So when a young, independent animator called Steven Lisberger approached the company, looking for someone to finance an experimental science fiction film about video games, it seemed like the perfect fit. This was the era of Pac-Man, Donkey Kong and Frogger, when home computing was beginning to make inroads and the potential of all things digital seemed limitless: the so-called “silicon revolution” had just arrived. What better way for Disney to remain relevant than to release a film that capitalised on such a current trend?

That film, of course, was Tron (1982). Combining back-lit animation, traditional animation and computer-generated imagery with live-action footage, this was Star Wars for the impending Information Age. Its setting was stark yet elegant and often beautiful; its themes struck at the heart of the increasing commercialisation of a market hitherto dominated by hobbyists and academics. In short, it was the mythology for a new age.

And yet in 1982, Tron was maybe a bit too “out there” for most people. Lisberger created a world that was intended to draw the average person into the romance of computer-geek culture, but instead it only alienated them further. Too many adults at the time had no relationship to computers or the culture that surrounded them, and so there was no entry-point to allow for them to connect with the characters.. For a lot of children, however, there were no such problems.

The story centres around Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges), a programmer and video arcade-owner whose original games were stolen by a ruthless former colleague, Ed Dillinger (David Warner), now an executive at software company ENCOM. When Flynn attempts to crack ENCOM’s system from within the company’s own R&D lab, hoping to gain proof of Dillinger’s theft, Dillinger’s Master Control Program (MCP) uses an experimental laser to zap Flynn into cyberspace.

As a computerised version of himself, Flynn soon meets Tron (Bruce Boxleitner) a video game warrior determined to destroy the MCP and restore freedom to the system. Along the way, he drinks from a water-like power source, flies a Recognizer (a vehicle of his own design) and, most memorably, rides a light-cycle, a bike which, when on the “game grid”, can only turn at right-angles.

The plot itself is more-or-less the standard hero’s journey, but what makes Tron unique is the then-cutting edge technology on display and the way the design works with its limitations rather than against them. Primarily the work of Jean “Moebius” Giraud (who had previously worked on Alien (1979)) and Syd Mead (who was also working on Blade Runner (1982) at the time), the backdrops, vehicles and costumes perfectly blend angular, geometric elements with softer and more natural curves and shapes. The result is a world that is both high-tech and spiritual, where an “I/O tower” becomes a digital cathedral and belief in the “users” of the system takes on theological importance. When combined with the backlit animation and the high-contrast black-and-white footage of the actors, you have something unlike anything else before or since.

What no doubt threw people off at the time was the notion of electronic avatars. Both Boxleitner and Bridges play two characters each, where their programmes take on the appearance of their “real world” counterparts. (Warner plays two characters and also voices a third.) And although “cyberspace” is not referred to directly, even the idea of a digital, virtual environment where the intangible resides was just not something most people were able to relate to.

It’s taken almost 30 years, but now Tron seems more relevant than ever. Later this year a sequel will be released, with Disney finally ready to see the franchise take off. And with games like World of Warcraft being totally mainstream forms of entertainment, the idea of a virtual world full of avatars no longer seems so foreign to most people. Most ironic of all, however, is the fact that without Tron preceding it, the highest grossing film of all time would have been unthinkable.

Tron has endured precisely because it was ahead of its time. It has minor flaws—it can be corny and stilted at times, though this stems more from its genre roots than anything else—but it seems more and more prescient with each passing year. And just as Star Trek bred a new generation of scientific pioneers in the Space Age, Tron has given rise to Generation X’s Information Age trail-blazers. It is we, the few, the proud, the geeky, who have carried on its legacy and allowed it to rise from the ashes, 28 years later.

Here’s hoping the sequel lives up to the original.

“Space: the final frontier…”

So goes the opening monologue for each episode of Star Trek (1966-69), a TV series that paved the way for every serious science fiction series in its wake. And yet, for a show that was so fresh and innovative at the time, its brand has become stale and repetitive over the years, turning into a shadow of its former self.

Enter the cinematic reboot Star Trek (2009), an attempt to revitalise the franchise some 43 years after its debut. Helmed by J.J. Abrams (the man behind Alias (2001-2006) and Lost (2004-2010)) and written by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman (who also brought us The Island (2005) and Transformers (2007)), this is obviously not going to be deep or thought-provoking. With those names behind it, you can bet on things being fairly fun, however, at the very least.

