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The Terminal
(2004)
Dir: Steven Spielberg
Steven Spielberg used me. After watching his latest film, The Terminal, I felt like he’d come to my door with flowers, charmed my parents, romanced me over a candlelight dinner, made furious love to me in the backseat of his convertible and then kicked me to the curb. It’s been a week now and that slime ball hasn’t even called me.
The latest Spielberg audience emotion manipulator is the story of an Eastern European traveler (Tom Hanks) stuck in an American airport for months because of various visa problems. Hanks makes good friends, falls in love, stands up against corrupt authority and, all in all, reminds us what’s important about life– or something like that. The film manipulated me into caring about this unrealistic character for two hours, and offered nothing more morally or emotionally complicated than a MasterCard commercial, and it certainly wasn't priceless; it cost me ten-fucking-fifty.
I don’t really want to talk too much shit about The Terminal, I mean, watching it is at least a genial experience. It tugs at heartstrings and elicits plenty of smiles, smirks and giggles. The problem I have is that there’s nothing to think about when watching this film. It’s the It’s a Small World ride at Disneyland. The boat is hooked to a track on the bottom of the fake stream. You’re sent past mechanical people while a bunch of annoying music plays. After words, you’re mildly amused, all of your questions have been answered and every loose thread wound nicely into a bland ball of yarn. Spielberg’s masterful storytelling techniques are just like that track system; he’ll take the audience on a pleasant ride, but won’t pose unanswered questions, won’t challenge anyone, won’t require any thinking at all (and who else is sick of John Williams' scores?). Audience reaction and emotion is all predetermined, Spielberg has everything planned out and executes it perfectly. Unfortunately, this translates to a boring movie-going experience.
For my fourth metaphor in as many paragraphs I’ll posit that The Terminal is like humping an unconscious person. Sure, it feels good, but he’s not going to call you Uncle Kurt. What? That didn’t make sense. Never mind that last part. I don’t know what else The Terminal is like, because I’ve already forgotten it. That’s what happens when your movie is so perfect that it doesn’t require thinking… people don’t think about it.
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