The Last Airbender a review

Those of you familiar w/ the adventures of Aang, Sokka, Kitarra, Zuko, & Uncle will no doubt leave the theatre wanting. First, as is par for Hollywood and has already been addressed by media outlets, the only awkwardly Caucasian folk in this far Eastern film were the three main characters. Despite this previous knowledge I decided to give it a go knowing from previous M. Night Shyamalan disappointments this too might be a sore sight for eyes. Well, in that regard, no surprise there!

Action scenes of bending activites were painfully lacking with plodding pyros, listless liquids, whimpy winds, and flimsy firma; quite contrary to the exciting previews which I had hoped would be the salvitic attribute of the film.

The storyline, while holding fairly true the to animated version, moved along quite lackadaisically, not to mention that neither Aang nor Sokka possessed one humorous bone between the two of 'em -an important trait for the both them and what would have been a very redeeming quality for the film.

Thankfully I attended the matinee and opted out of the 3D -blame that one on Clash of the Titans!
If you're a fan of the toon and highly curious like me, go for it. If not wait till it comes to a dollar show near you or get about four or five of your not-so-closest aquaintances to pitch in and see your local bootlegger.


- Posted from my iPhone

Rationale

One of my earliest reading recollections took place when I was about seven years old. I recall reading a story about a boy who loved peanut butter. Everyday this kid would eat Peanut Butter in some way with a meal or as a snack. He was kind of like the Bubba Gump of Peanut Butter-eating Peanut Butter crackers, Peanut Butter sandwiches, Peanut Butter on apples -a veritable Peanut Butter connoisseur. Come to think of it had Dr. Seuss not already penned Green Eggs and Ham, my little Peanut Butter friend and his Peanut Butter compulsion would have been a perfect subject for such a tale, for if memory serves me right he ate his Peanut Butter in a tree house, Peanut Butter on the porch, Peanut Butter in his room, and one could beg the question Can you eat Peanut Butter on the moon?

Shortly after I completed reading this Peanut Butter chronicle my mother was confronted with a sudden need to purchase bulk quantities of my new found epicure. It was also around this time that I first put my hand to writing my own stories of little boys and their many indulgences –the pursuit of suitable football teammates, the cultivated angst of being told to clean ones room, the little girl who, unbeknownst to him at the time whose attention he would one day vie for, would not stop looking at him in class, and the like. I had learned through that simple, yet incredibly captivating tale of sandwich fixings of the power that the written word has to illuminate, influence and shape the human condition.

I believe in the art of storytelling.