Review: Star Trek (2009)

THIS REVIEW CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR STAR TREK (2009). DO NOT READ THIS REVIEW UNTIL YOU SEE THE FILM (unless of course you have no interest in seeing it).

Review continues after photo to create spoiler space...


Kevin Kelly, Earl J. Woods and Jeff Pitts, Halloween 1987









Every lasting mythology needs reinvention. That includes popular culture. The stories of Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes, Dracula, Superman and others have been reimagined by dozens of different writers, artists and actors across the decades. And yet, whether played by Johnny Weissmuller or Rony Ely, whether written by Edgar Rice Burroughs or Philip Jose Farmer, Tarzan remains instantly recognizable as Tarzan. Any child or senior citizen can identify any photo or drawing of Superman, no matter the artist or actor.

For a long time, Star Trek was a curious exception to this phenomenon; Shatner's Kirk, Nimoy's Spock, Kelley's McCoy and all the others seemed to lock actor and character together, seemingly forever. The story of Kirk's Enterprise had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and instead of reinvention, sequel series, some of them very good, others mediocre to awful, were created. Of all the figures in the Star Trek stories created by Gene Roddenberry and his inheritors, it has always been the original crew who had the best chance of making the leap from short-lived pop culture phenomenon to enduring mythology. A mission of exploration, a heroic leader, a shamanic outsider, an emotional, everyman healer, their stalward companions, each a recognizable ethnic and character type - these are the perfect elements for the kinds of myths that could be told and retold for hundreds of years.

Until now, however, Star Trek's endurance was by no means a sure thing. I believe, for all its flaws and all its merits, JJ Abrams' new Star Trek film is the key to giving these characters the same longevity as other, earlier figures of popular culture.

The film is brash, gorgeous, and most of all, fun. The plot is driven too much by coincidence and some laughable science (the vastness of the universe seems about the size of a modest backyard, given the travel times), but if these hiccups are overlooked (and many audience members won't even notice), Star Trek is the kind of movie that people will see more than once in theatres - and in these days of DVDs and downloads, that's a rare thing indeed.

The film's greatest strengths are its loveable characters, engaging performances, a wry sense of humour and a powerful emotional core.

Every actor delivers a note-perfect performance.

There are no mocking imitations here of William Shatner's often-parodied line delivery; Chris Pine's Kirk is utterly, believably the hero we grew up with, cast in a new guise, with a new attitude, but still Kirk to the core.

Zachary Quinto shows no trace of Sylar (his villainous role from television's Heroes); rather, he gives us a new interpretation of everyone's favourite Vulcan, a Spock under desperate new circumstances, a situation Nimoy's Spock never in his worst nightmares had to face.

There are moments when Karl Urban's turn as Dr. Leonard McCoy seem to draw upon the spirit of DeForest Kelley himself; I'm not a believer in the afterlife, but when watching the character's introduction, I felt Kelley's approving presence manifesting itself within McCoy's new actor. It was eerie and comforting and wonderful, and I hope Urban/McCoy is given more screen time in the sequel. It's been too long since this character's humanizing touch has been felt.

Zoe Saldana's Uhura is smart, compassionate and tough - at last, a story in which this too-often-underused character makes a real difference, and has an emotional arc of her own.

John Cho's Sulu is less developed due to limited screen time, but an actor better known for light comedy definitely shows great potential here as the swashbuckling helmsman. Likewise Anton Yelchin as Chekov, a 17 year old prodigy in this incarnation, with an incomprensible accent and a penchant for saving the day.

Simon Pegg as engineer Scotty was the one casting choice that made me think "Cool!" and "Oh no!" at the same time. I wasn't sure if the hero of Sean of the Dead and Hot Fuzz would make a convincing miracle worker, but Pegg nails it with a lighthearted performance that neatly sidesteps cliche, if only just.

Bruce Greenwood as Captain Pike plays a pivotal role as inspiration and mentor - the kind of guy you'd want to follow into the unknown. And Eric Bana's Nero is sufficiently desperate to provide the film's necessary menace.

My favourite performance, though, was that of Leonard Nimoy as the elder Spock. Nimoy shows us that Spock has grown even wiser in the years since we last saw his character (chronologically, in a two part episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, back in 1991). He's warm, brave, compassionate and inspirational, and Nimoy seems to relish stepping back into the role to pass the torch to his younger counterpart.

