“Woof-woof! I want to die!” – The people involved in the making of this film.
The Hidden 2: F
I thought I wanted more from The Hidden, but I have changed my mind. It was stupid of me to want such a thing. It was fine the way it was and I don’t want any more Hidden. I should have been satisfied with a berserk alien movie that celebrates its own shamelessness as a ripoff of other science fiction horror movies. But I greedily wanted more and look what happened: The (fucking terrible) Hidden 2.
I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the alien from the first film left behind some eggs. The eggs hatch in this one and they do pretty much the same thing their dad did: they possess a bunch of people and go on visceral crime-sprees with all the ambition of a cracked-out Jeff Goldblum-style Death Wish goon.
The cover of the VHS says “They live for lust. They live for power. They live forever.” I assume they are talking about the newly-hatched parasites, but that makes zero fucking sense because a) they are not sexual at all, b) they just want to do stuff like eat cheeseburgers and steal cars, and c) there is no mention of any sort of immortality, and their lives are actually very easily ended with the stupid ray gun that the stupid Good Alien has.
Maybe the tagline is talking about the new Good Alien and his human love interest. They hook up, but they have about as much on-screen sexual chemistry as a pile of wet rags. And I’m not talking about those sexy rags. I mean unsexy rags. It’s Alien Seedall over again, and this is a movie that you do not want to be compared to on any level.
The guy from Carnosauris in it. So it’s got that going for it… I guess.
I am not even exaggerating when I say that about twenty minutes of this movie are totally unaltered scenes from the first Hidden movie. They seriously edit in a LONG clip from the first movie and pass it off as an “intro” to the sequel. Then they throw in another generous clip as a “flashback.” Then (I’m not joking) they have the audacity add ANOTHER clip in the form of our heroes reviewing VHS security camera footage from the climax of the first movie. It is pretty lame. All in all, The Hidden 2 is maybe 60 minutes of original content.
And the content sucks ass.
The same brainless “homages” to Terminator and The Thingare there and they are somehow worse. There is even a scene where a dog gets possessed and there is a gross dog transformation scene like the gross dog transformation scene from The Thing. There are also some terminator-esque “files” that the Good Aliens accesses. I’m surprised there wasn’t “alien-vision” that ripped off all the first person Terminator shots. The parasites carry out some attacks outside of their hosts (like the face-huggers from Alien! Holy shit, am I just now noticing another case of plagiarism?), but they look like cheap puppets that someone threw at the actors.
The layers of meaninglessness to the movie have basically made me a level-10 nihilist. It is a shamelessly unoriginal sequel to a shamelessly unoriginal movie. The hatchlings have all the same abilities/criminal inclinations as before and there is a Good Alien with a Special Gun hunting them with the help of an “I don’t believe it!” human sidekick.
Socrates: Glaucon, my dear friend, I am curious about this film we’ve recently viewed together, The Hidden. It appears to be an amalgamation of borrowed elements from other movies, yet I enjoyed the film while you did not. Tell me, in your view, what is the essence of this cinematic creation on which you base your logic?
Glaucon: Socrates, it is a tired blend of familiar concepts. It borrows the premise of “Good Guy vs. Bad Guy from Another World” from my favorite film The Terminator and the idea of “Who’s the Monster in the Room?” from my other favorite movie The Thing. These elements, combined with mediocre production quality akin to Chuck Norris movies from this era, form a somewhat mindless experience that lasts for a full 90 minutes, yet I must admit I found it difficult to look away, which I cannot explain.
Socrates: Fascinating, indeed. But what strikes me as curious is that despite its conscious replication of other films, The Hidden garners widespread respect and praise. From esteemed critics like Roger Ebert to the faceless reviewers on Amazon.com, the film is spoken highly of. Do you not find it perplexing that a work that, as you believe, strips away the depth and meaning from its source material is celebrated as a solid film? How can you explain this paradox, Glaucon?
Glaucon: Indeed, Socrates, The Hidden deliberately replicates the plots and tropes of The Terminator and The Thing, yet it lacks the deeper allegorical and philosophical messages present in those films. While one may argue that these aspects were superficial in the aforementioned works, they were at least present and readable to some extent. The Hidden, however, revels in the futility of its own repetitive violence.
Socrates: Ah, an interesting observation, my friend. It appears you believe that The Hidden indulges in gratuitous destruction without offering any profound reflections on the human condition. I would like to return to this point in a moment, but if I may inquire further, could you shed light on the facets of the film’s premise – this tale of a parasitic alien criminal who possesses human hosts – that inspired your condemnation?
