J.J. Abrams latest film Super 8 is not E.T., to which it doubtless will be compared. Nor is it Close Encounters of the Third Kind, another film in the Steven Spielberg oeuvre to which it also owes a great debt. Heck, it isn’t even The Goonies. It is not any of these films.
Instead, it’s a stark reminder that having all the tricks in the bag doesn’t necessarily mean you can make magic. Being a fan of Abrams and his previous efforts, I went into Super 8 optimistic and enthusiastic that I was in for a great movie.
What I got instead was a shrill effort that accomplishes almost nothing except to demonstrate a filmmaker obviously at the top of his game technically, but seemingly lacking a grasp on what true human interaction, characters and to the greatest extent, story, are supposed to look like. I had a hard time caring about anyone in this movie, especially most of the kids. They all seem to exhist in the film mostly to fill a quota for a particular type of character.
You have the quiet kid who suffered a recent loss, the fat kid who tries to make up for it by being loud and bossy, the awkward kid who’s extremely nervous, the kid with braces who likes to blow stuff up because, as evidenced by the fact that you never see his parents, he’s obviously acting out. You also have the lonely, beautiful girl with the angry, drunk father.







