Holy shit, I didn’t hate Terminator: Salvation.

I caught it on a lark, today. I had finished the chapter I wanted to finish, I’d done some yard work, and had to head out to an appointment, and found myself with an hour and a half to kill.

So, movie.

To reiterate: holy shit, I didn’t hate Terminator: Salvation.

Let’s clarify. I should hate it. I wanted to hate it. I have this grotesque fanboy purist inside of me, and he keeps screaming, “Terminator is a two-film series! It’s done! Stop! Get away from the franchise!” And then he keeps peeing on himself, which is weird. I don’t want him to do that. It’d be easier if he was totally naked, but he’s in this nasty, scum-caked bathrobe, and it just soaks up the pee, so he basically smells that way for days until some other person inside my brain gets around to the wash.

The first film rules. It’s a slasher film draped in the gauzy lingerie of a sci-fi action flick. The second film doesn’t worry about the slasher film part so much, and goes straight for the sci-fi action flick, but along with Aliens, it is one of the cornerstones of that Big Blow Up Sci-Fi Action genre.

And the third film eats its own turds in a bathtub. It takes what was good about the first two, and smothers them in that same bathtub.And then it eats more turds, and laughs around a mouthful of turds. And it laughs at you. And me. See where I’m going, here? Death and feces. And abject mockery. Anyway.

Then comes The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Eh? I know it’s (or was, now that it’s canceled) apparently good. I tried, I really did. I got maybe four or five episodes, and you know what I learned during each? That it was a great time to nap. Seriously. I don’t know what they put in that show, but it must’ve been some kind of soporific. Every goddamn time the show came on, I passed out. That might not be a mark against the show. Awesome things may have transpired while I drifted away on my nappy-time duck boat, but all I know is, I really wanted to stay awake. And since The Sarah Connor Chronicles seemed hell-bent to drag me down to Dreamtown, I had to stop watching it.

So. New Terminator movie. Helmed by the eXXXtreme director, the Poochie the Dog of the movie world, the man known as McG, I was not hopeful. In fact, I expected more asphyxiation and turd-munching.

What I got was solid. A line-drive. An interesting film. I’m still processing, and a lot of this reaction is on a lark, off-the-cuff, and as-yet-unformed, but here it is.

The Good

McG not only doesn’t suck, but the guy can actually direct. Like, f’reals. I mean, listen. Directing a big budget action picture is its own language. It might not be High Art (unless you’re Paul Greengrass! See, Will? See?), but you do it right, you have a career for life. Most blockbusters have passable direction. Mediocre at best. But McG takes it up a notch. The action is clean. It’s rough, but appropriately so. I know what’s happening. He brings nice order to the chaos. I know direction is about more than just that, and we should also be taking about cinematography and editing (and craft services), but you can feel like he has his hand on the stick the whole time. Good for him.

(He should really change his name, though. I get it. It’s a nickname, and he’s had it since forever, and it’s a family thing, and blah blah blobbity blah. I hear they used to call James Cameron “Stink-Knuckle,” and George Lucas has a Varsity jacket somewhere with the name “Neck Monster” on it, but you don’t see them slapping that shit up on the screen, do you? McG, stop it. You’re not 12 anymore. Joseph McGinty. That is your name. Your adult name. Embrace it. And stop trying to high-five me.)

Also good: Anton Fucking Yelchin. What the hell? This kid comes out of relative obscurity and knocks it out of the park in two movies so far this summer. And here? He is the spitting godsdamn image of Michael Biehn. He has the delivery down, the cadence, the facial expressions, it’s insane. (In case you don’t know, he plays Kyle Reese. That’s not a spoiler, since it’s on IMDB, damnit.) I now believe that Anton Yelchin is some kind of ancient shapeshifter spirit. I am actually afraid of him. Just be warned, if you come up and talk to me, and I’m all like, “Anton Yelchin!” and then I stab you in the neck with a pink highlighter, just deal with it. Plus, pink’s a nice color.You could’ve been stabbed with worse.

Finally: the plot works. It’s not full-retard. Maybe I’m aiming low, but so many blockbusters have such a ludicrous plot, you can’t parse it when it’s all done. You just throw up your hands, and accept it. Like prison rape. Not here. It’s actually pretty cogent.

The Bad

The dialogue clunks along at times. Leaden lines read by capable actors doesn’t stop them from feeling like a heavy bran brick cracking the porcelain of your toilet. Obviously, I’m not looking for Mamet or even Apatow. But people don’t talk like they do in this movie. Sure, it’s the future, and it’s a future ruled by skull-faced Mister Robotos, but that doesn’t mean everybody needs to speak like robots, right? The actors handle it, they really do, but the dialogue is often unpretty.

Also, the movie just isn’t much fun. Sure, the first film isn’t exactly a laugh riot, but it has its moments (“Anything else, pal?” “Phase plasma rifle in the 40-watt range.” “Hey, just what you see, pal”). This movie is somber and mirthless through most of its running time.

And, finally, if you’re really, really a Terminator fanboy, I can see you wrinkling your nose at some of this — where is it in the canon? Why don’t the 600s have rubber skin? What does this mean for the other films, or the show? I’ve got fannish tendencies (remember? bathrobe urine?), but all told, I wasn’t rankled.

The Ugly

Two complaints.

First, Christian Bale, please stop growling at me. If you have esophageal cancer, get it taken care of. Otherwise, I’m finding this whole “raw, rough delivery” thing a bit trite, okay? It sounds like you’ve got a gullet full of driveway gravel. Are you polishing stones in there? Are you a garbage disposal? Stop it.

Second, PG-13. I get it. Filmmaking is a business. Biggest audience means biggest bucks. But anymore, I get more adult offerings on basic cable (seriously, ever seen any of the programming on late night FX?). Terminator is an R-rated franchise. So is Alien. And Die Hard. I no longer want to see PG-13 installments of those films anymore. Kay? Kay. I want to see dudes exploding. I want to hear the word “fuck” more than once. I also want to see the mature connotations of life and death played out on screen. Oh, and tits. I’ll take some tits on-screen, too, since I’ve got your attention. (I know, I know, Watchmen somehow mysteriously ruined the R-rating for tentpole releases. Eff that ess, mothereffer. Did anybody think Watchmen wasn’t a niche release? Really? Seriously? I think it was a Judas Goat for the mature rating. Pile your sins upon it, and chuck that bleating fucker off a cliff.)

The Conclusion

Not much more to say. I enjoyed it. It’s got some nice twists. Solid effects. It plays off of that long-standing desire I’ve had to see “The War” played out with so many robot feet crushing so many human skulls. Is it great? No. Sadly, anymore, few tentpole releases are. But it’s good. It’s better, perhaps, than it deserves to be.