Art: Stay calm and carry on?

Over at I Love Horror, Mr. McHargue has post a handful of illustrations from a 1910 issue of The Strand depicting a giant insect attack on London. Half steampunk, half '50s Atomic Era horror, all awesome - the full gallery is a treat.

Contest: Leave nothing but smoking rubble in your wake!

Last day to get in on the action! I'm giving away one brand new copy of Killer Kaiju Monsters, a richly illustrated homage to all things big, Asian, and stompy by Ivan Vartanian. To enter the contest, just click through to the original contest post and leave a comment telling me what city you would stomp if you were a giant monster and why. There's plenty of unstomped real estate left. A winner will be selected at random tomorrow.

Kaiju-Fink art by McNail.

Contest: Because other blog fandoms are Tokyo and you, dear ANTSS readers, are Godzilla.

It's been too long since I've thrown a contest here, and it's about time I thank all y'all for following along with my ramblings. So here goes . . .

Hot off the presses, from the kind folks at Collins Design, comes Killer Kaiju Monsters: Strange Beasts of Japanese Film. Part light-hearted reference book, part art book, all city-stomping hotness, this handsome hardcover, curated by Ivan Vartanian, contains production stills, photos of kaiju collectables, poster repros, papercraft build-your-own kaiju, and original kaiju themed-art from artist (including the wonderful kaiju cross-section art Shoji Ohtomo). It's a pop kaiju smorgasbord!

And ANTSS is giving away one copy a deserving reader. Retail value: about 28 Washingtons. Number of dead presidents it's going to cost the winner: zero. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Free-city, daddy-o.

Could you be the lucky winner? Sure. Why the hell not? You're as awesome as anybody! It's your time, dammit! Hell yeah!

What do you have to do to win? Easy. Just leave a comment connected to this post saying what city you would stomp if you were a giant monster and why. Tired of Montreal's smug politeness? Think you might be doing Detroit a favor by utterly destroying it? Think an attack on Bakersfield is called for just because nobody would see it coming? You're the giant monster; you make the call. Just tell me what city and why, and you're in the running. One winner will be selected randomly on June 4th. Only one stomp per player.

Because I'm a cheap bastard, I've got to limit this to players in the United States. Not that I don't want to hear what towns my foreign readers would lay waste to, but shipping costs prohibit me from rewarding you for your destructive impulses. Imaginary chaos and devastation will simply have to be their own reward in this case.

Let the stomping begin!

Books: Gorgantis is ready for his close up, Mr. Whale.

Shambling Towards Hiroshima, Jim Morrow's new novella, opens on Sym Thorley, once great horror film star turned has-been horror con signature factory, contemplating suicide. After slogging through his umpteenth presentation about his golden age in the post-Univeral monster era and his last significant as the giant monster Gorgantis, Thorley is seriously considering tossing himself out his hotel window. Before he goes, however, he begins to write down a memoir of his role in Operation Knickerbocker, a super secret World War II Era project to defeat Japan with a small heard of mountain-sized fire breathing mutant iguanas and his complicity in the dawn of the Atomic Age.

As the war in the Pacific drew to a close, American military leadership began to ponder the blood and treasure cost of invading the home islands of the Japanese empire. The Army had one solution: the A-bomb. The Navy had another: unleash giant, pissed-off, fire-breathing iguanas to stomp Japan into submission. However, the deployment of either of these devices would mean ushering humanity into a new and terrible era. Either we kick off a race to obtain ever larger stockpiles of ever more powerful nuclear weapons or we relinquish our status the dominant species on the planet. Far better, the American high command decides, to simply frighten Japan with a harmless demonstration of the destructive capacity of these weapons, secure their surrender, and never actually let either of the genies out of their bottles.

Problem is that we only had two bombs and the lizards, while ready to go, had only two settings: sedated into a near coma state or uncontrollably savage and destructive. Military researchers hit one the idea of breeding a few man-sized versions of the great beasties and letting them cut loose on a giant scale model of a Japanese city. Unfortunately, shrinking these monsters down had the unintentional consequence of making them gentle as kittens.