This is an origin story. We see the childhoods of both James Kirk and Spock, in brief but revealing scenes that capture why and how these boys grew into the mythic figures that would be admired by millions. In one of film's best scenes, a gifted but bitter Kirk gets into a horrendous bar brawl; we see his amazing potential, hindered by the tragic circumstances of his birth and flawed upbringing. But a new father figure, Captain Christopher Pike, offers a second chance in a short but inspirational speech that gives young Kirk the opportunity to realize his full potential.

"I dare you to do better," Pike says, and this line isn't just a challenge to one man, but a reflection of the Star Trek philosophy, namely that humanity as a whole should be dared to do better: to clean up our environment, to work together in peace, to reach out for the stars and keep pushing to new and greater heights. Earth is a clean, utopian world in this film as it has always been in this myth, and it became so because men like Pike - and before him, figures real and imaginary - dared their fellow citizens to do better. This is the most important message in the film, and it's thematically repeated at later points in the movie: Kirk challenges Spock, Future Spock (Nimoy) challenges Kirk, Kirk challenges the Academy, Spock challenges his unknowlingly racist peers.

I saw more than a few tears being held back at a couple of key moments in the film - the tragic circumstances of James T. Kirk's birth, and Mr. Spock's terrible loss a couple of decades later. And perhaps most of all, by Spock's father Sarek's confession to his son in the wake of that loss.

The film isn't perfect. The movie rushes to put all the character pieces in place by the end of the film, with the result that promotions that would normally take years to achieve occur in days (on the other hand, if you were presented with an Academy graduate that quite literally saved the planet Earth itself, would you not perhaps be inclined to put him in charge of a starship?). Stellar distances are compressed to the point of nonsense. And too many plot points depend upon vast coincidence (and again, the stories of Edgar Rice Burroughs are infamous for this, and yet they remain enjoyable). And if you think too hard about the strategy of the main villain, the plot falls apart completely.

But even in the face of these misssteps, Star Trek remains full of wonderful character moments, thrilling action, and gorgeous spectacle. My favourite visual in the film is that of the Enterprise rising from the clouds of Titan, with majestic Saturn looming in the backgroud. That image alone gave me a chill and a sense of wonder, something I haven't felt in a movie for some time.

With Star Trek's characters and setting recast in a fresh new light, the story of Kirk's Enterprise takes its place alongside the great 20th century myths of pop culture. The human adventure really is just beginning.

The Errant Thrust

Jeff Pitts, years after the accident.


This is a story about a boy, his friends, a pencil and a nostril. It’s a story about trust, betrayal, resentment and forgiveness. In short, it’s the infamous story of how I jammed a pencil up Jeff’s nose. And now it’s time to put that story in perspective.

I spent my teenage years in the 1980s. Trudeau was out, Mulroney was in, the space shuttle was flying high (or flying apart) and nuclear war seemed all too possible. Even in Leduc, Alberta – a small town on the outskirts of Edmonton – these concerns loomed large in my angst-ridden mind.

But in truth, most of my worries were closer to home. Grades were no problem – schoolwork came pretty easily – but my social life was another story. Girls were a huge and very attractive mystery, and my clumsy efforts to explore this new territory bore no fruit but embarrassment and humiliation.

Fortunately, I had friends, friends with whom I could escape the pain of adolescence and journey to other, better worlds. Like many kids growing up in the 80s, we had been mesmerized by the possibilities of Dungeons & Dragons.

For those of you not in the know—the non-geek crowd, that is—D&D isn't a board game; it's played out with pencils, scraps of paper, a score of thick rulebooks, and dice—not only the normal six-sided kind you find in the Monopoly box, but arcane geodesics with four, eight, twelve, twenty, or even one hundred sides. Dungeons & Dragons involves creating an alter-ego and stepping into an imaginary world jointly created by the game designers and a Dungeon Master. A Dungeon Master is the guy who does the most work in the course of the game, setting up storylines for the other players to follow and keeping track of mundane housekeeping chores like how powerful a particular monster is and whether your sword thrust will be powerful enough to penetrate its hide or if the blade will just snap in two. Dungeon Masters are like referees, only less macho.

I played Dungeons & Dragons with a tightly-knit group of other guys: Vern Ryan, Paul Ravensdale, Jeff Pitts, Ray Brown and Kevin Kelly. A bespectacled band of brothers, in spirit if not uniformly in fact.

Vern was a freckled kid from a large Catholic family, incredibly soft spoken most of the time, but prone to outrageous bursts of insight—such as his "Plate Theory of the Universe," which was so brilliant that it's been seared from my mind, as if the Creator felt that such knowledge Was Not Meant For Man.

