The principal conflict is an internal one: Joe Lamb misses his mother. He overcomes sorrow by focusing his energy on hobbies, such as model making. He also finds solace in his friends, who he assists as they scramble to prepare a submission for a film contest. But when Alice Dainard wins his attention, Joe recognizes that what he misses isn’t necessarily his mother but a compassionate presence in his life. Not so much a maternal guide as a supportive counterbalance to the blandness of school and the boyish energy of his peers. Most importantly, Joe craves kindness, a healthy dose of which his father withholds.

Jackson Lamb serves the people of Lillian, Ohio but neglects his responsibilities as a sympathetic parent. Initially, he hopes to ship Joe off to a summer camp, away from a familiar social circle. Later, overcome with disappointment in himself and in his son, frustrated by the stresses of law enforcement, Jackson flat out orders Joe to ignore his friends and to shun Alice. “She’s nice!” Joe screams, for the first time revealing an assertive teenager as opposed a moonstruck mourner, but Jackson doesn’t give a damn, preferring to further alienate his troubled son with demands stemming from an irrelevant personal feud with Alice’s father. An overburdened police officer, and a frightfully incompetent parent, becomes the obstacle to the resolution (love) of the principal conflict (death).

So how is this simple, universal and yet profound, question answered? Jackson repeats “I got you” a few times and Joe lets go of his mother’s locket. There are not enough synonyms for the word cliché, especially one so forced. Super 8 is a drawn-out two act movie in which the crucial third never materializes. Jackson does not “get” his son in any literal or metaphorical sense. He never did and other than his three worded attempt at reconciliation there’s no reason to believe that he will. Joe discerns where Alice is, Joe embarks on a dangerous mission to find her and ultimately, with the help of his friends, Joe reunites with the damsel in distress. For his father to arbitrarily show up and assume a protective posture, given his past behavior and relative absence, is not only too forgiving, it’s insulting.

But what’s truly offensive about the ending is how it absolves Louis Dainard. In addition to an attempted alienation of his daughter by forbidding social interaction, Louis also orders her to shun Joe due to his feud with Jackson. Apart from the moral dilemma facing the two parents, it’s certainly rash for them to drag their children into the standoff and while Jackson Lamb is merely a detached father, Louis Dainard is, in numerous ways, abusive. Louis, the unkempt, alcoholic, ex-con is one of those people who always have to be in control. Unfortunately, to satisfy his power trips, Louis takes aim at his daughter. He looms over her, imposing his will through physical intimidation. Finally unable to cope, Alice runs away in the middle of the night, at which point Louis yells the movie’s best line in a drunken fury. “Yeah, that’s it! Leave! Just like your mother!” The despondence of this statement defines his character. A pathetic guilt trap meant to convince his daughter to return is a window into his naive expectations. The following scene, in which Louis revs up his tough-guy muscle car as he chases Alice down the street, is a perfect depiction of their relationship.

So what does Louis do in order to earn Alice’s forgiveness? Nothing. There isn’t even a second “I got you” moment. Louis doesn’t have to say a word before Alice willingly hugs him. The villain effortlessly finds redemption just moments after the honorable Sheriff dies. Why? There is no reason to believe that the hardened criminal will mature as a man or as a father. Perhaps if the script included some semblance of falling action, the conclusion would not deserve an exaggerated eye-roll and a curse towards Tinseltown’s urge to please. Such illogical character development can only be the result of too many suits in the room. They’ve “got you,” JJ, they’ve “got you.”

If the majority of games, music and movies are the result of profit orientated constructs, are they art? Talent taught in schools is not talent, just proficient ability. Anyone can dedicate oneself to memorizing the methods and procedures necessary to become a filmmaker. However, this isn’t a valid reason to disregard the credibility of film with one broad stroke. It takes dedication and mastery of one’s craft to cross the line between ability and greatness. No matter how see-through motion pictures are, by embracing their technological complexities and multicultural histories, by seeing their evolution from a proper perspective, the twenty-four frames per second regain their allure. Movies may not be magic, but when an imaginative writer, a visionary director, a meticulous editor and countless contributors coalesce on a single project, the outcome is one great collaborative work of art.

