Starring
Mark Wahlberg, Kurt Russell, John Malkovich, Gina Rodriguez, Dylan
O'Brien, Kate Hudson, Ethan Suplee. Directed by Peter Berg. (2016,
107 min).
Essay by D.M. ANDERSON
Essay by D.M. ANDERSON
My
youngest daughter, Lucy, is currently at that age when she'd rather
go to the movies with a gaggle of girlfriends than Mom and Dad. I
understand that. Once I hit my teens, the idea of sitting in a dark
theater with my folks had the appeal of an Alpo smoothie. They
understood, too, graciously accepting the role all parents are
destined to fill when their children are ready to take those first
steps into a bigger world: taxi service. Though my mom often seemed
melancholy over my increasing independence, I'm sure she was grateful
I didn't require a chaperone for Dawn of the Dead.
40
years later, it's my turn. After Lucy made a movie date with two of
her friends to see Oujia: Origin of Evil, my wife volunteered
me to drive them to the theater. Like my mom, part of me is a bit
melancholy, partially because the last of my little girls was growing
up, but also because, for the longest time, watching scary movies
together was sort of our father-daughter thing. We still take in a fright flick together
on occasion, but the realization that she'd probably have a better time
with her own kind was a poignant moment. On the other hand,
since the first Oujia movie was a celluloid suppository, being
a taxi service suddenly had considerable appeal.
Then
my wife dropped the other shoe. One of the girls' parents objected to
the idea of simply dropping them off; she wanted an adult to remain
at the theater with them. Since I'd rather lick a cheese grater
than sit through a Oujia sequel (or prequel, as Lucy later
informed me), my options were to either sit in the lobby with my
wife's cell phone or catch another flick all by myself.
No
way could a cell phone keep me entertained for two hours. Frankly, I
don't understand the world's fascination with them. Sure, they're
handy to have around and sometimes fun, but I'm staggered by the lethargic legions who
appear physically unable to put them down (but more on that later).
Since I love disaster movies and must also confess I enjoy Mark
Wahlberg as an actor, I chose Deepwater Horizon.
 |
| Never mix Mentos and Pepsi. |
As
far back as I can remember, disaster movies have been my favorite
genre. Good ones, bad ones, so-bad-they're-good ones...there's
something about mass destruction I've always found entertaining. Not a lot of plot, or even intelligence,
but usually plenty of grandiose fun. Their heyday was in the
1970s, when I thrilled to such creative cataclysms as Earthquake, The
Towering Inferno and The Cassandra Crossing. Ironically, these were some of the
first movies I went to see without my parents tagging
along.
Nearly
all disaster movies back then followed the same blueprint...gather
some marquee names, throw them in a burning skyscraper/sinking
ship/quake-ravaged town, add some subplots & big-ass special
effects and you had yourself a blockbuster (at least until The
Swarm came along to ruin the party in 1978).
The
characters themselves were strictly cardboard cut-outs; you could
almost always count on seeing the selfless & down-to-Earth hero,
the woman who loves him, the “cute” child that needs rescuing (but whom you'd rather see die), a
pop star who shows up to croon an Oscar-baiting love song, the
estranged couple who fall in love all over again just before one of
them dies, the gruff-but-kindly hardass, the “expert” who
designed whatever contraption that's now killing people. I
could go on, but would be remiss if I didn't give a shout-out to just one
more crucial character: the evil “company man” whose greed and
carelessness is often the catalyst for the disaster in the first
place. He exists to contradict the hero's common sense at every turn,
then when the shit does hit the fan, gets a heaping helping of
karmic retribution.
These
films were definitely products of their time, and while no one makes
them that way anymore, the disaster genre never actually went away.
They even made something of a comeback in the 90s under the guise of
action movies (Twister), science-fiction (Deep Impact) or epic drama
(Titanic). The formula was a bit
different, but as long as people died and shit got blown up, all was
still right with the world.
Deepwater Horizon, which I meant to see when it opened weeks earlier, looked like nifty slice of old school spectacle.
It
had been years since I took in a movie all by myself. I used to do it
all the time when I was a kid and, as the girls paid for their
tickets before making a bee line to the snack bar, I found myself sort-of
excited to be doing it again. After buying my own ticket and telling
Lucy and her friends to meet me near a claw machine in the lobby, I
made my way to Auditorium #8, which was empty save for one other guy
in the back row. Nobody else came in.
Awesome.
As someone with increasingly little tolerance for bumping elbows
with popcorn crunchers, cell phone shitstains and Chatty Cathys whenever I
went to the movies, this was gonna be great. I suddenly didn't care
if the movie was any good or not.
 |
| Mr. Wahlberg's Calvin Kleins appear to be riding up. |
Deepwater
Horizon is based on a true story – the Gulf of Mexico drilling
platform explosion in 2010 - but adheres to the 70s' Hollywood
disaster formula pretty faithfully. We have the down-to-Earth hero
(Mark Wahlberg), his loving wife (Kate Hudson, in a rather thankless
role), the gruff hardass and expert rolled into one (Kurt Russell).
