from SCIFI Dimensions
It's too bad Warner Bros. can't spend $80 million to go back in time to make sure A Sound of Thunder never got made. At least then, they'd break even. As it stands, it seems doubtful this copralite of a flick will crack $3 million at the US box office. And for good reason.
First, a little background: "A Sound of Thunder" is a 1952 short story written by legendary fantasist Ray Bradbury. In it, a company uses a time machine to send wealthy clients back into prehistory to shoot dinosaurs. They're aware of the possible consequences of altering the timeline, so they ensure the customer's "kill" a beast that was going to die soon anyway, and they provide a levitating pathway to ensure the hunters don't so much as step on a bug. Who knows what might happen to the future if someone accidentally squashed, say, a butterfly?
You can, of course, guess what happens next. Somebody does indeed step on a bug, and the timeline is instantaneously changed, but only the hunters (who bypass time via their machine) sense that something has gone amiss. In "A Sound of Thunder", that means English spelling comes out a little odd, and a different guy gets elected president of the United States.
Bradbury's story can easily be digested in ten minutes, and it's a relatively straightforward depiction of the traditional, cautionary cause-and-effect tale. It hardly seems possible that it could be effectively adapted for the screen, but in 1989 it became a reasonably decent 30-minute episode of Ray Bradbury Theater, an anthology series along the lines of The Twilight Zone.
But now moviegoers and Bradbury fans can subject themselves to a full two-hour feature film version, not so much based on as loosely inspired by, Bradbury's celebrated vignette. It's a textbook example of Hollywood hubris and the seemingly irresistible impulse of the movie industry to reinvent, reimagine, augment and beef-up something that was perfectly fine as-is.
Starring Edward Burns and Ben Kingsley, A Sound of Thunder is a nonsensical ramble of a film that tosses in everything but the kitchen sink: anti-time-travel activists, swarms of killer ants, sentient vines, creepy baboon-dino-possum thingies, and worst of all, some sort of "time wave" that selectively evolves various creatures each time it strikes. Another bit of non-scientific balderdash: the screenwriters operate under the delusion that human beings were the last creatures to evolve upon the earth (granted, we're relative newcomers, but evolution didn't exact put itself on hold after the arrival of homo sapiens).
So much of this story relies on sheer stupidity to move the narrative forward. How about a guard rail on that levitating sidewalk? How about a little training for those nervous clients? (Heck, even the Russkies make their space tourists go through months of training before putting them inside a rocket!) And what possible difference could it make to the timeline to step on a butterfly that's about to be vaporized by the pyroclastic flow from an erupting volcano anyway?
The special effects in A Sound of Thunder look like off-the-shelf CGI that could have been produced for a TV show a decade ago. There are several sequences of obvious green-screen work, and the dinosaurs and other creatures have that shiny, plastic look of unpolished digitization.
Ed Burns sleepwalks through his role as a scientist who makes money on time-tour duty so he can save all the animals that became extinct in the 21st century (it's 2055 in this time-bomb). Ben Kingsley is a comic-book capitalist with a fluffy white pompadour and pinstripe suit.
Peter Hyams gained a reputation as the competent director of middling sci-fi films (Capricorn One, Outland, 2010, Timecop, End of Days), but A Sound of Thunder isn't just middling - it's easily the most craptastic science fiction movie of 2005. It rivals Battlefield Earth as one of the most laughably godawful efforts in recent years, a film that shouldn't be as bad as it is considering the money spent to create it.
The only reason to see this film in the theatre would be to form an MST3K conga line on the front row to heap derision upon it, to bask in the glory of its ineptitude. If you're not that mean-spirited, just stay home and re-read The Martian Chronicles.