So now the Navy had a tiny model city, an approaching curtain time, and no scary monster. What to do?

Call Hollywood, of course.

Pulling in director James Whale (yep, that James Whale), also ran monster actor Thorley, and a handful of real life monster movie magic makers that fans of early horror flicks will recognize, the Navy decides that it will simulate the simulated attack, having a man in a convincing rubber suit trash their model city. The prep for this unique performance, all clashing Dream Factory egos and occasionally Kafka-esque military security details, makes up the bulk of the this slim novel. As an added treat, fans get to follow Marrow's name checking. (Sure, James Whale is a bit obvious, but Morrow also manages to work in nearly forgotten era figures, like William "One Shot" Beaudine.)

Part Hollywood satire, part love letter to 1950s horror flicks, part meditation on the suicidal stupidity of Cold War nuclear brinksmanship, what's most surprising about Shambling Towards Hiroshima is how light and nimble the slim book is. Dexterously gliding over some of the greatest horrors of the 20th Century and the nightmares they inspired, the ultimate theme of Shambling might be how the horror genre's job – if one allows mass cult art a social function – is to trivialize the nightmarish aspects of the real world, turning them into easily consumed treats. Fully aware of this weird trick, Shambling take the madness of the nuclear era and turns it into humorously goofy shaggy dog story.

Movies: Godzilla fades again?

Godzilla Raids Again, the 1955 follow up to the seminal kaiju flick Godzilla, almost managed to do what legions of outsized monsters, alien invaders, and several generations of Japanese Self Defense Force personnel have never managed: Kill off Godzilla. Made the year after Godzilla, Raids was a commercial success; but critical and popular disappointment with the flick sent the big lizard back to Toho storage rooms for a powder. The internationally recognized super-dinosaur would not surface again until 1962, the longest break between films in the same series for the entire 1955 to 2004 run of the franchise. In some ways, this is understandable. With less stunning special effects and a plot that sways unevenly between "strange beast" horror and domestic/workplace drama, Raids is an unwieldy flick that clumsily handles the tone and mood changes demanded by its clunky script. That said, it is a little odd that the film was so poorly received insomuch as Raids more resembles the flicks that would come, the nearly half century of films that would make Godzilla one of the most recognizable cinematic characters in the world, than it does the first film in the series. First and foremost, it starts the crucial shift of focus from the embattled citizens of Japan to the series's titular monster. Second, it establishes the "monster-fight" trope that would become so important to the series that most future film titles would simply be match-up announcements. Finally, it starts moving – though only slightly – towards the idea that Godzilla, in his own insanely destructive and fiercely amoral way, is Japan's protector.

Raids opens when a fishing company spotter-plane pilot, Kobayashi, is forced into an emergency landing on a remote volcanic island. Another pilot, coworker and BFF Tsukioka, comes to his rescue. However, before they can leave the island, they are nearly crushed by Godzilla and a new monster, the dino-armadillo Anguirus. The pilots manage to escape and return to Osaka, where they warn the police about the existence of the two giant monsters. Military and police officials call on Dr. Yamane (played by screen legend and Kurosawa regular Takashi Shimura), survivor of the first film, as a Godzilla expert. Yamane explains that the first Godzilla died, so this is a second monster. He then shows footage of Godzilla's attack on Tokyo (an extended bit of the first flick) and explains that Godzilla can't be defeated, only directed to where he'll do the least harm. As Godzilla seems attracted to light, the doctor recommends that any city Godzilla approaches order a full blackout. Then jet fighters can use flares to draw the mega-lizard back out to sea. Or, perhaps, to some less important town or village. Whatever, so long as it isn't Tokyo again.

