Serenity, as dorkhead movies go, is actually not half-bad. It's infinitely less insulting than the misogynistic Sin City, and has more humor and gusto than one of George Lucas's two-dimensional, tedious Star Wars re-treads. Writer/director Joss Whedon creates a fleshed-out sci-fi world, but doesn't pound us over the head with esoterica the way Lucas does (no galactic parliament meetings). Maybe, to truly appreciate Serenity, it helps to be conversant with Whedon's cult TV series Firefly, which the film is a continuation of, but even those who aren't initiates can follow what's happening, and can tune-in to the feeling of rich personal history that emanates from the characters. There's no substitute for having lived with a group of characters over a period of time. Whedon really seems to KNOW these people, and because he knows them, it's easy for him to make us feel like we know them, even if we've never watched the show. Whedon has a comfort level with his material that allows him to eschew a lot of boring exposition; he doesn't feel the need to slow things down with back-story, but has the confidence to plunge head-long into his plot.
Serenity is the name of a space-ship, a Millennium Falcon-type interstellar jalopy captained by a grizzled Han Solo-sort named Mal (Nathan Fillion), and crewed by a rag-tag band of former rebels (the story takes place after a failed revolution against The Alliance, the tyrannical organization responsible for overseeing human activity in the galaxy; the crew of Serenity are ex-Confederates turned outlaws). Life aboard the ramshackle vessel has become complicated by the presence of a young doctor, Simon (Sean Maher) and his sister River (Summer Glau), whom Simon has rescued from the clutches of The Alliance, and who is being pursued by a mysterious agent (Chiwetel Ejiofor) (the movie has a busy first few minutes). River may appear to be just another dour, gothy babe, but in fact she's a psychic, and not only that, but has been programmed by The Alliance for use as a weapon, and is still susceptible to the odd bit of subliminal triggering, which unleashes her inner-Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer. The drama also involves a group of outer-space psychos called The Rievers, who lurk in a mysterious nether-region, and are responsible for atrocities including but not limited to cannibalism, rape and decorating their spaceships with skulls.
All right, so maybe it's hard to keep a straight face while describing this tomfoolery, but still, one has to acknowledge Whedon's thoroughness in realizing his ideas, his commitment. Unlike Lucas, who seems content to coast on past success, viewing his films primarily as opportunities for marketing tie-ins, Whedon seems to care about telling a good story. Whedon has obviously been influenced by Lucas, but to his credit, has not followed the master's example so completely as to become a smug, lazy-minded dweeb himself. Lucas is a cynic, a commercial-minded opportunist who ransacked everything from King Arthur to Kurosawa in cobbling together his Star Wars mythos, then proceeded to rip himself off. Whedon is snarky but not cynical, and when he steals he does so lovingly. His movie is equal parts space opera and horse opera; the characters may zip around in Star Trek vehicles, but they talk, dress and act like they've been using the TV show Deadwood as a behavioral and fashion model. One character expresses her sexual frustration thusly: "It's been a year since I had anything 'twixt my legs that didn't run on batteries." The dialogue is full of similar quasi-archaic turns of phrase laced with colorful profanity, and though it doesn't reach the vulgar-eloquent level of David Milch's HBO masterpiece, it is a relief from the dry techno-speak and dopey mysticism of the Lucas movies (and the retarded philosophizing of the latter Matrix works). It may seem a tad obvious, merging Western and sci-fi traditions this way (haven't sci-fi writers and movie-makers been doing it forever?), but Whedon handles his idea as if it were new and clever, and infuses his movie with enough affection for the conventions of both forms that we feel we're being treated to something fun, and aren't just being sold a lot of second-hand routines.
The conception may be clever, and cleverly handled, but the movie is limited by the talent involved in it. It's based on a cable TV show, and features many of the cast-members of the original series, people who aren't necessarily possessed of movie-sized personalities. Mal may be the new Han Solo, but the actor who plays him, Nathan Fillion, is in no danger of becoming the next Harrison Ford (or Viggo Mortensen for that matter). There are no break-out stars in this cast, not Summer Glau who plays River the outer space Buffy (Whedon seems hung-up on the idea of the tortured young woman reluctantly succumbing to her destiny as a karate-kicking adversary to the forces of evil), not Morena Baccarin who plays the beautiful Inara, and certainly not Adam "I'm Not One of THOSE Baldwins, OK?" Baldwin as the gung-ho Jayne Cobb. And Joss Whedon is not going to be joining the ranks of moviedom's top directors anytime soon either. Whedon is at best competent; his images are murky and rather ugly-looking and his fight scenes are nothing special, but he does keep things moving, not crisply, but moving. He's a decent writer of the pack-rat variety, the type who has accumulated a lot of pop-culture crap in his attic, and knows how to put bits of it together into something halfway original, but who knows if he'll ever develop a really unique voice, will ever transcend his influences and make something that matters (the way Robert Towne did on Chinatown). Whedon is able to spin a pretty good yarn, but there's not a whole lot of depth to his work, and his conceptions would no doubt start looking pretty tottery were one to bother gazing at them long and hard enough. Look passingly at Serenity and it holds together.
