Colin Treverrow's Jurassic World returns the mighty hand of the Kennedy/Marshall/Spielberg peak decade of Amblin. The themes are recurrent and so are the steady readmissions that shot this one to number three on the all-time domestic list. Siblings band together to face divorce and death defying events (see E.T. through War of the Worlds). Here the romantic leads carry their threads across other plot points, no less absurd than any other film this summer, yet deadpan is nimbly alternated with hysteria, like an RKO 1930s adventure, and the film never let's off. Unlike every other film this year made in U.S.A., World pushes a very smart visual plot that it doesn't have to explain. Droll teens try playing it straight; heroic outlier does the scowl of wisdom; villainous privateer his smirk; by the numbers Jane tries her hand at fun, finally the Billionaire fantasist goes out on a phoenix note. All get their five to twenty minutes of emotional resonance, and however diagrammed it is, Treverrow manages to convince us not to hate the archetypes, he's a humanizer; no one is mean for means sake. It's more under the surface romantic than even Spielberg, with divorcing parents getting one last postcard in before the credits roll. Treverrow's generous to characters, nothing is in itself threatening because we're taught through the basic biological tale. Death is pointed, not abstract, and continual. And the on other side of the glass, he manages to instill a slight amount of characterization to the dinosaurs. "You can see it in their eyes." says billionaire Masrani, and we can. They behave, at moments, cognitively. And they communicate. The Jaffa/Silver pairing naturally follows the retooling of Apes, here suddenly aware and subtly realized prehistoric reptiles work in coordinated ways, and Treverrow and his team instinctually know how to build it without lecturing or explaining us to sleep. From the film's opening pairing, we're offered baby dino talons breaking through an egg followed by a super macro of bird's feet thunderously slamming on snow. Visuals make the case; gesturally he's got the Spielberg deontic down, maybe a little too eerily. The optical geography is controlled: when he's offered a cookie-cutter moment, Treverrow manages break the visual mold. Coming across a discarded tracking pinger, a group of sacrificial Dino containment guards are picked off ingeniously until the camouflaged gigantor finally pops into frame.
When Hammond successor Masrani takes a good look at his Indominus Rex, he realizes it's chameleon-like "You didn't tell me it's white*." (we never really see it being white). Cut to a hazy, defocused Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) whose ghostly face materializes in the security glass's reflection doing her best coy-girl offering "is that bad?" and we've just been cued to the buried motif: the monster under this all is the white-girl. Her spreadsheet efficiency, servicing the goals for more of everything. She's the mirror to this monster. (Later on ghost stories are retold). Clever visuals punctuate the story non-stop; I-rex puncturing its eggshell with tiny talons flips later when the fully grown one pierces a lexan transporting sphere.
And that's why this is the best film of the year. It's visually orchestrated. You take any of the best Marvel, it's still a jumbled mess visually, the hideous potpurri everyone gets at the holidays. Here the metaphors get locked in a progressive pattern. The first full screen glance at the unleashed I-rex's jaws is juxtaposed against the familiar logo's T-rex, on a jeep's door, turned upside down and black and white. Anyone wanna guess what that means metaphorically?* Action is built out of descriptive structure rather than the typical explanatory lecture that afflicts blockbusters nowadays. A junk food crunching watchman is crunched himself seconds later, every act has its follow-up, it's the clever rube goldberg yellow-pages of kinetic antics Spielberg can deliver, now somehow coming out of a late protogee gangbusters. He's learned his lesson well, the audience wants a laugh. So he does to World what Carl Gottlieb brought to Jaws. A sense of humor. When meeting Claire, we see her reciting descriptions of the people she's about to meet. It's a snippet tour de force, duplicating what we're doing with her: she describes the impending two men by their appearance and the lone woman by her experience, she subtitles advice she'd never tell her to her face: "Deserves more." Another direct look in the mirror. Here's the student it took Spielberg three decades to find, and he comes with the master's comparative skills down cold. The elder teen has the biggest arc; he says goodbye to his girlfriend who's a dead-ringer for his mom, then he spends the film eyeing other girls at the theme park, triggering his brother's fears of the divorce. Cleverly we're shown dad's probable behavior triggering their split through his son's. Then the brothers go rogue, sacking domestic anxiety for thrilling fear, leading them to an Indiana Jones-level decipherment scene from Jurassic Park (a film-set posing as a never used theme park - the kids are like Treverrow - students of his: this is gonzo media archeaology at play); the ruins are Park's climax Lobby. They reverently touch an image of a raptor, offering it like a religious icon to two modes of memories. Using a plastic dino bone, for a torch, they set fire to the banner that ended Jurassic Park; later they'll hurl a pressurized air tank, a la Jaws, at pursuing Raptors. For a finale, the triumphal T regains the view from the same spot villain Hoskins (Vincent D'Onofrio) did mid-second act. The whole flick spouts visual structure and breakneck characterization, more so than even the series's first film. The star here is the genetic hybrid, the mosaically defined Indominus Rex, who always seems to have a plan running. Worse than any reptile, the I-Rex (clever, aint they) plays Jurassic World as slaughter videogame, inflicting maximum carnage by prompting the zoo to revolt, only to have the zookeepers and members restore order as a team. It's a dark tale told swift enough, nobody has to fell the weight of its choices. Corporate abuse, rank commercialization and environmental issues play the greek chorus of warning, but it's mostly ignored. Why? We know a sequel is inevitable to a film this tight, those warnings are all directed to the moviegoers, challenging them to ignore the dual corporate/studio-speak mantra: the audience always wants bigger things...and besides, the sub-rosa monster chick has escaped. She's just paired off with the film's hero. She'll be back for more carnage they'll both be taming. Jurassic Park defined the digital age, and heir this is the heir that bends analog just enough to scare. It's got the nightmare down, laughing at it and with it.