-first PG-13.
Salvation rolls along with Marcus on the road, his journey
toward resistance radio transmissions honoring the series’ paranoid
momentum. The action set pieces, cut with overdone hectic percussion,
are engaging enough. It’s when Marcus and Connor
intersect—trekking to strike at Skynet’s Silicon Valley nerve
center—that the movie slackens, with McG tugging at emotional
connections he never stuck in place.
The Terminators have always respected female durability, from
commando-mom Linda Hamilton to T3‘s intimation of masculine
obsolescence, with effeminized Arnold modeling a pair of Elton John
sunglasses. Salvation is comparatively anti-girl. Moon
Bloodgood’s pilot is introduced shaking a luxuriant mane loose from her
flight helmet, making a Jennifer Beals–in-Flashdance
shocka out of something the preceding movies took for granted.
But the essential problem here isn’t the ladies. It’s the
no-frissons Bale-Worthington pairing. Bale, doing the Grrr voice, is a
lesson in how clenched effort does not equal effect. What’s remarkable
about his leaked freakout is that it’s over a performance in McG’s
Terminator Salvation. Did the dude sweat this much over Reign
of Fire? Worthington, half-burying his Aussie accent under gruff
bluff, is of the blunt Jason Statham–Daniel Craig genus.
Judgment Day alloyed pathos and explosions by matching
Arnold’s impassivity with Eddie Furlong’s silent film-dolorous reaction
shots—for those of a certain age, it’s impossible to remember the
sentimental gambit of that final thumbs-up without getting misty.
Salvation, terminally gray, doesn’t do contrasts. This means
monotony—as predictable as, when the movie tanks, McG telling an
interviewer it was “too dark” for the multiplex.