The approach taken seems to be akin to recent Marvel origin films such as X-Men (2000) and Spider-man (2002): keep the fans happy while playing-up the novelty of seeing familiar characters meeting, all while adopting a light and breezy tone. And then throw in a few curve-balls to shake things up a bit.

And for what it is, Star Trek is quite entertaining and pleasant while it lasts, but it has an evaporating quality—it’s a totally forgettable experience. Furthermore, inconsistencies, contrivances and ignored plot points bubble to the surface after any kind of serious consideration. Why did they need to skydive at one point when they could have just beamed-down? (In-story answer: because the transporter was disabled; real answer: because it looked cool and added an element of danger.) Where was bad-guy Nero (Eric Bana) for 20-odd years between when we first see him and when he finally reappears? (Answer: in a sequence on the cutting-room floor.)

As a bonus, this is now the second Star Trek movie in a row to attempt to ape elements from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982). Of course, here Bana as Nero has pretty much nothing to do except look menacing over a viewscreen, and the brain bug that eventually pops up is never mentioned again, but at least they were trying.

The casting is surprisingly solid, however, considering that this could have easily been “Star Trek Babies” instead. Karl Urban in particular seems to inhabit the character of “Bones” McCoy, while Zachary Quinto plays Spock a bit like Dexter Morgan, which maybe isn’t so off-base after all.

In the end, the two main complaints I have of the film both involve pandering to the fanbase. Firstly, it seems that each character must say their respective catchphrase at least once. Secondly, a convoluted time-travel plot is included in order to please the continuity police by creating a new timeline—not only is this a reboot, it’s also a sequel and an alterna-prequel, all at the same time.  Neither of these features are necessary, and in fact they act as distractions, turning the film more into meta-Trek than a Star Trek film proper.

Nitpicks aside, it’s a fun, if frivolous, couple of hours. This Star Trek is for both the masses and the fans, and it’s competent as a science fiction/action extravaganza. Hopefully the sequel will attempt to do something new rather than simply jazzing-up former glories. Will they go where no one has gone before? We’ll see.

So let’s get the David Lynch and David Cronenberg comparisons out of the way. Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: the Iron Man shares a stark, black-and-white surrealist aesthetic with Lynch’s earlier work, as well as the body-horror theme that pervades every film of Cronenberg’s. But Tsukamoto’s approach is rooted more deeply in the cyberpunk genre, where technology consumes, devours and dehumanises, and his hyper-kinetic editing gives a whole different tone to this tale of man versus machine.

The plot is hard to describe without sounding insane. In short, a man runs into a metal fetishist with his car, and soon he himself begins transforming into a man-machine hybrid. But that’s only the start…

Between the protagonist being anally raped by a crazed she-demon with a long, metallic hose attached to her crotch, the large drill-bit that is his own transformed penis, the prolonged sex scenes that merge eroticism and horror and the final images of humans melded together in agony and ecstasy, Tetsuo uses metal as a kind of sexual metaphor. Is this strange montage of grotesqueries a cinematic primal scream, where sexual repression in a technologically advanced society finally bursts forth? Is it a visual depiction of the loss of identity experienced in the face of an all-pervading audio-visual bombardment? Who’s to say?

In any case, Tetsuo is undeniably captivating, but the jittery, manic editing comes at a price: the use of accelerating film speeds and quick cuts is almost unbearable by the end, where the novelty has long since worn off and sensory overload is starting to kick-in.

This is the work of an artist with a clear vision and vivid imagination, and the result is powerful. One viewing, however, is more than enough.

Made in 1902, this classic piece of early cinema is important for so many reasons, not the least of which is that, even today, it stands as a fine piece of entertainment in its own right, beyond any historical curiosity. The imagery is rich and startling: besides the famous image of the rocket lodged in the eye of the moon, the landscape of the moon itself is wonderfully realised with spires, craters and giant mushrooms, while faces appear in stars and moon inhabitants disappear in puffs of smoke. The whimsy alone carries the audience into a magical world of wonder and awe.

