Watching this truly bizarre, ultra-amateur videocam atrocity, I kept on being reminded of a not too bright school kid who has to write an essay about H.G. Wells' book by Monday. Friday he went to the pictures, Saturday he went to the arcade. Sunday afternoon he played footie. Sunday evening he did start to read the book, but by 10:30 it became clear he wasn't going to finish it, so he just skipped through it, jotting down the odd line from the one page in five he actually speed read. By the time he'd done that it was bed time. So he started working on the essay in the morning - using big, big letters and long spacing to hide all the gaps and try to make it look longer than it was. But he ran out of time, so he had to carry on writing it on the bus even though the kid next to him kept on throwing things at him and thumping his elbow. He was still writing it while the teacher was picking up the essays, so he ignored the last couple of chapters altogether.
The trouble is, this film isn't even that good. For all the phony reviews about how lovingly crafted and detailed this is, I kept on thinking that Timbo had only read the first three-quarters of the book in advance and was keeping everything, but everything in from that section in case it turned out to be important later. It's that clumsy. But when it comes to the end, it's suddenly very rushed, with lots of important bits missing because, if he has read them, he didn't really understand them.
None of which explains why this yawnathon is three hours long. You would have thought that in editing he might have realised how redundant most of the first hour is and cut it down to an economical 20 minutes. But no: if he shot it, it stays in, whether the actors' moustache blows off or not. And so we're 'treated' to a bizarre succession of shots that don't match, changing from one bizarre tint to another from shot to shot as scenes go on for what seems like weeks at a time past their natural lifespan. For a while this is so odd as to be funny, especially taken with the truly inept accents and the hopeless attempt to make 21st century Seattle look like 19th century London. Effects that have to be seen to be disbelieved and which even Georges Melies would have found clumsy and primitive add a few chuckles. But sadly most of this film is just an overlong walk through the same few backroads and fields past the same crudely paintboxed extras while the narrator tells us what we can see with our own eyes.
As this tedium unfolds, you veer between two opinions. The first is that the film is made by deluded untalented idiots trying their best but completely oblivious to their own ineptitude. But then another thought keeps coming more to the fore: that it is made by idiots who KNOW they have no talent but think the audience is even stupider than they are or, worse, that it simply doesn't matter how bad this film is. Just as long as they can get the thing into stores before the Spielberg film hits cinemas to make a fast buck, it doesn't matter what is on screen.
It's probably the former, but Hines rather dubious behaviour and conspiracy theories make you wonder about the real motives for making this film (contrary to Hines' insistence, filming did NOT start until after Spielberg and Cruise announced their version). For all the talk of being true to Wells, you can't help thinking that the bigoted author, who believed all 'congenital idiots' should be exterminated so that the intellectual elite could flourish, would have had a very permanent way of dealing with the deluded and inept amateurs responsible for raping his novel.
Clumsy, painfully inept and a complete betrayal of the ideas behind the story, this isn't worth even seeing for novelty value. Beyond bad, this is three hours of pure malice directed at anyone foolish enough to watch.
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