Don't say I don't love you guys.
Normally I try to avoid filling in my readers on the day-to-day events of my life (unlike certain other reviewers, who shall remain nameless), but in this case, I feel the need to make an exception. You see, I have just seen Supernova, and days like this are cause for special care, a certain abandonment of protocol, if you will. It's like those war stories that presidential candidates tell which really have no role in the actual issues of the campaign but serve as a reassurance of their character, proof of their ability to endure severe pain, undue stress and something pretty damn close to torture. I have withstood torture. I have seen Supernova.
And that's not the end of it.
The first I heard of Supernova was at another movie I had to pay $9.50 for, Bats. There were three movies whose trailers played before Bats: Deuce Bigalo: Male Gigolo, Eye of the Beholder, and Supernova. To say that Supernova was easily the worst trailer of the three -- and possibly the worst trailer I have ever seen in my life -- speaks volumes. Set to the tune of the Boogie Nights soundtrack, the preview was four ungodly minutes of lawless editing, terrible acting, cheesy FX, and the further erosion of Lou Diamond Phillips' career. Then I actually saw Bats. There was no doubt in my mind: this was indeed a dark portent.
Three months later: I had intended to see a critics' screening, but as there were none (an ominous sign, and yet I carried on), I instead opted to pay for the little sucker. By this time, director Walter Hill had already removed his name from the credits and writer William Malone had disassociated himself from it completely, but my determination was tireless. On the weekend of January 21, Supernova's second of release, I looked up my local listings, planning to see it early, write my 11th Hour review, and be rid of it forever.
But it was gone.
My faithful Yonkers cineplex -- the one that played Deuce Bigalo, unfailingly, for weeks -- had purged Supernova from its system. Not that I could blame them, but this left my only option as New York City, where they charge $9.50 for a freakin' matinee. That's steep for a good flick, and this was Supernova -- but, sensing the film's innate crappiness, I felt a moral duty to investigate that had nothing to do with the fact that I'd heard a very buff James Spader appeared shirtless in the film. So I get to New York, walk -- no, let's make that trudge -- through the city, ignoring the negative 25 degree windchill in the air and the terror in my heart, shuffle into a dingy Times Square theater, and sit down, prepared for the worst, but feeling that a truly loving God really couldn't make me suffer any further.
I was wrong. Oh, how very, very wrong I was.
Supernova is everything that is rotten in movies today, wrapped into one odious 105-minute package. To be fair, Supernova is everything that is wrong with movies yesterday, as the last year really had so many kick-ass genre flicks that I feel it wrong to lump this monstrosity in with them. But remember the days of big-budget FX gone horribly awry, the replacement of actual dialogue with incoherent babble, the unbelievable waste of a talented cast overshadowed by a hack director and awful production values? Remember The Haunting? Supernova is Haunting bad.
But at least one could laugh at the Haunting, or at Bats, for that matter. Supernova is by nature unenjoyable, and because of that, it's damn near unwatchable. That may sound lame, but movies about outer space starring a large number of high-tech FX should certainly be something other than an eyesore -- at the least, they should be mindless fun. I wasn't expecting Shakespeare -- hey, I wasn't even expecting Bats -- but I certainly didn't think Supernova would be one of the worst sci-fi movies in recent history. Yet that's exactly what it was. There are no redeeming qualities to this film, not even a so-bad-it's-good factor. None.
The plot of Supernova goes something like this: a team of space explorers come in contact with a mysterious, gooey force that resembles a giant translucent penis. This makes sense, as the crew -- Angela Bassett and James Spader, slumming; Wilson Cruz, in a movie; the fast-in-demise Lou Diamond Phillips, billed last under Robin Tunney and Her Two Breasts -- are almost always half-naked and almost always having sex. This may sound appealing, especially for Spader or Bassett fans, but nothing could be further. It's as if the producers, knowing just how bad their movie sucked, decided to throw in some soft-porn elements to liven things up, but this only increases the film's Z-grade appeal and desperate quality.
Anyway, so this other guy (Peter Facinelli) comes on board, and he's evil. He has sex with Robin Tunney, who had already slept with Lou Diamond Phillips, who in turn had gotten kind of hot and heavy with the big alien penis thing. Bad things start happening. People die, though not fast enough. And all the while, "Sweetie" -- the ship's computer -- talks to the idiotic passengers in a voice that is almost as much like a low-grade porn star's as is that of the new, macho-man James Spader. What happened to this guy? For that matter, what kind of crack is Bats star Phillips' agent smoking? And Angela Bassett? Shouldn't she be above this sort of thing? Shouldn't anyone be?
My Lord, it was awful. Supernova is a truly horrible film, and it is further proof that snazzy FX (in this case, placed over the scenes of the movie in a show of truly inept direction) cannot a movie make. One of the main FX designers was Patrick Tatopoulos, who also worked on the forthcoming space flick Pitch Black, an immensely superior movie that is everything this one wasn't and should have been. See that instead, and spare yourself the pain. I have suffered enough for all.
DROOL FACTOR: A former student of the Buffy "James Spader -- he has to call me!" honorary school, I have withdrawn my enrollment after seeing this new, unimproved model. Spader talks in the voice of a pent-up Lance Henriksen, and while the bod ain't bad, the overall image is that of an artsy Jean-Claude Van Damme. Pass. As for Lou Diamond Phillips, it's hard to feel attraction when one is so overwhelmed with pity.
GROSS-OUT FACTOR: The big ol' $9.50 on my ticket stub. And everything else about the movie itself.
STRONG CHICK FACTOR: Between this and End of Days, I have seen enough of Robin Tunney's naked breasts to last me a lifetime. Angela Bassett, on the other hand, is always cool, even in utter crap like this. Props to her for being able to live this monstrosity down, and look damn good while doing it.
-- Sarah Kendzior
Supernova is currently playing in theaters.
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