Paul Ravensdale was a shy giant—I think he reached 6'8" when he finally stopped growing. He had a bit of a temper, but always carefully controlled.

Jeff Pitts was another regular—a swimmer and athlete, but also notoriously accident-prone; we often called him "Crash" or "Wipeout."

Ray Brown turned up to play fairly often, too. Ray had the thickest glasses of the lot, and, as if to live up to the stereotype, he was certainly the smartest of us in the hard sciences; Ray excelled in chemistry and biology.

Kevin Kelly joined our geek circle relatively late, entering the fold when we started Grade 10. An army brat, Kevin impressed—and disturbed—the rest of us with his in-depth knowledge of military practice and weaponry.

And then there was me, a painfully shy kid, the goody two-shoes adored by teachers and hated by bullies. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why I loved D&D—where else could I get the chance to be more than I was, to defeat villainy through peerless swordsmanship and clever trickery? Not to mention rescuing the princess…my favourite part of any adventure.

More often than not, we met at Paul’s place for our adventures, out on the back porch on summer afternoons or in the basement during the winter. We’d gather round, character sheets at the ready, dice of many colours scattered across the table, Cokes, Twizzlers and potato chips by our sides to fuel our quests.

And, of course, we had pencils. Even today, character statistics are often written in pencil because they aren’t static. According to the actions you take in any given role-playing game, your penciled-in intelligence of 17 might have to be scrubbed out and marked down to 16. Or, should your character be struck by an arrow, sword, or even a simple fist, your vital Hit Point tally would drop.

The pencil remains one of the most vital tools in the D&D player’s arsenal. But it is a tool not to be used without care, as I discovered on the day a carelessly wielded pencil nearly led to brain damage…

Vern usually served as our Dungeon Master. Hidden behind a DM screen (a three-fold piece of cardboard, with D&D themed art on one side and charts and rules on the other), Vern would chart the course of our characters’ destiny.

So it was on the day of the pencil. I don’t remember the adventure itself; too many years have passed, and the memories have been overshadowed by other trivia. But I do remember how the dreadful incident started.

Vern had placed our characters in one predicament or another. As usual, we debated what to do; stand and fight against insurmountable odds, or use our wits to come up with a more peaceful solution?

I wanted to fight. And so, holding my pencil as if it were the bastard sword held in my character’s mailed fist, I cried, “What if I went like THIS?” and, miming the actions of my character, I thrust my sword – that is, my pencil – skyward.

The pencil’s unfortunate trajectory bore it on a painful course. The world seemed to move in slow motion as the pencil thrust deep into Jeff’s nose, drilling into the dark cavity – “Nothin’ but nostril,” a basketball fan might have said. My eyes bulged in shock, and yet I was powerless to stop awful destiny from fulfilling its dreary mandate. The pencil violated Jeff’s nose until it hit something hard but pliable, jabbing against it with such force that Jeff’s head snapped back, a mournful “AIIEEEEEEEE” bursting from his horrified lips.

I gasped in shock, yanking the pencil out, thanking the God I didn’t believe in that I’d thrust eraser-end first. Even so, the shock of impact reverberated along my arm. Surely, I thought, the eraser must have bruised his brain.

“OW OW OW OW Son of a BITCH,” Jeff cried, clutching his nose. Paul and Vern laughed hysterically, and though I was filled with guilt and horror, I too, was quickly seized by devilish, inappropriate mirth. Gasping apologies, red in the face, I struggled mightily to contain myself. Through tears of laughter, I managed to ask Jeff if he was all right; at least, I thought, there was no blood.

Jeff, naturally, was unimpressed. But the damage couldn’t have been too bad, because we resumed our game as soon as we were able to control ourselves again. Jeff’s intelligence score did not in fact decrease from 17 to 16, despite the brain bruising, and our characters went on to defeat the villains, rescue the princess, hoard the gold, etc.

Today, Jeff maintains that this tragic accident of fate was, in fact, a deliberate and malicious act on my part. I can only protest my innocence. I’m not in the habit of violating orifices with writing instruments, unless metaphorically via this blog. I do, however, regret the physical and psychological wounds inflicted on Jeff.

On the other hand, the story itself has been a big hit at parties, and perhaps I’ll even tell it at my wedding. After all, Jeff has agreed, despite everything, to serve as my best man. Who nose why?