I’ve got to be upfront with you: I loved this movie. I loved it — every frame — I and was sad when it ended because that meant that there would be no more explosions or lingering ass-shots of my new girl-crush, Rhona Mitra.* Yes, it’s flawed. Yes, it’s dorky. Yes, it’s Neil Marshall and Everything But the Kitchen Sink. No, it doesn’t make sense from start to finish. Yeah, it’s gruesome and cheesy and, as my husband put it, it’s like watching Genre Movie Bingo.
The only thing it’s missing is a rocket ship, and for a few minutes there, I very seriously believed that a rocket ship’s appearance was imminent. So okay. That’s half a strike against it.
But in lieu of rocket ships, it’s got humanity-eating plagues, tribes of cannibal punks, medieval-style fiefs with knights and torture chambers, rubber-wrapped gimps, futuristic soldiers with wacky hardware, cyborg eyeballs, embittered but noble old cops, corrupt and power-mad politicians, tanks, humorous decapitations, and Malcolm McDowell dressed like Henry the Eighth.
I. Loved. This. Movie. And it’s so deliberately, aggressively trashy that I suspect I’m going to be about 90% alone in this blind adoration, but there you go. I want to watch this movie again, and I want to watch more movies like it. I want to see more movies with Rhona Mitra in them, and I want her to wear very tight black clothes in every single one of them. I want Marshall to make a sequel to this one, and I want him to do everything just like he did in this one except I want a goddamned rocket ship next time, and then I will personally whittle him an Oscar for Best Director Who Ever Directed Anything, and I will lick it up and down, and then I will leave it on his doorstep, ring the bell, and run away with a big fat smile on my face.
That is all.
* So I just followed an IMDB link and discovered that this same actress is going to be in the next Underworld movie and I nearly blew out Aric‘s eardrums with my Death-Ray Blast O’ Squee.