On Cinema

Sometimes a sequel is better (Addams Family Values), sometimes a sequel is worse (Robocop 2) and sometimes a sequel is every bit as empty as its first two outings and still gets made: sample Look Who's Talking Now]. Whatever, the follow-up is generally the height of Hollywood cynicism - 'If they liked it once, they'll love it twice.' There are exceptions like Godfather II, which expanded a family saga to give it true epic status, though even that case was weakened by Godfather III, made mostly so Francis Ford Coppola could ease his debt burden. Even the Star Wars trilogy, the Indiana Jones and Lethal Weapons, though enjoyable in themselves, are photocopies of a formula that no one has the imagination to re-think. They continue but they do not progress, until they become such obvious variations on a threadbare theme that not even the best FX can hide their true poverty of imagination. Everyone involved - producers and audience - finally decides that the films should be played for laughs: visit Elm Street, mark Friday the 13th, voyage with Star Trek, hit the sack with 007. There's an undeniable commerical sense to this; if it ain't broke, why fix it? But there's also a contempt - 'here, take this and like it' - that preys on our in-born narrative desire to know what happened next. Hence the upcoming big summer wannabees such as Maverick and The Shadow, movies that ape earlier hits and are built for mass 'franchise appeal'. They deliberately feel like sequels. It's getting so that you can't go the pictures without thinking you've already seen the film. And, let's face it, you have. . .

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