The story concerns a group of astronomers who build a rocket and voyage to the moon, just as the title implies. Soon they are captured by the natives and taken to see the commander, before escaping and returning to Earth. It’s not that elaborate a plot, but at least there is a plot, which is significant in itself. It’s in the details, however, where the real beauty lies, such as when an umbrella transforms into a mushroom before our eyes.

If it all seems laughably inaccurate and quaint for a trip to the moon, that’s the point. Even in 1902, nobody believed there was literally a man in the moon; Méliès was a stage magician interested in the use of film to create illusions and spectacle. To make the impossible (by any rational standard) seemingly materialise in front of the spectator was the objective, and the more obviously impossible the event, the more confounding (and thus impressive) the illusion.

A Trip to the Moon may not be science fiction in the strictest sense, but it’s the earliest special effects-driven film with a real narrative, making it one of the most significant films in cinema history. It’s also a lot of fun and well recommended.

If, on the other hand, you prefer rapid-fire gags and references mixed with some very nice animation but without any concern for heart or intellect, then this may be your film.

Monsters vs Aliens, coming between Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa (2008) and How to Train Your Dragon (2010), is DreamWorks Animation’s 11th 3D computer-animated film, and it shows. The formula—support a barrage of one-liners and throwaway references with imaginative design and a paper-thin plot—has been fine-tuned by this point, and its calculating cynicism and constant winks to the audience are now more mechanical than ever.

The plot has the necessary moral included, of course, taking Shrek‘s “Accept who you are” fortune-cookie wisdom and giving it a feminist twist. Susan Murphy (Reese Witherspoon) is all set to marry self-absorbed local weatherman Derek Dietl (Paul Rudd) when she is suddenly hit by a meteorite, causing her to grow to a height of 49 feet 11.5 inches. Captured by the military, she is then sent to a kind of “monster prison” where she meets fellow inmates B.O.B. (Seth Rogen, a parody of the Blob), Dr. Cockroach (Hugh Laurie, a parody of the Fly), the Missing Link (Will Arnett, a parody of the Creature from the Black Lagoon) and Insectosaurus (a parody of Godzilla). In charge of the facility is General W.R. Monger (Kiefer Sutherland), a no-nonsense military man who is tough but fair.

Given the film’s title, it’s not hard to guess where all this is headed: soon aliens invade, and it’s up to the five monsters to save the day. Meanwhile, Susan will learn that she’s happy to be an almost-50 foot woman, and she’ll leave Derek and move onto a better, brighter future with her monster pals by her side. (None of these plot points are spoilers, as the entire story is telegraphed within the first ten minutes.)

Monsters vs Aliens was rendered in stereoscopic 3D, and this gimmick is apparent as soon as the film starts, with a character bouncing a ball-and-bat towards the camera in the film’s second sequence, a la House of Wax (1953). The 3D effects aren’t always so gratuitous, but watching it in 2D does highlight certain moments that were obviously designed as “wow” effects for cinema audiences.

Referencing a 1950′s Vincent Price horror is one thing—and there are plenty of similar nods to classic science fiction/horror along the way—but it’s something else to reference Beverly Hills Cop (1984) or An Inconvenient Truth (2006), let alone the videogame Dance Dance Revolution, none of which have anything to do with the genre being targeted and instead seem like desperate attempts to flatter adults who enjoy feeling clever. Even the name W.R. Monger (together with a Strangelove-esque war-room) lacks any real attempt at subtlety or wit.

And then there’s the shot where a character scans his butt in order to gain clearance…

While Pixar make films that respect their audience, DreamWorks Animation seem content to coast along using brain-dead humour and by-the-numbers storytelling. That they continue to succeed at the box office is both depressing and frustrating.

That said, the designs and animation are both very nice (though the humans—with the exception of Susan—look wholly unappealing). There’s a lovely overall look to the production that recalls ’50s Americana and B-movie science fiction aesthetics. It’s also nice to see homages to films like The Fly and The Blob (both 1958) amidst the more contemporary pop-culture references.

But as it stands, Monsters vs Aliens is a missed opportunity. If anything, its whole tone is mirrored in Paul Rudd’s weatherman character: smug, self-obsessed and convinced of its own superiority.

