Film Review: The Grey

After a couple weeks of nose to the grindstone drudgery I decided that it was time to do something fun and go to a movie. I quickly perused the local showings and came up with “The Grey” (staring Liam Neeson). Based on the preview, this movie was perfect for my interests. The previews screamed action, wilderness and manliness. Little did I know that even with these elements combined, a film can still be a fantastic flop. Unfortunately, this was the case for “The Grey”. Now, I must preface this statement with a disclaimer. I am a HORRIBLE person to enjoy a film with because I have strong rational/analytical tendencies. This film brought them out and had me literally laughing in scenes where the suspense was supposed to be mounting. In general, the film lacked realism with respect to wilderness survival, human physiology, weaponry and wildlife behavior. If you still want to watch the film based on this assessment please discontinue reading, as the following portion has spoilers.




SPOILER WARNING



The film begins by setting up Neeson’s character as the rugged, troubled male archetype. This is by no means a stretch for Neeson’s acting, but he plays the role well. Neeson is a hired hunter who is employed to shoot problem wolves that are preying on Alaskan pipeline workers. Neeson and crew are stranded in the middle of Alaska after an airplance crash and are constantly beset by wolf attacks. This is your first hint as to the preposterousness of the plot. Wolves simply don’t attack humans on a regular enough basis to merit hiring someone for this role. In 2002 Mark McNay (Alaska Fish & Game) sought to collect data on all reported wolf attacks from 1900 to 2002. In total, McNay record 80 incidents, only 51 of which were aggressive in nature (http://fwp.mt.gov/fwpDoc.html?id=10996). Furthermore, of these 51 cases, 12 cases likely involved rabid wolves. These documents cases came from Alaska, Canada and Minnesota. In total, McNay estimated that there were up to 70,000 wolves in Canada and Alaska at the time of the study. Considering these figures, wolf attacks on humans are very rare.

The producers of “The Grey” did not let such facts get into the way of their storyline. The depiction of wolves in this film is ridiculous. Wolves in “The Grey” attack in solitary (against their pack hunting nature), in frontal assaults and amidst encircling campfires. The pack that Neeson and friends must endure take each and opportunity to kill. When this happens the wolves kill out of anger/territoriality/vengeance, not out of hunger. Ummm…what? It is also important to note that these wolves are obviously taking anabolic steroids. They are huge! According to the International Wolf Center, male Alaskan Grey Wolves usually weigh between 85 and 115 lbs. They may occasionally weigh 130 lbs (http://www.wolf.org/wolves/learn/basic/faqs/faq.asp). Based on proportional dimension comparisons, the wolves in the film must weigh 250-300 lbs.

Although the wolf depiction is the most farcical aspect of the film, the survival tactics and weaponry used in the film are not far behind. As his primary hunting weapon, Neeson uses a Remington Model 700 in an unknown chambering. This makes some sense because of the 700’s heritage as a dependable, accurate and versatile hunting rifle. However, Neeson’s particular 700 is blued steel and stocked in walnut—an inexpressibly poor choice considering the weather conditions of Alaska. After the plane crash Neeson recovers his rifle and a box of 12 gauge shotgun shells (though we never see a shotgun). The rifle’s stock is broken, but instead of attempting to mend the stock (electrical tape is used thoroughout the film) or firing it in a makeshift manner, Neeson simply discards it. Not so for the shotgun shells! Neeson takes the shotgun shells and attaches them to whittled poles with electrical tape in an attempt to fashion a bang-stick. Never mind the fact that it is absolutely impossible for a piece of wood to detonate a 209 shotgun primer (electrical taped on) by jabbing it into a wolf’s side. It works! At this point I simply lost interest in the film. But wait, there is more! After Neeson and crew successfully use their bang-sticks to kill a wolf, they completely discard all weapons until the final scene. This happens despite the fact that each person carries a hunting knife large enough to make Rambo jealous. Apparently it never occurs to them to fashion a makeshift spear with a 8” carbon steel blade at the end. That would make far too much sense! The final scene reaches a zenith of absurdity when Neeson combats the alpha wolf (400 lbs) by (and I kid you not) electrical-taping miniature alcohol bottles to his hands and then busting them on a nearby rock. I am just going to let that sink in for a moment. Go ahead, take your time digesting that bit of weaponology. I’m sure that suburban teenagers in New Jersey will be doing this and broadcasting it on Youtube shortly after they see the film.

The survival failures in the film depressed me less than the wolf portrayal and the weapon absurdity. This is mainly because very few films and very few survival reality televisions shows get it right. [Yes, I am looking at you Bear Grylls!] The number of survival sins committed in the film are endless, but notably the gaggle of survivors relocated from the scene of the plane crash despite having a locating beacon. The most fantastical act of lunacy (straight out of “Man vs. Wild”) was when the group make an improvised rope by tying together shirts, fabric, string, etc and then decided to jump into a 300 ft. chasm in hopes of latching onto an evergreen tree mid-flight. Of course, it worked! Three out of four people managed to survive that experience. The one man that did die was afraid of heights, had a bandaged (non-functioning) hand and had a zipper-pull caught in the improvised rope. Minor survival infractions included the copious consumption of alcohol in -10 F weather and diving into rivers.