Glaucon: This is easy, Socrates! This alien parasite displays impulsive behavior, akin to the uncontrolled desires of the human Id, going on a rampage through the lens of a cheaply produced film. Possessing various hosts, the creature behaves in an extremely destructive and distressed state, as if consumed by the effects of methamphetamine. The campy depiction of a spree of grand theft auto, armed robbery, and assault is not art. The violence is meaningless and we’ve seen it in hundreds of other films before. It is not original.
Socrates: I see. I recall that this alien parasite indulges in hedonistic destruction, slaying characters who embody the stereotypes of the 1980s, while also partaking in activities such as feasting on steaks and pilfering boom-boxes through a lens of stylized violence that resembles episodes from other works. Verily, it appears that originality is absent within this film, yet, it possesses a certain degree of amusement which you concede when you admit you cannot look away as the film plays. Glaucon, I must inquire: do you truly believe that the absence of originality diminishes the value of this film? And do you then, by extension, believe that the absence of originality in any work of art diminishes the value of that art?
Glaucon: I do, Socrates.
Socrates: I believe you must now see how you are wrong. While I understand the importance of originality in art, I believe it is also crucial to consider the role of the demands of the audience. Is it not true that the greatness of a work lies not solely in its originality, but in its ability to fulfill the needs and desires of its viewers?
Glaucon: Pray tell, how can a film lacking originality still be considered great?
Socrates: Consider this, Glaucon. The Hidden, though borrowing heavily from other sources, manages to captivate its audience through familiarity. Is any great art truly original, or does it owe a debt to the art that came before it?
Glaucon: Great art is original.
Socrates: Well then your favorite movie must therefore be original art in order to be great. Is The Terminator the first movie ever about robots? Or the first movie with the foreboding threat of apocalypse? Is it Arnold Schwarzenegger’s first starring role? Is it the first film about time travel?
Glaucon: No.
Socrates: And is The Thing the first movie about a man-killing alien? Is it the first horror movie built on isolation and paranoia? Is The Thing not a complete remake of an already existing film which itself is based off of a short story?
Glaucon: I think I am beginning to understand, Socrates. Great art can be original. But by drawing upon established tropes and delivering them in a manner that satisfies the desires of its viewers, it fulfills a specific need within the cinematic landscape. But are you suggesting, Socrates, that the value of a work of art lies in its ability to cater to the public? Is there not room for innovation or organic creativity?
Socrates: Ah, Glaucon, you raise a valid point. Indeed, innovation and creativity are important aspects of artistic expression. However, we must not disregard the impact of meeting the public’s desires and, vitally, how a filmmaker’s receptive observations of the time in which they live informs the way they see fit to satisfy these desires.
Glaucon: Go on…
Socrates: Great works of art can be born from striking a delicate balance between originality and familiarity, between creativity and satisfying the audience’s yearning for certain elements. In the case of The Hidden, you have explained how the film’s own overt commitment to a lack of originality makes it uniquely original in and of itself through its quite deliberate intent to deliver concentrated dosages of most beloved elements of previous works of art. Is this not what many great works of art do? Just how The Terminator and The Thing borrow from works that came before them, they do so in their own unique ways that are in tune with the public, making them original.
Glaucon: So, Socrates, you argue that greatness can be achieved by recognizing the needs of the public and fulfilling them effectively? And that this effective fulfillment is itself a work of original art?
Socrates: Precisely, Glaucon. The greatness of a work lies not solely in its originality but in its reception to the needs of the public. It is through this symbiotic relationship between artist and audience that true greatness can be attained. Perhaps this is what you could not look away while we viewed the film!
Glaucon: Your words shed new light on the matter, Socrates. The value of a work of art should be assessed not only through its originality but also by its resonance with the public, especially if this is done with such deliberate force that the result could be called original. It is in this balance that we find the true essence of greatness.
I find myself drawn to murder. I find myself drawn to ooze. I find myself drawn to “The Thing,” an insidious opus that pits an Arctic research scientist and connoisseur of flamethrowers, the illustrious Kurt Russell, in a gripping battle against a ruthless shape-shifting extraterrestrial entity. Lurking behind this tale of flamethrowers and aliens is the subtle backdrop of paranoia and fear of the Cold War. Pay heed, Dear Reader! I shall not trifle with frivolous matters as I extol the virtues of one of my most cherished films.
“The Thing” emerged from the depths of the cinematic abyss in the year 1982, an era preceding my own existence, yet it served as one of the initial forays into the realms of R-rated horror that graced my impressionable senses. A mere handful of years had passed since the release of “Alien,” and it is within this black tarn of terror, steeped in isolation and the maddening whispers of paranoia, that both films share a common bond. Yet, dare I proclaim that “The Thing” supersedes its predecessor in sheer terror and suspense, for the malevolent alien in Carpenter’s gorefest manages to slither to a more intimate proximity with its victims. True that the larva-stage “Alien” reaches remarkable intimacy with the horrific impregnation of John Hurt’s Kane, but the knuckle-whitening dread of “The Thing” is another species of violation, seeping into the film and spreading like a slow virus tormenting the viewer with unstoppable Chinese water-torture consistency.