It is Los Angeles in 2019, and within the urban decay are four rogue “replicants” — sophisticated androids that are virtually indistinguishable from humans. Rick Deckard (Harrison Ford) is a former blade runner — a detective charged with tracking down and “retiring” (i.e. killing) rogue replicants — and he’s brought back on the job to retire the current four who are still on the loose.

Blade Runner is an important film for a number of reasons. Firstly, it helped to define the “cyberpunk” subgenre: its world was a grimy, sprawling urban landscape fused with high-tech industry, and this became the paradigm upon which so much science fiction was later built. Secondly, its themes of humanity, creation and the nature of memory are dealt with seriously but never in a heavy-handed manner. And finally, it’s yet another case of a film that was relatively unsuccessful at the time of release but whose influence was so marked that it’s now regarded as a classic almost by default.

This is the work of an auteur whose vision so dominates the film that it could never have been made by anyone else. The sets are exquisite, with the lighting and cinematography striking just the right mood for any given scene, and every shot, every frame, every cut announces that This is a Ridley Scott film. This is the sort of cinematic experience whose images linger long after the credits roll — if one word describes Blade Runner, it is “haunting”.

There are, however, flaws that cannot be ignored. There is a rather detached feel throughout that keeps the audience at arm’s length, and this is only compounded by the romance between Rachel (Sean Young) and Deckard, which is never quite convincing. The love scene in particular is rather awkward and (it could be argued) borders on being a rape fantasy. Still, these are minor quibbles when examining the film as a whole.

The most interesting twist in the Blade Runner saga is that now, 25 years after its initial theatrical run, comes Scott’s so-called “Final Cut”, itself 15 years after the apparently misnamed “Director’s Cut” of 1992. This is, without a doubt, the definitive version of the film, combining the best qualities of the prior cuts while subtly tweaking areas that still needed some attention. Never do the changes feel gratuitous (unlike the special editions of certain other beloved science fiction films of the era), although some are still radical if you’re comparing this to the 1982 theatrical cut: as with the Director’s Cut, Ford’s voice-over narration is missing, and the unicorn dream is still included. Both alterations are, in my opinion, for the better, but purists should note that the theatrical cut is available on DVD with certain Blade Runner boxsets.

Ultimately, then, is Blade Runner — in any cut — a perfect film? No. Is it a great film? Yes, and already that sets it apart from most other films released in the intervening years.

Monty Python’s Terry Gilliam, who had previously directed Time Bandits and Jabberwocky, set about to create his own 1984. Gilliam’s vision was of a twisted, distorted version of the present, occupying a space and time given only as “Somewhere in the 20th Century”, but looking like a totalitarian future as envisaged from the perspective of post-war Britain. The oppression is palpable, led not by a menacing “Big Brother”-type but instead by a bureaucratic system determined to justify its own existence.

Jonathan Pryce plays Sam Lowry, a man content to live out his life working in the bowels of the bureaucracy, supplementing his day-to-day drudgery with Icarus-like fantasies where he flies through the clouds and rescues the woman of his dreams. When Sam actually encounters (quite literally) “the woman of his dreams” (played by Kim Greist), he soon discovers the impact that poorly-managed governmental systems can have on ordinary people.

Every inch of the world of Brazil emphasises the irony that the things we rely on to improve our lives often end up hindering us more than helping. This is a high-tech society, yet the technology intrudes upon and complicates life — giant ducts snake through buildings to deliver the “goodies” of modern life, while telephones resemble old-fashioned switchboards, requiring the user to fumble around with cords and connections in order to communicate with others. Similarly, the voluminous paperwork required in order to achieve anything of worth means that the simple matter of air-conditioner repair becomes a major operation that will take days (if not weeks). “Heating engineer” Harry Tuttle (Robert De Niro) decides to work outside the system and is branded a “terrorist” for his troubles.

As detailed in Jack Matthews’ book The Battle of Brazil, Gilliam faced his own struggles against (what he felt was) heartless bureaucracy when he went toe-to-toe with Universal President Sid Sheinberg. Gilliam was fighting to retain final-cut rights on the film, but Sheinberg wanted a complete overhaul of Brazil, essentially removing the entire third act and thereby radically altering the film’s tone and themes. Its US release was delayed indefinitely, leading to a very public, very ugly tussle between the writer/director and the studio — at one point, Gilliam even took out a full-page advertisement in Variety in order to pressure Sheinberg into giving his film a US release. When Brazil won the Los Angeles Film Critics Association Awards for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Screenplay, Universal’s hand was forced and the film saw release in the US in late 1985 (10 months after its UK release).

