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The Chive


   The funniest, nastiest movie reviews anywhere.


This one goes out to all the Shakespeare-lovin' motherfuckers out there.

Tomorrowland, and Tomorrowland, and Tomorrowland,
Creeps in its snail's pace from scene to scene,
To the last stupid syllable of Clooney's "climactic" speech.

And all the wasted minutes before have lighted fools,

(I'm looking at you, Bird and Lindelof) the way to cinematic cuntery.

Out, out, brief careers!

Tomorrowland is but a half-formed shadow, a piss-poor player,

That stutters and mutters its two hours upon the screen,

And then is seen no more. 

It is a boring tale, told by a fucking idiot, full of sound and CGI,
Signifying nothing . . . other than just how mediocre movies have become.

*drops quill*

Disney's back for another helping of brand cannibalism.  And can you blame them?  Hollywood's a Skinner Box.  It shits something out, and if audiences vomit up scads of money for it the suits happily shout, "Shit out more of the same!"  A kiddie ride served as the basis for the gobsmackingly profitable Pirates of the Caribbean series.  So why couldn't an area of their theme parks do the same?  Behold Tomorrowland, a whiz-bang ode to inspiration and optimism that's as inspirational and optimistic as a visit to the DMV.

Motorcycle-ridin', John-Lennon-t-shirt-wearin', drone-flyin', alleged genius, Casey Newton (Britt "I Play A Teenager But Look Every Bit Of My 25 Years" Robertson), would be the first and loudest clapping her hands to save Tinker Bell's life.  This gets her an invitation to Tomorrowland, which exists in an alternate universe and/or the future - the movie can't be bothered to really pin it down.

For no particular reason, Casey teams up with exiled Tomorrowlander Frank Walker (George "Your Mom's Masturbatory Fantasy" Clooney).  Walker is an angry, bitter, mean old fuck, so casting Mr. Nice Guy Clooney in the role makes exactly the same amount of sense as everything else in this no-bake-cheescake of a flick.  Which is to say, none.

After dodging killer robots stolen whole cloth from Agent Smith in The Matrix, the two make it to Tomorrowland, a sort of Galt's Gulch built by the likes of Edison, Tesla and Verne, where the best and brightest live lives of pure excellence and artistic majesty.

Which, of course, we don't get to see a moment of.  Instead, we zoom around a generic, utopic futurescape where everyone is attractive - there must be a "No fatties or uggos!" sign posted on the front gate - and where every building is a spire.   What is it with the future and fucking spires?  Are all other types of architecture verboten?  Howard Roark would not be pleased.

Director Brad "I Should Stick To Animation" Bird and screenwriter Damon "I've Never Met An Ending I Couldn't Fuck Up" Lindelof clearly want to say something about the power of positive thinking and children being the future and other such shiny niceties, but they only succeed in hinting vaguely at any of it. 

Maybe if they'd spent a fraction of the time they devoted to making Tomorrowland an extended Disney resorts commercial - they cram in Space Mountain, the "It's a Small World" ride, the monorail and the Epcot Center sphere - on plot and character they'd have ended up with pixie dust and fireworks rather than sawdust and wet squibs?

May 24, 2015