It is a tale of scientists delving too deep into the icy recesses of the Arctic, unearthing the dreadful abomination. They receive their punishment for their Promethean mining: The creature unleashes a torrent of unbridled savagery upon the unsuspecting researchers (a ghastly depiction captured in the lamentable and largely computer-generated “The Thing” prequel from 2011). Fleeing to a neighboring research station under the watchful eyes of Kurt Russell and his comrades, the Thing seeks solace within their midst.
The enigmatic biology of this insidious entity confounds the mind, even a mind as twisted as a Keeper of this labyrinthine purgatory of film, Dear Reader! Capable of both mimicry and absorption, it assimilates living beings on a cellular level until they become one with the Thing itself. How terrible a fate! A sentient creature possessing a hive-mind consciousness, each cell harbors an independent survival instinct, capable of autonomous existence. Perhaps my pathetic words stumble in the attempt to convey the intricacies of this alien phenomenon. Fear not, for within the movie itself, diabetic scientist Sir Wilford Brimley fantastically decodes the puzzle, employing Atari-esque expository computer models to portray the alien’s macabre microbiology.
The titular Thing, able to shapeshift and assimilate, claims its prey one vulnerable individual at a time. Its nefarious intentions reveal a subtext steeped in Cold War paranoia—a foreign power donning the guise of a friend. Patriotic 1982 anxieties now expand to intergalactic proportions, Dear Reader! And while “The Thing” can be read to embody America’s deepest fears of communism – violently forced “equality,” absolute homogeneity – Kurt Russell, his character radiating the spirit of rugged individualism at an almost sexual level, stands as the ultimate embodiment of blue-blooded Americans. Behold! He resembles Wild Bill Hickok more than the Arctic scientist he purports to be, a testament accentuated by the enduring presence of his trusty cowboy hat, scruffy facial hair, and gunslinger-like acumen with a flamethrower.
Yes, the dread of the Cold War beats a hellish tattoo throughout this evil tale, culminating in a horrifying and exciting showdown of Mutually Assured Destruction. Close viewers may appreciate subtle foreshadowing at the film’s outset, as Russell, confronted by his imminent loss to a computer at a game of chess, retaliates with a defiant gesture: dousing the motherboard with a cascade of delicious looking Scotch. We later see the Thing, meticulously calculating its moves, methodically dismantling the base piece by piece, while Russell, embracing the spirit of incendiary stalemate, seeks to engulf the entire compound in a blazing conflagration. Attention all abysmal pinkos: Witness the triumph of (quite sexy) unyielding resolve!
The naysayers will come, Dear Reader. They may swarm like rats, in fact, while you seek refuge in Carpenter’s masterpiece, dismissing the aforementioned allegorical essence of this beautiful and sinister film. Disregard them, Dear Reader, for they shall dissipate like ephemeral apparitions if you refuse to grant them your attention. I stand resolute in my conviction that this timeless work harbors layers of significance. To its original audience, “The Thing” embodied the specter of communism. In due course, it metamorphosized into a reflection of the AIDS crisis, and now, a metaphorical terrorist cell. “Snake Plissken Fights a Monster, The End” would have sufficed for the lesser minds, but oh, there is a profusion of meaning to unravel here, is there not? An unraveling that could very well unravel one’s mind along with it!
Detractors may also seek your attention through the pathetic practice of critiquing Kurt Russell’s performance, lamenting his, as one with a lesser mind might say, over-the-top “ham-fisted” approach to the role. Yes, I concede that his Kurt Russelly demeanor persists throughout the narrative. But I ask, who would you have preferred in his stead? Shall we wish instead for our arctic cowboy to be the venerable Clint Eastwood, that sage dispenser of stoic scowls, gazing intently at the Thing for a span of ninety minutes? Nay, we are blessed with the presence of a man who has masterfully carved a career from frenzied outbursts and unbridled cowboy-hat-wearing-lunacy.
Marvel, dear reader, at the grotesque spectacle of the special effects that adorn this cinematic marvel, a testament to the prowess of horror and science-fiction makeup. Other movie reviews from other Keepers locked in crypts of their own shall undoubtedly lavish more attention upon this aspect, and rightly so. I shall only touch upon them so that you can understand the magnitude of carnage that this film offers. Do recall, for example, that delicious scene with the arms (you know which arms, I’m afraid), featuring an individual quite abruptly bereft of such appendages. The sheer shock it evokes is perhaps only paralleled by “birth” of the original Alien in “Alien.” However, in “The Thing,” the practical effects slaughterhouse is unrelenting: Limbs are severed, lifeless flesh is reanimated, and unsuspecting victims are drenched in the vile tendrils of parasitic Thing goo. Horrific revelations abound!