Finally, it features a doozy of an evil company man in form of John
Malkovich, chewing the scenery and having a whale of a time as sleazy
BP executive Donald Vidrine. He refuses to allow Mike (Wahlberg) and
Mr. Jimmy (Russell) test the stability of the old, rickety rig before
drilling because of the cost of falling further behind schedule. Of
course, he lives to regret that decision when the rig explodes and
burns out of control, killing some extras and trapping dozens of
others. Much of the second half of the film has Mike selflessly rescuing others while trying to avoid burning alive.
The
film takes a long time to get going – mostly to inundate the viewer
with tech-talk and to establish Vidrine as a despicable ass. But when
disaster finally strikes, Deepwater Horizon turns into the
big, flashy – and really fucking loud – spectacle I paid
my two bits for. Kurt Russell was always one of my favorite actors.
Even though his anti-hero glory days are in the rearview mirror, he
gives the movie a healthy dose of gravitas. And Wahlberg still does
the best impression of Mark Wahlberg I've ever seen. Best of all,
damn near everything gets blowed up real good. Deepwater Horizon
isn't exactly teaming with depth, nor is any of it particularly
memorable, but I had a good time, mostly because, aside from the guy
in the back row, I had the movie all to myself.
One
thing that was memorable – and rather
pathetic - occurred in the men's room afterwards.
When I went in to take care of some business, I found myself
once-again alone with the same guy I shared the theater with. Only
now, he was standing at one of the dozen urinals, rapidly
texting on his phone with both thumbs while he whizzed.
Are
you fucking kidding me?
Granted,
I have no real use for cell phones, borrowing my wife's only when I
need to. I personally think their proliferation is becoming an
increasing bane on society, rendering people ruder, dumber and
oblivious to their surroundings, content to vicariously experience
life through a 3 x 5 screen. They'll drop everything they're doing to
answer a text and film entire concerts rather than simply kick back and enjoy them.
In restaurants, I've seen families go the entire meal without
uttering a word or glancing up from the device in their hand. And how
self-absorbed does someone have to be to invest in a selfie stick?
Alas,
I know I'm in the minority. My kids sometimes enjoy a good chuckle
at the rantings of their “technophobic” old man. But I don't hate
or fear technology. Since newspapers are now on the endangered
species list, even I've occasionally taken my iPad into the
bathroom to check out box scores during my morning dump. After all, pooping can be a dull, time-consuming endeavor, and it isn't like I
need my hands until I'm done.
 |
| "What a mess. Looks like someone was piss texting." |
But
really, dude...while your peeing?? Is what you have to say so
goddamn imperative that you can't be bothered to stick the phone in
your pocket for 30 fucking seconds? I'm damned sure that even if the President of the United States was in the
White House bathroom when NORAD texted to warn him of an impending
enemy missile strike, he'd take a few precious seconds to shake the
Little President dry and tuck it back in his trousers.
This
two-thumbed toilet texter was not the President. Who the hell
was he talking to? What was he saying...guess what I'm doing right
now?
And
while I elected not to take a closer look, unless he's so
well-endowed that his member splashes into the drink every time he
takes it out, shouldn't he need at least one hand to keep the
stream steady? I know from experience that hands-free urination is
always a risky undertaking; the slightest bump or jolt can turn you into a
human lawn sprinkler.
It
was quite possibly the most hilariously pathetic display of
narcissism I'd ever seen. Standing four or five urinals away as I did
my own business, I had to bite my lip to keep from bursting into
laughter. And I swear to God, if he had clicked off a selfie right
then, I'd have grabbed him by the back of the head and shoved his
face into the urinal on general principle.
After
he was done, the man stuck the phone in his jacket, zipped up
and strolled out without flushing or washing his hands. I seldom
laugh out loud when I'm alone, but couldn't stop myself this time.
Shortly
after, Lucy and her friends joined me in the lobby, giggling and
talking-up the movie. She asked me how I enjoyed mine. I simply
replied, “Fine,” then stifled another chuckle and refrained from
relaying my encounter with Mr. Important in the men's
room.
I
don't know...maybe the problem is with me. Maybe everybody
toilet-texts these days and I'm simply an out-of-touch old man. Maybe
30 seconds – 60 if they've been drinking – is simply too long for
a 21st Century man on-the-go (no pun intended) to endure without being
connected. If that's true, maybe I should just be grateful this guy saw fit not
to text during the movie.