Did Brazil deserve such accolades? Some felt at the time that the LA critics were more enamoured by the “David and Goliath” struggle of Gilliam versus Sheinberg than by Brazil itself, but the passing of 22 years gives us a fresh perspective. Putting aside the politics of its production, Gilliam and co-writers Tom Stoppard and Charles McKeown made a modern classic filled with wit and insight into the absurdities of our ordinary lives. Brazil is a dark film whose tension is derived mostly from the juxtaposition of slapstick and screwball comedy with dramatic and shocking scenes depicting the horrors of this totalitarian state. The only escape from a world so lacking in compassion, it seems, is through the creation of a fantasy life within your own imagination.

But even if the world is cruel, “Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity,” as Hanlon’s Razor so succinctly puts it. Evil exists not so much in the hearts of men as in the incompetence and pedantry of faceless bureaucracies — this is the true message of Brazil.

Hugh Jackman plays Tommy Creo, a research oncologist whose wife, Izzi (Rachael Weisz) is dying from a brain tumour. Parallel to this are two other stories: in one, Jackman plays Tomas, a Spanish conquistador who aims to assassinate Grand Inquisitor Silecio in order to protect his Queen (also played by Weisz); in the third, Jackman is Tom, a man hurtling through space in a spherical, translucent spacecraft. How these three stories relate to each other is one of the delights of The Fountain, and something that is best left for the film itself to reveal.

Writer/director Darren Aronofsky (Pi, Requiem for a Dream) has given us a film that possesses a depth of emotion and spirit few achieve. Its themes of mortality and grief are interwoven masterfully through its cinematic triptych as visual motifs recur again and again — the golden palette of the nebula featured in the third story, for example, is scattered throughout various scenes to remind us that these three stories are part of a larger whole.

Hugh Jackman and Rachael Weisz are both superb in their respective roles. Weisz gives Izzi a mix of strength and vulnerability that immediately rings true, while Jackman’s Tommy is a man driven but frustrated, myopic yet still totally lost and confused. I’m not sure as to how Pitt and Blanchett would have played these roles, but I just can’t imagine either giving such subtle and textured performances, as good as they usually are.

The score by Clint Mansell (who has collaborated on all three of Aronofsky’s films) pulses and flows like a meditation, with Aronofsky cutting between the three timelines seamlessly to complete the illusion. At first the transitions feel slightly jarring, but Mansell and Aronofsky create such a gentle, dreamlike pacing to the film that we instead feel carried along with the journey, experiencing the emotions while intuitively understanding the thematic relationships between the elements in the stories.

You can ponder and reflect on how the pieces of the film’s plot(s) all fit together after the fact, but the literal connections seem less important than the metaphorical unity. Tomas, Tommy and Tom are all on quests to challenge death, and they all come to similar realisations in their own ways, along their own paths.

At its heart, The Fountain is about the acceptance of death and the true nature of immortality. We live on in the earth, the grass, the trees, the flowers and the memories of those whose lives we’ve touched. So savour each moment with loved ones, because tomorrow those moments may be all you have.

Director George Lucas, who had great success with American Graffiti just prior, filled his screenplay with everything swimming around in his subconscious from childhood entertainment: westerns, adventure serials, comic books, fairytales, samurai films, war films, pulp science fiction and anything else that sprang to mind. Yet everything in Star Wars seemed to exist in a coherent universe, where princesses could exist alongside bounty hunters and fighter pilots. In short, he concocted the most delicious blend of fantastic imagary that bounces around a ten-year-old boy’s head and then splashed it on cinema screens everywhere.

The plot, furthermore, followed closely the monomyth as detailed by Joseph Campbell but never felt written-by-the-numbers. Instead, the audience seems to be partaking in a ritualised retelling of an ancient story dressed in the tropes of 20th century pop culture, and it’s this dual nature of the film — contemporary, yet timeless — that no doubt lead to its massive popularity and longevity. We all knew the sources of inspiration and so it was immediately familiar without being strictly derivative. This was the Hero’s Journey for pop culture junkies.