Deciding that they can't do anything about Godzilla except stall the inevitable, pilot Tsukioka and girlfriend – Yasuko, the daughter of the fishing company's owner – head out for a night on the town. Unfortunately, their delightful evening at a downtown Osaka dance club is cut short when Godzilla is spotted just off-shore. Operation Not In the Face goes into effect. For a moment, the plan appears to work. Dazzled by the flares, Godzilla turns from Osaka and starts to swim away. But, at that very moment, a prison break occurs which, through a series errors and blunders, ends up creating a massive fire at a gas refinery. This is, of course, all kinds of luminous and Godzilla heads straight for the city. He's joined shortly thereafter by Angurius. Together they pretty much wreck the whole town duking it out.

Godzilla, being Godzilla, ultimately bests Angurius, biting his throat and then melting him with his nuclear breath. Thus Japan is saved from the threat of Angurius, and all it cost was the loss of a major city and life lived under the constant threat of Godzilla attack. If the first flick was an often overt jeremiad of life under the A-bomb, Raids suggests that, one year later, Japan was no more comfortable with their status in the Nuclear Era, but considerably more willing to sacrifice Godzilla as metaphor to Godzilla as entertainer – a decision that would, over time, morph the villain in the child-loving, monster-smashing hero he became in many of the later films.

This shift had a visual component and the presence of footage from the first flick in Raids provides ample illustration of the new approach. The first Godzilla's attack on Tokyo is a shadow-shrouded nightmare, lit only by the flickering flames of the doomed, burning city and the occasional white flash of artiliary. Godzilla is rarely shown in full view and, when he is seen, he's a dark and sometimes almost featureless thing. One of the few near-complete shots of him is an elaborate long shot in which he shares the screen with a foreground of fleeing people, a midfield of fiery wreckage, and him, in the far background, slowly stomping, almost drifting, through the shot. Even today, in the era of CGI, Godzilla's attack on Tokyo from the original film is effective and evocative. In contrast, Godzilla's Osaka rampage is shot like he's the film's star. It starts with a series of close ups, Godzilla remains well lit, the better to show him off to the viewer. His battle with Angurius is filmed with an emphasis on clarity of action (none of the disorienting and frightening confusion of the first flick). Godzilla is no longer some irresistible natural force; instead, he's just the biggest and baddest guy on screen.

As Osaka digs out of the rubble and Tsukioka makes a go of it with his girl, Kobayashi is temporarily moved up north to the fishing concern's Hokkaido branch. Tsukioka and Yasuko come to visit. This leads to a scene in which the girlish and romantic Yasuko witnesses the suits and pilots unwinding at a party hall/geisha house. Yasuko's confusion and discomfort over the rough all-male culture she discovers is finely rendered and genuinely touching. It is a delicately human moment that wouldn't have been out of place in a minor Naruse work. But this scene and the party are quickly shut down when word reaches the group that Godzilla has destroyed on of the company's fishing boats.

This leads to a final confrontation between Self Defense Forces and the King of Monsters on a snow-covered island. Who will live? Who will die? I know because I saw the movie. If you'd been there, you'd know too. Where were you?

Godzilla Raids Again suffers somewhat unfairly because it isn't the sci-fi masterwork its predecessor was, but it hadn't yet become the kaiju-craziness delivery vehicle that its descendants would be. An evolutionary half step, it hangs together kinda precariously and occasionally feels underdeveloped. Still, what does make it on the screen is often entertaining and involving, even for viewers who aren't committed fans of the franchise. In fact, the flick's commitment to character development and its determination to give as big a role to the film's human characters as possible (two traits it shares with the original), it may play better with folks that don't count themselves Godzilla fans than with those who do.

Stuff: I wonder what makes Godzilla tick. I wonder if he'd be interested in knowing what makes me tick.

Flickr poster "Modern Fred" has a spiffy gallery of kaiju related art up, including a set of cut-away anatomical pics showing just how these massive monsters keep on the go.

The set also includes several made of 100% pure awesome vintage giant-monster movie posters from Japan.

Now all we need is one of those butcher's charts that shows you where each cut can be found. Just where are the flank steaks on Godzilla? Gorgo's brisket? The demanding gourmand needs to know!

Son of Silent Scream Series: Pre-Kong.

