Michael Bay’s latest opus feels like it started as a tidbit from his personal dream journal; an army of blissful people in sparkling white velour jogging suits, living in a giant hotel lobby-slash-videodome, and all of them genetically engineered to pass screen-tests. And sparkling bowls of green apples in every room, for some reason. If only the studios would have given him a hundred million to expand on this vision, instead of insisting on the sweep-pans and the crash-bang and the what-not.
No, the movie is not that bad as a whole. The first hour of The Island is strong enough to keep my warm thumb positioned a few micrometers above the equator. Because it makes us think about the subject matter it presents, despite how much we hate ourselves in the morning, it nudges into the back-row pew of the church of respectable sci-fi fare.