Never has so much directorial artistry and technological innovation been squandered on sci-fi nonsense as with James Cameron’s Avatar films, whose stunning 3D CGI spectacles are undercut by unsightly character designs, bloated runtimes, mythological claptrap, and storylines that blend crude anti-colonial politics with clichéd narrative structures and beats.
That Avatar and its 2022 sequel Avatar: The Way of Water have made billions is depressing proof that this digitally pioneering dross is what audiences crave, even as Cameron’s behemoths, for all their financial success, leave little cultural or cinematic dent (has anyone ever claimed an Avatar effort as a favorite?). They are, from top to bottom, the epitome of 21st-century blockbuster filmmaking: gargantuan, cutting-edge, and so simplistic, unreal, and insubstantial as to be forgotten the second the theater lights come up.
Cameron’s waste of time, money, and talent continues apace with Avatar: Fire and Ash (December 19, in theaters), the third entry in the franchise to which he’s apparently dedicated the remainder of his life, and a 195-minute (!) sequel that follows in the unmemorable footsteps of its predecessors.
Furthering the elemental nature of this allegorical fantasy about pseudo-Native Americans battling invading genocidal Western oppressors, the film trades H2O for flames, with Jake Sully (Sam Worthington) and his blue feline Na’vi brood confronting a new adversary in Varang (Oona Chaplin), the leader of a volcanic clan known as the Ash who survive by raiding merchants who travel by airship that are pulled by stingray-ish creatures and are powered by enormous fin-like sails.
Jake and his family—wife Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña), son Lo’ak (Britain Dalton), daughters Kiri (Sigourney Weaver) and Tuk (Trinity Jo-Li Bliss), and surrogate human son Spider (Jack Champion)—first confront Varang and her savage minions during a trip aboard one of these majestic vessels, since they’ve all decided to transport Spider back to his people because, due to his needing oxygen masks to breathe, his life is in constant danger when in their care.
Spider takes on a more central role in Avatar: Fire and Ash, even though—with dread locks, an always shirtless torso, and a goofy grin—he’s a corny teen who resembles the type of character Pauly Shore would have played in the ’90s. Everyone, it turns out, has a vested interest in the kid: Neytiri wants to ditch him because, in the wake of her eldest son Neteyam’s death (in The Way of Water), she hates all humans; Kiri wants him around because she not-so-secretly loves him; and evil Colonel Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang), Spider’s biological dad, wants him by his side.
Nonetheless, his plot importance far exceeds his charisma, and that’s before Kiri—who has a special connection with Eywa, the great mother nature god of planet Pandora—uses her mystical powers to allow him to breathe without a mask and, moreover, to grow a plug-and-play Na’vi braid.
Unsurprisingly for a film that’s only slightly shorter than a fortnight, Avatar: Fire and Ash is brimming with story, and as with its ancestors, almost all of it is drawn out and none of it is captivating.
Jake blames the disobedient Lo’ak for his sibling’s demise, and Lo’ak bonds with kindred rebellious spirit Payakan, one of the many Tulkun (i.e., space whales) that populate the oceans near the reef people settlement where the Sullys live. These behemoths (whose dialogue is once again subtitled for maximum unintentional humor) are also key to this tale, since the human military (led by Edie Falco’s General Frances Ardmore) has partnered with intergalactic whaler Captain Mick Scoresby (Brendan Cowell) to hunt the Tulkun.
Eventually, Jake and his compatriots need the Tulkun to help fend off a final attack by Quaritch (whose primary motivation is capturing Jake) and Varang, the latter of whom is a Joker-esque pyro who just wants to watch the world burn, and who teams with Lang’s villain (and becomes his lover!) in return for mankind’s deadly firearms.
There’s a lot more to Avatar: Fire and Ash, including Jake’s attempts to convince Quaritch (who died as a human, and now exists as a reborn Na’vi Avatar) to ditch his fellow conquerors and go native, but Cameron’s scripting is at once overfilled and undercooked, and he can’t stop stuffing his actors’ mouths with groan-worthy lines. Worse, however, is the off-putting artificiality of his every image.
Due to fluctuating employment of High Frame Rate 3D, character and camera movements are often accompanied by a weird shimmering effect (known as judder), making it feel as if one were watching a TV with motion smoothing turned on. All in all, the film resembles the most expensive video game cutscene in history. Despite the detail and vividness of its models, panoramas, and sweeping set pieces, it comes across as shallow and inauthentic, such that even its water and fire look “photorealistic” in the phoniest manner possible. On a purely aesthetic level, the thrill is gone.
Unlike The Way of Water, Avatar: Fire and Ash doesn’t expand the series’ scope; its protagonists, locations, monsters, weapons, explosions, and vehicles are, save for oh-so-minor variations, regurgitated from before. That goes double for its drama, which trades in issues of family, grief, togetherness, sacrifice, and enviro-spiritual mumbo jumbo.
There remains considerable irony to Cameron’s censure of the very techno-industrial society that made his film (and career) possible, as well as his condemnation of the gung-ho militarism he’s long and lustily exploited for operatic big-screen kicks.
Still, if that hypocrisy turns the proceedings disingenuous, it’s a relatively trivial shortcoming compared to this venture’s distension, unattractiveness, and tedium. From skirmishes that go on forever and yet boast no stakes, to interpersonal squabbling, crises, and reconciliations that are crude and predictable, to motion-capture performances that are bland and awkward, it’s a monumentally inert enterprise.
To a greater extent than its franchise mates, Avatar: Fire and Ash is drunk on its own extravagance, unaware that it’s offering up nothing new that might justify its absurd Sturm und Drang. Insanely elaborate and never enchanting, it’s a wannabe-spectacular that thrashes, hisses, and crashes about in search of a vista, expression, or moment that might elicit more than a yawn, only to deliver wave after wave of flimsy cartoon razzle dazzle.
It may do as its brethren did and earn a gazillion dollars, but it’s clear—now more than ever—that Cameron’s vision of cinema’s future is a dead end.