There are better silent horror and fantasy films out there, but perhaps no flick in the whole Silent Scream series is as reliably fun as Harry O. Hoyt's 1925 classic The Lost World. Often billed as the first feature film to utilize stop-motion animation, The Lost World is the primal "giant beast" movie. Often there's a desire on the part of silent film fans to claim direct influence wherever a pattern of prior art can be established. If, for example, there's a movie featuring a vampish test-tube grown woman (Alrune: Unholy Love, 1928), then silent film fans eager to prove the relevance of their interests then silent film fans will promote it as the "obvious" source of any artificial femme – from she-Terminators to Cherry 2000. I think, however, influence of The Lost World can be theorized without recourse to leaps of faith. Films like King Kong (both the original and the remake) and the first two pics from the Jurassic Park franchise overtly lift or allude to scenes from the 1925 film. The Lost World's technological creativity, strong story, and enduring ability to please viewers by appealing to a child-like sense of wonder all make the flick a creative well-spring which modern filmmaker continue to tap.

The Lost World is based on Arthur Conan Doyle's novel of the same name. Doyle's popular work has been adapted for the screen and television so often that it has become nearly archetypal and it is hard to imagine that anybody reading this needs a summary. Still, in keeping with well-established Interbloggy traditions, we at ANTSS shall provide one. The film opens with the public disgrace of one Professor Challenger of London (played by Wallace Berry: vet of more than 200 silent and talkie flicks, include his Oscar winning turn in heartbreaking The Champ). Challenger claims to have discovered a geographically isolated plateau that still supports prehistoric life. The idea is, of course, absurd. The Royal Society has mucho LOLs at Challenger's expense and the embittered scientist mounts an expedition to the plateau. Joining him is a cast of reporters, hunters, generic guides, and a few damsels-to-be-distressed. Challenger's reports not only prove true, but he manages to capture a brontosaurus and bring it back to London. As these beasts always do, the irate dino breaks free and rampages through the town.

Discussion of the effects – a wealth of excellent stop-motion animations – often dominates talk of the look of the film, but there's a lot here to like. Though the director, Hoyt, would remain an otherwise unremarkable journeyman sort, he manages a large cast and some truly excellent sets with real skill. He has an especially fine grasp of deep compositions, whether he's combining plate shots with live actors in the foreground or simply filming his leads in a quiet Victorian study. The George Eastman House restoration is remarkably clean, with excellent tint-coloring works beautifully with the story.

Admittedly, The Lost World is lighter fare than much of material in the Silent Scream Series. You won't find the rotting hothouse sensuality, the paranoid madness, or the grim atmosphere of more "artistic" horror flicks here. But if The Lost World's aims are simpler, they are no less noble. There's an innocence to the flick that isn't a product of technological primitiveness or ideological simple-mindedness. There's a magical joy – and it is the essential pleasure of all fantastic cinema – in making the impossible possible, of providing visual evidence for what could only exist in dreams.

Perhaps this is why, despite its lack of gravitas and its lack of high art stylishness (this may be one of the few films we'll be profiling here that owes nothing whatsoever to German Expressionism), The Lost World continues to inspire filmmakers. Long after the angular sets of Caligari have gone the way of the kinetoscope and Nosferatu has become a of source of in-references for horror buffs, there's something irresistible about the image of a dinosaur stomping through the streets of London: an impossible monster rendered in all its awkward and life-like glory can't help but bring a smile to your face.

I recommend The Lost World to anybody who still has the feeling that there's something inexpressibly great about the medium of film.

SCREAMIN' FUN FACT: The Lost World was the first in-flight movie ever. In April of 1925, passengers on Imperial Airways' London to Paris flight were screened the flick for their in-flight entertainment.

Stuff: Giant monster art rampage!

During the 1960s, Marvel and Atlas Comics ran several series of monster anthology rags featuring oversized monsters that stomped their way around various, usually anonymous, cities. The slim plots of these tales were about a formulaic as they could come. The monster would rise out of the depths or fall from space. The citizen panicked, defenses forces proved useless, doom seemed certain. Then, always, some lone guy figure out the beast's Achilles heel and the day was saved! We were safe . . . but for how long? Dum dum dum. For a full run down on these beasts, check out the nifty Monster Blog (see sidebar), an entire blog dedicated to these big baddies.