Serenity is the name of a space-ship, a Millennium Falcon-type interstellar jalopy captained by a grizzled Han Solo-sort named Mal (Nathan Fillion), and crewed by a rag-tag band of former rebels (the story takes place after a failed revolution against The Alliance, the tyrannical organization responsible for overseeing human activity in the galaxy; the crew of Serenity are ex-Confederates turned outlaws). Life aboard the ramshackle vessel has become complicated by the presence of a young doctor, Simon (Sean Maher) and his sister River (Summer Glau), whom Simon has rescued from the clutches of The Alliance, and who is being pursued by a mysterious agent (Chiwetel Ejiofor) (the movie has a busy first few minutes). River may appear to be just another dour, gothy babe, but in fact she's a psychic, and not only that, but has been programmed by The Alliance for use as a weapon, and is still susceptible to the odd bit of subliminal triggering, which unleashes her inner-Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer. The drama also involves a group of outer-space psychos called The Rievers, who lurk in a mysterious nether-region, and are responsible for atrocities including but not limited to cannibalism, rape and decorating their spaceships with skulls.
All right, so maybe it's hard to keep a straight face while describing this tomfoolery, but still, one has to acknowledge Whedon's thoroughness in realizing his ideas, his commitment. Unlike Lucas, who seems content to coast on past success, viewing his films primarily as opportunities for marketing tie-ins, Whedon seems to care about telling a good story. Whedon has obviously been influenced by Lucas, but to his credit, has not followed the master's example so completely as to become a smug, lazy-minded dweeb himself. Lucas is a cynic, a commercial-minded opportunist who ransacked everything from King Arthur to Kurosawa in cobbling together his Star Wars mythos, then proceeded to rip himself off. Whedon is snarky but not cynical, and when he steals he does so lovingly. His movie is equal parts space opera and horse opera; the characters may zip around in Star Trek vehicles, but they talk, dress and act like they've been using the TV show Deadwood as a behavioral and fashion model. One character expresses her sexual frustration thusly: "It's been a year since I had anything 'twixt my legs that didn't run on batteries." The dialogue is full of similar quasi-archaic turns of phrase laced with colorful profanity, and though it doesn't reach the vulgar-eloquent level of David Milch's HBO masterpiece, it is a relief from the dry techno-speak and dopey mysticism of the Lucas movies (and the retarded philosophizing of the latter Matrix works). It may seem a tad obvious, merging Western and sci-fi traditions this way (haven't sci-fi writers and movie-makers been doing it forever?), but Whedon handles his idea as if it were new and clever, and infuses his movie with enough affection for the conventions of both forms that we feel we're being treated to something fun, and aren't just being sold a lot of second-hand routines.
The conception may be clever, and cleverly handled, but the movie is limited by the talent involved in it. It's based on a cable TV show, and features many of the cast-members of the original series, people who aren't necessarily possessed of movie-sized personalities. Mal may be the new Han Solo, but the actor who plays him, Nathan Fillion, is in no danger of becoming the next Harrison Ford (or Viggo Mortensen for that matter). There are no break-out stars in this cast, not Summer Glau who plays River the outer space Buffy (Whedon seems hung-up on the idea of the tortured young woman reluctantly succumbing to her destiny as a karate-kicking adversary to the forces of evil), not Morena Baccarin who plays the beautiful Inara, and certainly not Adam "I'm Not One of THOSE Baldwins, OK?" Baldwin as the gung-ho Jayne Cobb. And Joss Whedon is not going to be joining the ranks of moviedom's top directors anytime soon either. Whedon is at best competent; his images are murky and rather ugly-looking and his fight scenes are nothing special, but he does keep things moving, not crisply, but moving. He's a decent writer of the pack-rat variety, the type who has accumulated a lot of pop-culture crap in his attic, and knows how to put bits of it together into something halfway original, but who knows if he'll ever develop a really unique voice, will ever transcend his influences and make something that matters (the way Robert Towne did on Chinatown). Whedon is able to spin a pretty good yarn, but there's not a whole lot of depth to his work, and his conceptions would no doubt start looking pretty tottery were one to bother gazing at them long and hard enough. Look passingly at Serenity and it holds together.