Culture Blues

Splice: You Have Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me

What up, freakshow.

The quality of the New York Times has been dwindling for years now, and I often find myself unimpressed or mildly annoyed with the lackluster content. But Manohla Dargis' roaring review of Splice did me in. "Pleasurably shivery," it reads, adding it "delivers for the horror movie fan who has grown weary of being suckered by films that promise new frights only to deliver the same old buckets of gore and guts."

And with that, folks, I am afraid I can never read the New York Times again.

Anyone who was subjected to Splice after reading the Times review as I did, and believed Dargis, who called the movie "intelligent," probably feels the same kind of betrayal that I feel. You lied to us, Dargis. I lost two hours of my life because of you.

Splice is the story of two scientists who combine human and animal DNA to form Dren, a hybrid that quickly goes from infant to deadly, destructive monster. The most irritating parts of the film can all be traced to the leading characters, Clive (Adrian Brody) and Elsa (Sarah Polley), who are so dim-witted and flat that to suggest that they could be groundbreaking scientists is insulting to the audience. We are meant to be in awe of their intelligence and sexiness. A ridiculous, fancy awards ceremony posits them as rock stars receiving more acclaim than Justin Bieber in a Middle School cafeteria. They intercourse with each other and then listen to jazz and do sciencey things. They're on the cover of Wired. But after watching them bumble around the lab in pajama pants, completely oblivious to the consequences of their outlandish actions, it is impossible to take them, or the movie seriously. They think one of the hybrids is dead after -- get this -- poking it, but not so fast! It's still alive! I hate it when that happens (I didn't go to Scientist School, but isn't there a more calculated way to determine if a species is alive?). Of course they both have to have sex with Dren, which, by the way, is sort of Elsa's offspring, since she used her own DNA to create it. Clive and Elsa are then either raped or murdered by Dren. And as if director Vincenzo Natali hadn't already resorted to enough cheap tricks, Dren kills a cat.

Then there is the dancing scene. We start noticing Dren is not a girl, not yet a woman, and she actually starts to slow dance with Clive, coming onto him in a way that I think is supposed to make us aware of her humanity. This is one of the many moments rich with opportunity to explore hot button topics like bioethics, corporate science, and humanity and technology, but instead Natali focuses on torture, rape, murder, and lots of sex to the point that it all seems funnier than Plan 9 From Outer Space. Instead of being provoked, I actually said aloud, "Oh no they didn't!" and wanted to leave the theater. But unfortunately they did. And unfortunately, I did not leave the theater.

And the New York Times loved this.

Times reviewers forget that their articles are a service. People read movie reviews to determine if they want to see a movie, not to bask in the talents of renowned writers such as Manohla Dargis, or to revel in diarrheic sentences like, "The Cronenberg influence here is evident in Mr. Natali’s interest in the body and birth and in an initially subdued, near-narcoleptic atmosphere that helps build a nice sense of foreboding." Anyway, these days, if people want good writing, they should know by now not to pick up the New York Times. It's like going to see Cirque du Soleil and expecting to get your socks knocked off, only to be subjected to watching the performers masturbate for two hours. Which would have probably been more enjoyable than watching Splice. NYT, that's it. We're done.