In tribute to this cheesy but fun era of outsized monstrosities, several artists have gathered together to create tributes to the Atlas/Marvel giant monsters. Tremble before the horror of Orogo! Thrill at the awesome might of Gomdulla! Ponder the boundless oddities that are The Things from Nowhere!

Comics: City stompin' mega-monster action; cheap as free.

Boom Studios, an indie comics publishing house, recently made comic biz buzz by offering one of its new series in simultaneous print and free online formats. Though retailers groaned, Boom claimed the strategy was a success and that the print edition sold out. (It is actually nearly impossible to judge the accuracy of their claim due to some quirks in the comic biz publishing model – still, it was news.)

"You will let me know when I should start caring, right?" you may well ask.

Tough crowd.

Fair enough. Here's why you, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Q. Horror Fan, care. Boom has picked up the reprint rights for Steve "30 Days of Night" Niles's 2005 mini-series Giant Monster. Several years ago, Niles – then the one-man vanguard for horror comics – was tearing through the dusty horror subgenres, trying to revive them with a crazed mix of off-kilter approaches and over the top ultra-violence. His take on the BFM subgenre was fun, but it didn't capture the imagination the way his vampire epic did and ended up gathering dust while other his other works were republished in nice collected editions.

Boom has taken upon themselves to correct this oversight. And they're doing it up nice. For Boom's new collected Giant Monster, the publisher is revisiting their double-barreled online/print approach. This time, though, the online edition is being released in a serialized form. Comic Book Resources started things off by posting the first 22 pages of the comic. Every day, CBR will post the next page. Eventually, all 90-some pages will be available, completely free.

Here's the first pages.

If you get impatient, the hardcopy book is available at your local comic shop.

Movies: Crimson and Cloverfield, over and overfield . . .

There are two schools of Cloverfield reviewing. The New York School, spearheaded by print journalists across the political spectrum, and the Majority School, which pretty much covers reviewers everywhere else.

If this was a New York School review, I would be required to suggest that the film is "the horror of 9/11 to be repackaged and presented to us as an amusement-park ride" (from Salon, which boasts a NYC office). I might give the flick's makers the benefit of the doubt and claim that the film "inadvertently disses New York for what happened on Sept. 11, 2001, by re-enacting scenes of buildings exploding and massive clouds of debris for fun and profit" (this from NYC based FOX News). I could always take the high road, dismissing the film on the premise the filmmakers are simply boorish and tasteless rather than manipulative or slick: "Like Cloverfield itself, this new monster is nothing more than a blunt instrument designed to smash and grab without Freudian complexity or political critique, despite the tacky allusions to Sept. 11. The screams and the images of smoke billowing through the canyons of Lower Manhattan may make you think of the attack, and you may curse the filmmakers for their vulgarity, insensitivity or lack of imagination. (The director, Matt Reeves, lives in Los Angeles, as does the writer, Drew Goddard, and the movie’s star producer, J. J. Abrams.) But the film is too dumb to offend anything except your intelligence, and the monster does cut a satisfying swath through the cast, so your only complaint may be, What took it so long?" I should point out that the Times Manohla Dargis isn't the only one to underscore the Left Coast origins of the film, FOX drops that tidbit in too: "Cloverfield was truly made by California movie people. No one in New York would ever be this insensitive." In case you missed the point, I would bring up 9/11 again and again and again:

From the Times:
"Rob and his ragtag crew behave like people who have never watched a monster movie or the genre-savvy “Scream” flicks or even an episode of “Lost” (Hello, Mr. Abrams!), much less experienced the real horrors of Sept. 11."

The Daily News:
"Manhattan has always been a fat target for apocalypse filmmakers, but with its 9/11-inspired imagery, Matt Reeves' breathlessly fast-paced "Cloverfield" is going to resonate with New York audiences in a way no other horror film has . . . But it's fun in its morbidly campy way."

