Owen Eather

Whilst many have praised the acting, writing and direction, all most justified, the film finally left me dissatisfied. No one should care I was, as obviously many have enjoyed it and the completeness it expresses, in delivering the happy ending so dear to the hearts of American audiences, to which I don't belong. Frankly, I thought the producers gave up an ending that would have been adult, enobling of Nicholsen's character and entirely appropriate to the context of the characters. Perhaps, given the endings setting in Paris, homage could have been paid to the Jean Seberg film, " In the French Style". At its end, the American party girl tells her boyfriend, a war correspondent, she has found a husband, a Jewish American surgeon offering stability and security. The boyfriend argues, but it gradually dawns that she is not to be persuaded back to her old life of casual encounters. The finance arrives. Squaring his shoulders, the boyfriend uses this as the " clean break". Standing, he manfully wishes them well and departs with firmness, but is inwardly desolate. Nonetheless, we see him in a final long shot walking toward the Arc de Triumphe, not looking back, merging with the crowd and walking with a resolute step. So fitting. Imagine if the Nicholsen character, seeing his love depart in the taxi with her young lover, watches them drive away with restrained despair. Ten seconds go by. Then he straightens his back like a man, acceptance in his expression - this is the reality now realised. Turning, like so many other male characters in cinema, he strides with resolution toward the Eiffel Tower as the snow falls and the film ends as his figure recedes into the distance. So complete, so gratifying a conclusion and so much more real to the characters' arcs. Instead, we get the sanitised " Happy Ending" that is commercial and " nice", but oh so saccharine. Pity.

Very DEI. The reelie cool and super smart mixed ethnic team defeat the Martian(?) invaders and a BAD WHITE MAN ( who laughs maniacally when cornered - pity no moustache to curl). Then another BWM is warned to take his evil tech overarching concept and watch out for the DEI gang. Also, seriously cheap looking.

A dreary, obsessive examination of a nasty set of characters and situations. Some disreputable themes are anti marriage and children, singularly unlikeable and flawed police officers and " kitchen sink" disection of lower middle class domestic issues, completely unsympathetic. It's hard to imagine how this plodding and unentertaining trawl of a police procedural ever got a green light or was stetched out to un unbelveable three seasons.

My father, who joined the Second Australian Imperial Force in 1939, then fought across North Africa, the Kokoda Track and Papua New Guinea and the Borneo Invasion in 1945, would have been appalled, as I was, with the " arty" depictions of Australians in this travesty of representation. I also knew, reasonably well, Russell Braddon, author of " The Naked Island" a world wide best seller and a personal and factual account of Australian fortitude on the Burma Railroad. Pity the producers did not pick this as a true basis for adopting for the screen. The choice of some matinee idol actor in his twenties, nice chap as I'm sure he is, is the worst piece of miscasting imaginable. He is far too young to have been a Lieutenant Colonel and he totally lacks the gravity and depth needed. This alone, sets the series as so off key to be laughable. There follows a procession of inaccuracies and poor recreations. The Australian soldier is made to appear disorderly and bedraggled, not knowing what to do in extremis. The Japanese, of course, are straight out of a 1940s propaganda film, so stereotypically laughable as to be caricatures that further destroy any authenticity that may have developed. Why, also, pick an Irish actor to play the older character? There are more than enough very capable Australians, Jack Thompson, for instance. Then, there are the myriad and sloppy period details. Chinstraps on slouch hats, for instance, wrongly fitted. Webbing equipment poorly adjusted and not as trained soldiers would wear it, along with rifles clutched like handbags. The Anzac Day costumes are preposterous. Double breasted suits looking far too new and awkward; a large mistake is lapels worn over medals and obscuring them. These medals are mounted in the current court fashion not in the swing type totally universal with all veterans since the Boer War up to Somalia. Other continuous and irritating errors compound the lack of veracity in this slipshod exercise. Did anyone connected do any more than superficial research? The tone and style of photography is dingy with detail almost indiscernible. In equatorial daytime, it appears to be stwilighr in some northern European heath that is being used. The trick of depicting filtered, but strong, rainforest light along with sharpness seems beyond the photography of this dismal non epic. I won't approach the absolute disgrace of openly drawing upon " Weary" Dunlop as a facet of the main character's temperament. This unbelievable product of insecure writers bears no resemblance to the towering humanity and leadership of Colonel Dunlop. The rest of the tawdry and sarcastic behaviours of character types unrecognisable as credible Australians, undoubtedly beloved of critics and drama schools, rounds this distortion. No veteran will recognise this misrepresentation. It is to be avoided.

