Even robots age

“I’m old, not obsolete.” That’s Arnold Schwarzenegger’s T-800 (Model 101) defending his—and Schwarzenegger’s—continuing role in saving mankind by delivering a quip so quippy it’s dispensed no less than three times over the course of Terminator: Genisys. But ol’ T-800 could just as easily be defending the entire Terminator franchise, which, in terms of narrative cohesion, has permanently guarded itself against obsolescence by incorporating a confusing series of parallel destinies generated by its characters’ ability to travel through time and alter history. No amount of time travel, however, can alter the fact that the original Terminator remains the most inspired, efficient and charming—and cheap!—of the current quintet of Terminator manifestations.

Which is not to say that Genisys is without merit. Beginning in 2029, the story follows post-apocalyptic resistance fighter Kyle Reese (Jai Courtney) as he travels back to 1984—the year of the original film—to protect Sarah Connor (Emilia Clarke) from killer robots so that she can give birth to John Connor (Jason Clarke), the leader of the anti-killer robot resistance. But circumstances are such that Kyle and Sarah, with the help of Schwarzenegger’s T-800, whom Sarah affectionately dubs “Pops”, then need to travel to 2017, which, now that history has been repeatedly altered, has become the year formerly known as 1997, a.k.a. the year of “Judgment Day,” when the killer robots take over and slaughter most humans. I can’t possibly explain all this here, but you’ll be glad when you make it to 2017 because that’s when some good actors—J.K. Simmons!—arrive to infuse the supporting characters with a little life. Genisys, alas, follows the original Terminator in placing the star in a supporting robot role while sticking a robotic actor in the lead, while replacing tough Linda Hamilton with baby-faced and not terribly convincing Clarke. Still, it’s fun how “Pops” assumes the role of overprotective dad to Kyle’s hubristic suitor. And it’s appealingly morbid how Kyle has spent his whole life in love with Sarah, a dead woman he knows only from a snapshot of her wearing a headband. Until, of course, he gets to meet Sarah (sans headband) in 1984 and they take a trip to 2017 together, naked and embracing in the time machine.

The film is quite entertaining, and so many things in it are almost interesting: the  nods toward La jetée and Frankenstein, the nonsensical discussions about free will—and, by the way, where do the robots keep finding the will to destroy mankind?—and the story’s overriding anti-consumerist critique. That’s right: Terminator: Genisys is critical of you buying stuff, “Genisys” being the name of a new operating system that will link every device you own—and, little do we stupid tech-mongers realize, allow the robots to crush us all in their invincible liquid metal grips! Which reminds me: do you like monster truck rallies? Because there is this larger question, looming over Transformers, Terminators and superheroes alike, about how long it takes it lose interest in machines pummeling each other without ever getting being in danger of annihilation. It’s not exactly suspenseful.

Also, speaking of boringly invincible robots, that quip—“I’m old, not obsolete”—is made because Kyle notices that Schwarzenegger’s T-800’s flesh looks less fresh than the other terminators. The logic being that, while robots stay the same inside, robot flesh is just like human flesh—which is weird because “Pops” gets his flesh ripped to shreds multiple times in Genisys and within minutes it seems to grow right back to normal 67-year-old former-governor-of-California flesh. Baffling! But I’m confident the next chapter in the interminable Terminator saga will figure out why this is, and explain it in some expository dialogue.

                       

Seeing Belief: a visual aid to a brilliant book

There’s a moment in Alex Gibney’s Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Disbelief when Lawrence Wright, the Pulitzer Prize-winning investigate journalist who authored Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood and the Prison of Disbelief, explains, “My goal wasn’t to write an exposé. It was simply to understand Scientology, to understand what people get out of it, you know, why do they go into it in the first place.” That’s pretty much the difference between Gibney and Wright, between this new HBO documentary and Wright’s masterfully calibrated, sensitive and expansive 2013 book: Gibney’s in it for the exposé. His approach is far more blunt than Wright’s. Which, it turns out, is just fine, because the documentary, though its title is inexplicably foreshortened, forms a welcome audio-visual aid to the book, and because, frankly, there is sooooo much to expose. 

Mr. Hubbard

Where to begin? I’d suggest you begin with the book, of course, which wasn’t released in Canada (I ordered mine from the US), but perhaps the reverse will work just as well: think of the doc as a teaser. The basic trajectory of doc and book are in any case the same, using the highly publicized 2011 resignation of Canadian filmmaker Paul Haggis from the Church of Scientology as a framing device, tracing the batshit crazy life of galactically prolific science fiction writer and Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard and examining the transformation Scientology undertook when Hubbard died and an equally crazy if less creepily charismatic man named David Miscavige took the celestial reigns and conquered the Internal Revenue Service, who has been demanding millions from Scientology and finally had to cry uncle when Scientology finally managed to get classified as a religion, thus apprehending their financial holy grail: tax exemption! Along the way we hear testimonies from various former Scientologists, such as actor Jason Beghe, John Travolta’s liaison Sylvia “Spanky” Taylor, and Mark Rathbun and Mike Rinder, who both worked their way to Scientology’s upper echelons. They confirm every litigious thing you’ve ever heard about Scientology, the kidnapping and child labour, the coercion and torture, the billion-year contracts and other elements of the Church’s risible mythos. Along the way we also, through archival footage, meet a gentleman by the name of Tom Cruise, the all-powerful evil robot with the eerily strained laughter, who, after shedding his infidel spouse Nicole Kidman, became Scientology’s favourite son and reaped all the benefits. 

Mr. Haggis

Gibney makes several problematic choices in how he assembles the material, a fairly obvious example is the way he’ll make a hard cut from Miscavige giving a dumb-sounding speech at some expensively tacky Scientology event to an audience bursting into applause, creating a relationship between what’s said and its response that may not represent what really happened. Gibney focuses almost exclusively on the most sensationalistic incidents reported in Wright’s book—though there are so many jaw-dropping stories to choose from that those hungry for dirt will still find their appetites sated should they read it. You won’t leave Going Clear feeling any lack of outrage, but you may, alas, feel slighted with regards to fascination. Gibney shows less interest in the allure of Scientology holds for so many perfectly intelligent, credible, ambitious people, something Wright illuminated beautifully and respectfully. In short: see Going Clear, but also read Going Clear. There’s a far more complex—if no less damning—story to be found here.