The Sun:
"If you were in the city on September 11, 2001, you'll feel something dark slither through your gut."

The last paper takes the carpetbagger imagery the furthest: "Like some tourist from the Midwest, once the creature stumbles into Manhattan and visits Central Park and the Empire State Building, there's nothing left for it to do but knock around aimlessly, getting in trouble and making a mess on the sidewalks."

Outside of Gotham, the press has been kinder and the blogosphere has been downright giddy. If this were a Majority School review I might dismiss the overt 9/11 imagery, as Illinois State Journal Register does: "Unlike 'The Blair Witch Project,' there’s not a hope for confusion with actual events, although the 9/11-esque dusting of New York is . . . a cheap tonal misstep . . . [but] minor aftershocks can’t crumble this mammoth, rock-’em-sock-’em movie, though. It’s unapologetically B, what with its magnificent monster, melodramatic smooches, overly scripted comic relief and unsympathetic pecking order. Yet it also is a thrilling, exhausting tale of an incomprehensibly horrible beast lovingly crafted in H.P. Lovecraft’s remorseless style." Or I might make a claim for the value of including such imagery, as the online reviewer for the UK film rag Empire does when they write, "Is this attack so terrifying because it has obvious shades of 9/11 or because the handheld camerawork leaves us disoriented, glimpsing the enormous creature only when Hud’s view quivers that way? It’s both. We live in a time when global violence is recorded not by professionals, but by shaky-handed bystanders with camera phones. We believe bad camerawork and suspect professional broadcast of hiding something from us. Stripped of the comfort of rhythmic editing and frenzied strings that tell us it’s time to be scared and instead served the sort of frantic footage we associate with unfathomable terror brings a new, more primal fear to the monster movie. It starts, bizarrely, to feel like something that could happen." I might even go so far as to claim that this isn't just a case of appropriation – the film is about 9/11. From the horror news site Bloody Disgusting: "Of course, all good monster movies aren't really about the monster at all. When Godzilla came out, it was Japan's allegory for Hiroshima. Cloverfield is obviously ours to 9/11 and, in all honesty, it does a better job of conveying those feelings and emotions we have about that infamous day than any of the straight forward films that tackle the subject."

I bring this up because I reckon you've got to put your cards on the table before giving your opinion on the film which will also inevitably drag you into the whole 9/11 imagery debate.

I'm a New Yorker. I was in Manhattan on that day. I walked across the Manhattan Bridge.

Now, here's my take: Cloverfield is a great giant monster flick, perhaps one of the best ever made. But it is neither the cheap and exploitative exercise in 9/11 button pushing it has been accused of being nor is it the great allegory for 9/11 some defenders have suggested.

Let's start by talking about what it is. If you have somehow managed to avoid all forms of media for the past year and a half, this recap is for you. A group of bobo hipster-yuppies in what appears to be the Lower East Side throw a going away part for one of their amigos. Unfortunately, they just couldn't not invite the 30-story tall sea monster that lives off the coast of Coney Island – I mean, what would the monster think? So the monster shows and turns the movie in one big damn chase scene. A chase scene so big, it takes our viewers through other movies: The Host, Aliens, The Blair Witch Project, 28 Days Later, and more. We watch the military battle the creature to seemingly little effect. Throughout the flick, we get flashbacks – provided by glitches in the camera (apparently not digital as there are a couple references to tape) – to happier pre-Big Freakin' Monster times.

At a slim 70-odd minutes if you don't count the time it takes the credits to roll, the movie is a ruthless plot machine. The characterizations are so minimal that they barely qualify as types, let alone archetypes. There's the lover, his girl, the irresponsible younger brother, the dumb one, the bossy girl, and the girl with black hair. The motivations of the lover, who will drag the rest of the crew all through the monster-besieged burg, will suffice for all of them.