Idly coming to this series at my normally astute wife's recommendation, I was baffled by the relentless table tennis dialogue of impossibly strident characters. The unrealistic representation ofdiplomatic interactions gave no respite for the hapless leads who all adopted the mein of laboratory rats undergoing operant conditioning. I gained the impression all were surprised to have a second season and increasingly considered the pay cheques, not Emmys. A redeeming feature is the grand locales the producers found for the increasingly frenetic shenanigans. Miles of polished bannisters, rows of noble and ancient portraits and battle scenes, Persian rugs of football stadium acreage and lofty, panneled rooms are visual distraction from the chirping chatter of the script. At this stage, a French farce became the overwhelming motif, doors opening and slamming, scheming lovers, plotters and serfs scurrying in and out. Eventually, the inappropriate influences of " Mon Uncle " and " Doctor Strangelove" seeped insidiously through the style of this disjointed pantomine. I half expected Peter Sellers to appear in one or more characters, closely observed by Jaques Tati. At this stage, the implausible unbelievability of the whole affair drove me off to watch " Mission Impossible" - sanity at last.

Ah, well, all the boxes ticked; feckless male characters, strong and principled female lead, sling off at " Republicans" ( it will be a relief for us not born in the United States to see a Hollywood film that does not assume intimate awareness of their parochial politics), seriously annoying plot jolts that irritate rather than entice - in other words, a contemporary blender movie designed to dazzle with art to conceal its laboured pretentiousness. Stay away ( BTW, the Texas cop with the hat is the one saving grace in this film school failure)

The art direction as to period is appalling. First, officers in Armies in the Second World War .Adelaide sure the SHAVED daily if they could. This curre t fashionable stubble, which indicates poor self discipline and sloppy hygiene, was definitely frowned upon. The laughable wearing of uniform and , out of place, " diversity" is anachronistic. There would have been no black serveants in the British Army,for instance. .modern and u aware audiences may think the period set and location dressing evokes the period. You only have to watch a few British films actually of the period to see how off centre it is. A dreary pot boiler.

Well, before this are gushing posts filled with awe struck fans pouring out hundreds of words on the Great Depth and genius of this , frankly, a bit plodding remake of " Earth versus the Flying Saucers". The first three episodes, taking themselves far too seriously, squirm like amoeba on a microscope slide, with the exception of the Cultural Revolution scene graphically exposing the brutal inhumanity of that particular passage of Cathay massed madness. Otherwise, sanctimonious geeks spout turgid nostrums on pop science to pander to sf groupies in need of these pretentious sermons. This trudges on for about four episodes and then we get down to the evil aliens ( wonder who invented the twee ," San - Ti", label, could be a new energy drink). The chick with a katana and black cocktail dress assures us, as if from the alien handbook, that her real appearance is too horrid to gaze upon and that her mob are coming in 400 (!) years, but in the meantime are going to drive humanity nuts with huge, planet size video games. Then starts the more comfortable and watchable unifying of Earth at the UN; top Nobel prize scientists locked in a mansion to come up with the wonder weapon; Moon bases building giant space battleships; Atomic bomb powered probes: flint eyed Uberfuhrers barking cryptic order, etc.,etc. All the standard Alien war stuff in new Christmas wrapping. It is a very glum tone throughout, regular dazzlement by flashy computer imagery to break the boredom ( such as the cultists oil tanker turned into sushi slices along with the passengers), directed from secret bases ( are there any other kind?) and Benedict Fong giving a down market reprise of his Kublai Khan gig, worth seeing for, despite the clanking armour plate of sententious dialogue, he injects a rueful humour that is most welcome. Not the next " 2001", but passes the time.

Now, I would normally pass over any review of this maudlin and lugubrious film school exercise. It's what you'd expect if there was a remake of "The Last Picture Show" written by a Bangladeshi and directed by an Egyptian, flamingos being substituted for Cybill Shepherd in the swimming pool scene. Thank heaven Kevin Bacon did a tongue in cheek impersonation of Ben Johnson, complete with Cowboy hat, on his way to collecting his pay cheque. I was about to flick off when we got to the white EV highway pile up and wated a bit. I'm glad that I did, as Julia Roberts in grim mode, read the self drive sticker on one. At this point, the spirit of Mel Brooks mercifully intervened with, " The Mad Tesla Stampede", manically impelled steroidal golf carts plunging to battery powered death as Julia's hapless family dodged them in the best cattle drive tradition. Laughing like a drain, I replayed it three times. It's worth putting up with the plodding symbolism which precedes. Hoping I had twigged the true intention of the director, to hide a Cohen Brothers' farce behind an all too familiar and leaden apocalyptic trudge, I was finally disappointed when there was no " Blazing Saddles" upraised finger reprive of the cast driving off in a limo to New York ( first stop at the Orthodontist for the insufferable son's grimace).

This travesty of entertainment, long and dreary, with Iraeli and American characters largely painted as devious, unprincipled and mean contrasted to others, so obviously exploits Christian lore and imagery, as well as sarcasm aimed at conservative values, as to be laughable and tiresome. Plodding, pretentious dialogue, lack lustre editing and no characters that are in the least likeable, especially the Messiah, a tediously pious and fatuous fake, who no sane person would bother staying with, all make viewing a chore so boring that the only reason to watch it all is to see how all the clanking plot lines are resolved. Save yourself the bother and flick to the last episode.