I cannot attach a stronger recommendation. In the Crypt, I remain… watching…
Dear Reader, I feel blinded by my own rage. I find myself, straining as if against the full force of the arch-fiend and a legion of his most terrible ghouls, straining to an extraordinary degree to fathom a motion picture more entrenched in the realm of predictability, more predestined to be perceived as a pathetic cash-grab prequel. Dare I invoke the lamentable specter of “X-Men Origins: Wolverine”? Or, heaven forbid, “The Scorpion King”? Alas, “The Thing” (2011), in its pitiable attempt to instill dread through unexpected assaults from the entirely computer-generated Thing, wallows in a mire of abject failure. It was only through the most passionate restraint that your humble Keeper did not pierce both of his eyes with red hot pokers!
Gone, oh how painfully gone! is the disquietude and the provocative political allegory that adorned Carpenter’s original masterpiece. Absolutely gone without a blasted trace! In their stead, we are subjected to a barrage of hollow jump-scares and an unyielding void of substance. The so-called scientists inhabiting their Arctic fortress are swiftly confronted by the Thing’s shapeshifting ploys, plunging headlong into the same maddening and deadly chess game that their predecessors from the far superior 1982 film once played. One must tell friend from alien foe to survive: Futile attempt follows futile attempt with the doomed scientists each succumbing to various deluges of CGI-induced torment.
And what of pacing for our chilly arctic thriller?! Here, in the festering anus of 2011 cinema, the frenzied pace obliterates any semblance of genuine suspense or building tension. The supposed “scares” amount to naught but a relentless onslaught of computer-generated nonsense absolutely bereft of the insidious art of psychological and cellular infiltration. And lo, at intervals of approximately twenty minutes – a cruel stretch of time between each sequence of excruciatingly insipid dialogue and mind-numbing exposition! – we are graced with a mandatory jump-scare! A jump-scare drenched in Nintendo-like visual effects, Dear Reader!
I spoke before of my own contemplation of blinding by iron, but during this wretched viewing, I was blinded by celluloid rage! My eyes, blurred by a potent mixture of fury and disillusionment, strained to find solace in the CGI-infested monstrosities. There is a complete absence of Carpenter’s enchanting touch! Do we not reminisce, with a heavy heart, the animatronic marvels that once graced our screens? The decapitated spider-heads and the contorted caterpillar-torsos, dancing on screen like enchanting sugar-plum fairies before being engulfed in the flames of Kurt Russell’s captivating prowess and sizable flamethrower? There is nothing to see, Dear Reader. Only darkness to strain into until death. All who dare to explore the abyss of “The Thing” 2011: Brace yourself for an inexorable descent into this visual desolation.
Yes Dear Reader, the special effects on display invoke the woeful standards set by the “Anaconda” franchise, but what of this story? Alas, the screenplay, laden with the banality of a pedestrian soap opera, fails to evoke even a modicum of artistic merit. Indeed, I dare say, I have endured greater suspense while partaking in the mundane affairs of “General Hospital,” a favorite of my dear mother’s, which I often watched intently by her side. How maddening it is to behold even the trailer for this film, wherein three characters succumb to the insidious clutches of the Thing, thus rendering any semblance of surprise within the film itself utterly nonexistent. In all fairness, I must concede that the scribe of this dreadful mistake of a film did also pen the screenplay for the fantastic film “Arrival,” and because of this, I extend to him my respect and admiration despite this unfortunate 2011 lapse.
As one who deeply loves Carpenter’s film, I cannot help but ponder the hypothetical scenario wherein those involved in the production of this film exhibited even a microscopic regard for the source material from which it was derived. Alas, I can only envision a director, perhaps a disciple of Michael Bay, striding onto the set on the fateful days of filming, with a dismissive remark of the likes of, “So, this creature, is it akin to a monstrous blob of sorts? Well, this will be cake, old chaps! Let’s be quick, now!” before rolling the cameras and commencing desecration. Such a despicable image haunts my tortured mind. It is a ghastly reminder that the film, despite its R rating, adheres to the soulless structure of a cookie-cutter PG-13 profit-generating apparatus, surpassing even the Playstation 2 “The Thing” video game – a favorite of my dear mother’s, which I often played intensely by her side – in its absence of cogitation and labor.
I cannot say I recommend this film to any sane man who hopes to retain the will to draw breath.
BLOODCRYPT 