What was particularly striking was the spirituality bubbling just under the surface. The bad guys, the Empire, seemed atheistic (with the exception of Darth Vader), whereas the good guys, the Rebellion, were fighting to restore humanity and compassion back to the governing body. The Rebels embrace the nature of the Force, a kind of panentheistic belief system that is never fully detailed but instead given to the audience in the broadest of strokes to maintain its universality. Here is a world divided not just between wizards and warlocks, but also between the religious and the anti-religious — the compassionate and the cold-hearted — with the common man concerned more with tending to his family’s needs than anything else. This film is as relevant today as it was 30 years ago.

Amidst all this is a universe brimming with life that mostly exists just beyond the frame: desert scavengers that squeak and titter in an alien tongue as they capture unsuspecting robots; a dark, smoke-filled cantina that occasionally breaks into sudden violence which doesn’t really seem to affect the flow of conversation between its drunk, otherworldly patrons; a shoe-box-sized robot that scurries around a space-station until startled by the growl of an approaching captive. None of these touches of whimsy are strictly necessary, but all give Star Wars its unique character, as does the camp dialogue and often hammy delivery. This is not a comedy, bur neither is it a serious film — it’s a postmodern adventure movie with a science fiction gloss.

Of course, Lucas didn’t stop there — I’ll get to the subsequent films later. But Star Wars was the first, and it set in motion a juggernaut that fuelled the imaginations of audiences the world over. Perhaps we can forgive Lucas any later missteps for this one shining achievement.

So it’s an incredible irony that Bay seems to have redeemed himself with Transformers, a film based on a line of toys of all things. Bay’s film not only delivers on its promise of a fun popcorn movie, it revels in its frivolity; this is the film that the abysmal Independence Day wanted so desperately to be, all those years ago.

As the Transformers mythology goes, two warring factions of giant alien robots — the benevolent Autobots and the evil Decepticons — left their homeworld of Cybertron for Earth, where their eternal battle continues. Here they take the forms of ordinary vehicles and devices: leading the Autobots is Optimus Prime, a heroic figure who transforms into a truck and gets to pontificate about freedom and the virtues of humanity, while heading the Decepticons is Megatron, who used to transform into a gun but in the film appears as a jet.

Any man who was a pre-teen in the mid-to-late ’80s probably knows all of this anyway. If nothing else, we all watched the animated series and have some vague expectations for the characterisation of each Transformer, particularly Prime and Megatron, but also fan favourites such as Bumblebee and Starscream. By and large, these characters are recreated fairly faithfully, but it’s true that the humans, not the Transformers, are the focus of the film.

Having the humans dominate proceedings would perhaps have been more problematic were the script not as fun or engaging as it is. There are moments of humour and whimsy sprinkled throughout the film that only occasionally fall flat — Bernie Mac in particular has a cameo that is absolutely hilarious (though potentially offensive to some). Full credit must be given, however, to Shia LaBeouf, who essentially carries Transformers during its slower scenes through sheer charisma alone. Also always nice to see is John Turturro in a supporting role, but the appearance of Jon Voight has to be the most surreal bit of casting since Orson Welles voiced Unicron in the animated Transformers film 21 years ago.

Of course, it’s the third act where the real robot-on-robot action occurs, and this is the payoff for all the exposition of the prior 90 minutes. A kinetic energy takes hold, and suddenly you’re watching two robots destroy the entire floor of an office building, for example, causing destruction and mayhem on such a scale that you can’t help but be awestruck. One can only assume that the sequel will be even bigger.

Sure, there’s a plot that’s buried beneath all this, involving metallic cubes, sexy love interests and pairs of glasses on eBay, but it’s just window-dressing to introduce the premise of this new franchise. Ordinarily, I’d feel insulted by this, but it’s done with such good humour that it’s hard to fault the film for not aspiring towards high art.

Maybe Steven Spielberg (as executive producer) is responsible for Transformers‘ sense of childlike giddiness; I don’t know. All I know is, it succeeds at being a fun and entertaining movie, and that’s all it should need to be.