Towards the end of the 1990s it seemed like there was a mad rush to produce as many derivative sci-fi action flicks as possible before the impending millennium made all of our futuristic dreams a reality and therefore no longer marketable. Andrew Niccol, the director of the absolutely appalling "In Time" seems to have spent a full week cramming in every single one of these under-budget, cliché-ridden celluloid missives in lieu of using anything resembling an actual script for his own forgettable entry into the time-honored cannon of shit.
I guess we shouldn't be surprised when the man at the helm of such classics of the near-future genre as "Gattaca" and "S1m0ne" (the first movie this iteration of the Cranky One ever professionally reviewed, by the way) serves up another half-baked helping of the worst kind of scientific clap-trap. Imagine a world where, instead of money, everyone gets paid in "time." Oh, and the Earth's citizens are all genetically programmed to die at the age of 25 if they don't get their "time fix." And everyone just agreed to this, so it makes total sense.
Forget the disturbing scenes between star Justin Timberlake and his mother (played with inappropriate levels of hotness by Olivia Wilde). Divert your attention from the fact that everyone in the future drives a 60's muscle car whose electric engines feature roaring V8 soundtracks. And ignore the concept that somehow the world economy is somehow able to avoid teetering on the edge of insolvency as billions of people get through the day with just a few hours of lifespan left written on the convenient, Casio-inspired digital clocks flashing across their forearms.
Forget all of that because "In Time" nothing more than a heavy-handed morality tale that bludgeons us over the head with the by-now tired refrain that RICH PEOPLE exploit POOR PEOPLE and that the MEGA RICH NEED TO BE EATEN before they escape to Mars in their opulent space-yachts. "In Time" is the kind of movie the 99 percent would have made if they weren't busy moving through the fourth year of a 10-year anthropology independent study program at their local liberal arts college. Or camping out on Wall Street. Or whatever it is that poor people do, Mr. Cranky doesn't know. What Mr. Cranky DOES know is that no one is interested in transparent sci-fi allegories that don't involve Charlton Heston shaking his fist at some damn dirty ape.
If I had only a few hours to live, would I waste it by watching Amanda Seyfried in a miniskirt while she robs "time banks" and acts sullen? No, I would almost certainly slip in my DVD of "Chloe" and watch her own personal cookie cradle get robbed au naturel instead. But your mileage may vary.
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