In conclusion, “The Grey” had several exciting and suspenseful scenes. Neeson couldn’t have played his role better, but the role itself was a worn-out archetype. The utter and total disregard for realism killed the rest of the movie. This film merits 2 out of 5 stars for me, simply because it managed to put wilderness + manliness + action on a screen in front of me.

"The Grey" movie poster included under Fair Use Law (commentary).

Emptiness is Form

Someone recently told me that the Spartans were unequivocally the greatest warriors of all time. I dare to disagree.



Frost on hammered steel,
the hamon like coastal waves
sings in winged death.
Sandal tracks in mountain snow
forsake the ensanguined scene.

The Other Side of Civilized

Twenty-three years of dreaming of western skies—

Where are the vermillion sunsets, like hot coals streaked with crashing waves of magenta? They must be somewhere way out there, where the honey-laced voice of Marty Robbins still recounts a dozen gunfights, a dozen raven-haired senoritas and a dozen wiry broncs. Is it still wild? Do I live in a silver-screen spaghetti western fantasy? Can a man still lay claim to a humble parcel and try his hand at individualism?

The rugged archetypes are gone. Abbey, Muir and Roosevelt have wandered into the lost canyons of history. There are no pine boughs left to sleep under—only 5th wheel trailers ringed by bug zappers. Trails where cougars stalked are worn hard by mountain bikers and ATVS. Men with spandex clothes, $20 water bottles and Lance Armstrong wristwatches are the only danger these days. One struggles to find the American Wilderness because there is a Starbucks behind every waterfall. Camp coffee-pots are as likely to be filled with Pike Place Blend as they are with pine needles or chicory.

Hell, an old Winchester in a cracked leather scabbard would cause incontinence in half the people that you would run into while out adventuring. They don’t see the need for pitted steel and cracked walnut, much less for tarnished brass and dull lead. Likewise, bowie knives—once as common as sunlight—would now lead the public to believe that you are a serial killer. You can’t walk sheep paths in the mountains anymore because they have all ventured up—up and away from the raucous engines and the drunk humors of those that “use” the land for recreation.

Even those who are tasked with preserving nature’s primitiveness don’t know what to do. Streams that once shone star-like with silver shapes of salmon now lay dismal with no dorsal fins to pierce the water’s gurgling surface. But, we’ve got ponds full of hybrid monsters that wouldn’t know upstream from upside down. Bison that roamed both woodland and prairie exist only as domestics: more stock than game. The timber wolves have stirred us—but in a way that we don’t know whether to defend them or destroy them. For eons and eons the native tribes burned and let burn the land in an act of restoration. Now Smokey the Bear makes sure that we don’t let that happen. If this is destiny manifested, we are in dire straits.

Silvery Night

A wind from the North
blows unknown change from afar.
Silver comet falls
below night’s starry canvas—
A new year glitters to life.

Still-Hunting

Bare feet stride slowly,
deliberately feeling
the pulse of our earth
Oneness with the leaf litter
Elven footfalls make no din

Ekphrasis, "Monarch of the Glen"

The stag clacks up the stony ridge to a crest carpeted by wispy grasses. Here he surveys his airy dominion. The sky, a backdrop of slate, portends coming rain. The damp air folds around the Cairngorms. He strikes a noble pose with head aloft to scent the hinds lingering below. With neck thick in anticipation of autumn’s rites, his mane bristles like a rampant lion. His roaring bellow echoes from Ben Machudi—a proud declaration of his unrivaled sovereignty. Barrel-chested and prime in life, he struts with justified haughtiness. His sienna coat turns the howling wind. Is àrd ceann an fhèidh sa chreachann. Lofty is the deer’s head on the mountain. His rightful seat remains unchallenged. Satisfied, he beds on the lee side of the mount and chews the tender grasses. Above the wheaten cradle his antlers reach skyward like barren oaks. Their branches, unadorned, quicken the heart of a gamekeeper watching jealously far below. But safe still the stag remains, for even Bran or Sceolan dare not tread here.

Sermon on the Mount

This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
Grown tired of man’s pageantry for ego’s sake,
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Choirs of geese worship, as this sinner’s soul I search.
No crowd to please or reason to sincerity fake,
this Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

Christ’s Sermon on the Mount was taught from such a perch.
Light snow whispers liturgy as bowed knees quake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

I arise renewed—the grand panorama gives cause to lurch.
Testimonies whirl round me in each glistening flake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

No apostate or hypocrite could this temple besmirch.
Holy Baptismal, each morn, is held reverently in virgin lake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Come hither, yon saints, and my denomination research.
Hear with me the still, small voice whose Truth I dare not forsake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.