Up in my hometown outside of Philadelphia, the threat of storms is taken very seriously. Residents treat looming remnants of tropical storms like the promise of nuclear apocalypse, stocking up on enough bread, milk and other perishable goods to last them well into 2019 -- just in case. The rain that accompanies these storms is comparable to that of a soaking in the Sea World Shamu splash zone, yet time after time and storm after storm, the public response is dependably overdramatic.
Similarly, this slightly twisted obsession with imminent danger extends to the silver screen, from the artful, apocalyptic vision of "Children of Men" and menacing threat of invasion in "War of the Worlds," to the global disaster of "The Day After Tomorrow."
Twenty years predating the start of the latest (and smartest) disaster flick eating up the American box office, "District 9," an immense alien spacecraft appeared over the South African city of Johannesburg. Civilians and local officials anticipated a violent attack or an exposition of visionary strides in technology. Neither occurred. Instead, the ship ominously dwelled over the cityscape for years and years at a standstill. Johannesburg officials grew restless and undertook an investigatory mission to see what lurked within the mysterious, floating warehouse, only to find hundreds of malnourished aliens. The gangly, sad creatures were as helpless as a boat full of kittens drifting towards a towering waterfall.
Years after aliens were cast into a caged slum called District 9, human-alien tensions escalated as these poor, displaced creatures struggled to assimilate into South African culture. The aliens commit random acts of violence in a confusingly nonchalant manner, stealing a passerby's cell phone with the same aloof effort I employ when swiping a free sample at a market -- mine! The aliens' utter detachment from the human's everyday morale code sends shivers up the spine of the nation, triggering alien hate groups and rampant racism. The widespread panic surrounding what these aliens crawling down the dusty, shack-lined roads in District 9 are capable of is startlingly familiar. Swine flu, anyone?
The swine flu pandemic's urgency went from a periodic spell of global panic to the butt of every awkward chain e-mail joke your "Internet savvy" relatives send. Similarly, after years in District 9, citizens of Johannesburg consider the aliens to be as threatening as a Pooh Bear mascot at Disney World. That is until they kill a human over a can of cat food, which is as addictive to these aliens as "Project Runway" is for the rest of us. This ferocious unpredictably reflects a growing trend in American viewers: we like ourselves a healthy dose of imminent, unpredictable danger.
This mentality is nothing new to the American film, as disaster and "End of the World!" movies have been around for decades. What is peculiar about these aforementioned panic-stricken chaos films is they are being released in an ever-increasingly global and environmentally conscious context. As hip as it might be to go green these days, audiences still don't pay much mind to the slew of films and documentaries, like Scott Hamilton Kennedy's fantastic, Oscar-nominated "The Garden," that tackle issues of sustainability. American cities exploding into smithereens, vast global destruction and extraterrestrial war is, it seems, more their bag.
The true culprit probably dwells somewhere within the intricate web of fear woven by the Bush administration, but blaming them seems too easy. In the case of "District 9," I'll blame marketing. Weeks before the release of the film, TriStar Pictures launched a clever viral marketing campaign that bewitched the public. Posters for "District 9" boasted warnings declaring movie theaters, buses and benches for "HUMANS ONLY -- NON-HUMANS BANNED!" These sparingly designed, yet urgent posters echo the same pandemonium we experienced earlier this year on television and radio and in newspapers with the onslaught of the swine flu pandemic.
There is something thrilling for audiences to see these horrors upon the screen, yet never in their backyards. Yeah, we may have a swine flu pandemic or some really hardcore remains of tropical storms, but at least we don't have to share our land with aliens or dodge giant fireballs from space as they pelt Grand Central Station. Witnessing these cinematic visions of pandemonium, perhaps, might be cathartic exercises for viewers, for they now know what could feasibly happen, but they can still take solace in the fact that it has not happened. Terrifying, yet tantalizing pandemonium.
You can reach this columnist at thescene@theeagleonline.com