The dialog is minimal as the plot requires no real exposition. The characters repeatedly ask about the monster and nobody seems to know anything and, in truth, it really doesn't matter. It’s a big angry monster – what else do you need to know? In a way, the refusal to disclose even the most minor details about the beast is a brilliant move. Giant monsters don't make a lick of sense. The more you think about them, the less it is possible to look past the glaring illogic of such an animal. Do you have any idea how much energy is would take to move an arm the size of a subway train? There's a reason that there's an upper limit to the size of land-bound animals and limit is regulated by the laws of physics rather than the rules of narrative. But, by never getting into the details of what is happening, the filmmakers never have to worry about getting trapped while trying to talk their way out of the impossibility of the story. The PG-13 dialogue, however, is a source of unintentional comedy. Certainly somebody should have said, "Did somebody just fucking throw the fucking head of the Statue of Liberty at us?" Instead we get a lot of screams and strangely censored oaths: "The head of Lady Liberty, well odd's my bodkin!"

The film's about the action and the action is relentless. A few of the set pieces will push even the most generously suspended disbelief, but the pace of the flick is such that you don't get a lot of time to reflect on the absurdity of what you're watching. The monster looks good, though the spider-like creatures it seems to exude (themselves essentially meaner, toothier versions of the face-huggers – in the effort to leave no film unplundered, we get hints of chest-bursting action) are fairly uninspired. As a thrill machine, Cloverfield's success is complete. I recommend seeing it on the large screen as the visual effects, which are brilliantly integrated into the picture, will be completely overwhelmed when the picture is shrunk down.

So, what about all this 9/11 stuff?

Well, I think NYC critics have, by and large, overacted. They are correct in pointing out that this film's actual engagement with the trauma of 9/11 is minimal. As an allegory for the age of terrorism, this flick fails utterly. Godzilla wasn't an allegory for nuclear war because the details of the a-bomb were worked into his origin story. It's an allegory for nuclear war because the human characters in Godzilla face a very atomic age dilemma: do you deal with the unintended consequences of a weapon by trotting out an even bigger stronger weapon and, if you do, how long will it be before that decision comes to haunt you? That's the thrust of the flick. The point is the human characters wrestling with making that call. What's the allegory in Cloverfield? By making the threat a monster with no backstory or reason to attack, you basically lock the human protagonists into a military response. They don't understand anything about the monster, but what is there to understand. Would we find something in its background that made us say, "Oh, well then, all this devastation is perfectly reasonable. We're sorry we dropped those bombs on you. It all just looked so bad from down here, you know?" The military response fails again and again, but what other option is there? This isn't a fitting metaphor for America's current military failures as the humans don't have any other options in the flick. Negotiate? Send more foreign aid to monsterized nations in the hopes of eliminating the conditions that encourage monsterized terror? Critics have sited Lovecraft as an influence and I think they're spot on there – but then they pull back from the obvious conclusion. In Lovecraft's works, people are simply screwed. There's bigger things than them out there and it didn't matter what they did or what they do to try to escape your fate; they're screwed. Much the same is true of the humans in Cloverfield. There's a sort of bracing nihilism at work here, but the whole thing's bust as a political allegory. (Besides, if it was really about 9/11, the characters would have run into a gaggle of nutcases who knew the "truth" about the monster: that it was sent by the US government to justify the on-going occupation of monsterized oil-rich nations.)

Cloverfield isn't so much about 9/11 as it proximate to the televised images of 9/11. That's about as deep as it goes. The issue becomes whether or not it is going to be eternally verboten for popular filmmakers to reference what is part of our shared visual culture. By virtue of being alive, we have all seen buildings collapse. We know what they look like. How could any filmmaker make a disaster pic, monster movie, or large scale war movie and not end up in some way accessing that shared visual imagery? I don't think it is reasonable to suggest they should. This movie comes out "too soon" for many New Yorkers. But when will it no longer be "too soon"? What's the magic number of years that must pass? There's no logic to the stance. Artists, both good and bad, need access to our shared visual culture. That said, there's nothing wrong with somebody pointing out that wrapping you movie in visual allusions to infamous events doesn't automatically give you film depth and gravity, but that's not the same as suggesting that there was some cynical manipulation going on or that the filmmakers were ignorant (but allegations seem to exist in the NYC critics' reviews).