At the brink of a new decade, a motion picture that redefines the science-fiction genre immerses spectators into a world unconstrained by convention. Innovative technologies and filming techniques bring awe-inspiring visuals to a higher echelon of realism. Of course, that motion picture is The Matrix. James Cameron insists that avatars are not “synthetic alter-egos in cyberspace” and Avatar is “not a Matrix-type story.” However, he describes avatars as “controlled by a human driver who projects [his] consciousness via a technology which links [his] mind to the avatar body and they … live through that body in a kind of remote control as the human body is in a coma-like state.” If the “driver” perishes while “plugged in,” so does his “avatar.” Both films utilize this device for a conclusion that merges the long-awaited hero/villain mêlée with the culmination of a falling-in-love story. On the other hand, there are evident contextual differences i.e. a computer realm opposed to a biological one, a man versus machine battle for Earth opposed to an inter-species territory dispute on a faraway moon, a metaphysical cyberpunk interpretation of religion opposed to a social commentary on U.S. policy, etc. Amplified Mobility Platforms, the war machines in Avatar, may be similar in appearance and functionality to Armored Personnel Units from The Matrix sequels but Cameron’s own Aliens is the first to use the anime-inspired ‘powered exoskeleton’ concept in a live action film. In this case, District 9 wins the award for most blatant depiction of mechanized robots obviously stolen from a previous film.

As a standalone title, Avatar has its strengths and weaknesses. Primarily, the art of Pandora is stellar. Skyscraper-sized trees, plants with personalities, gigantic predators … and they’re all believable. More on the unrealistic end are the levitating islands, mountain peaks floating in mid air, but the concept definitely works and contributes to Pandora’s mystique. The environment designers deserve credit for painting Pandora’s scenery with such a bright color pallet. The luscious jungle that glows in the dark is a nice touch. Just as significant as the special effects, the soundtrack comes out swinging with Jurassic Park dinosaur screeches over a fitting score by James Horner. Conversely, the editing room cannot conceal blemishes overlooked during production. These quirks distract viewers and abruptly pull them out of the movie. Unexpectedly, Avatar can’t get the clothing right. Na’vi outfits appear to be stuck to bodies like glue no matter which way the characters move … and they move a lot. There’s no excuse for not giving cloth and the miscellaneous ornaments worn by the Na’vi any animation in terms of basic physics. The “sensual” scene, if it can be called that, is wholly unnecessary because it makes the audience uncomfortable since the audience does not want to see it and because it proves to be of no consequence to the story. Though imagining extraterrestrial mating rituals may have been quite entertaining for the crew, the scene doesn’t belong in the theatrical release.

To improve, Avatar has to be, sorry to say, even longer. Sympathies are too black and white. If a militarized mining operation that’s destroying every life form in its path is a bid to save Earth, the “bad guys” can at least justify their actions. Instead, the argument is entirely one-sided. Initial exposition clearly explains that the razing of Pandora is a corporate enterprise whose sole purpose is to reap enormous profits. The human soldiers are private mercenaries, morally blind hired guns who are in it for the money. This greatly diminishes the significance of Jake Sully’s wavering loyalty and ultimate betrayal of his species. Instead of simply refusing to follow orders and commit atrocities motivated by greed, he will be turning his back on the human race. Selfridge, the executive suit in charge, grows doubtful of the righteousness of his actions but has no chance to seek redemption. The character played by Michelle Rodriguez is also in need of additional screen-time, unlike the overly-clichéd and predictable Na’vi warrior who exists solely to snarl at the camera … repeatedly. Lastly, whose idea was it to script the ridiculous religious rituals? Countless blue aliens swaying back and forth, aimlessly flailing their arms in the air, just kills the pacing and seriousness of the movie. Avatar is a relatively “campy” outing for James Cameron, surprising for a project determined to reinvent entertainment. Nevertheless, with Unobtainium and blue nipples, Avatar succeeds in kick starting a drive towards photo-realistic CGI and the establishment of 3D both in theaters and eventually at home.