As devoid of narrative ambition as it is of accomplishment, post-viral action flick Doomsday artlessly cobbles together its many apocalyptic influences, and offers itself up as reformulated genre pap, plain and simple. Written and directed by Neil Marshall, though, it’s atrociously staged, full of baffling incongruities, and not much fun to boot.



Obviously pitched at fans of the popular Resident Evil series and 28 Days/Weeks Later films, the film — which opened yesterday without screening for critics — should have a short but decent Stateside theatrical window with young males, courtesy of a slick, effective, turn-out-the-base advertising campaign and lack of direct genre competition. Aiding international totals will be in particular the foreign embrace of Marshall’s 2006 sci-fi spelunking thriller The Descent, which rang up $57 million worldwide, $31 million of that overseas. Overall, though, poor to middling word-of-mouth should dent theatrical earnings. The DVD marketplace will be kinder, with the film’s splat-and-squib work being more able to be appreciated in piecemeal fashion.

A narrated, seven-minute prologue, set in the present day, opens Doomsday, detailing the spread of the highly infectious “Reaper” virus. Having decimated the population of Scotland, the decision is made to halve England via a 30-foot-high wall of reinforced steel just south of Newcastle. More than 25 years later, with a new strain of the virus now threatening an overcrowded London, Major Eden Sinclair (Rhona Mitra, above) is drafted by her boss (Bob Hoskins) to head to the infected zone and suss out a cure from survivors that the government has been keeping secret. Upon arrival, she finds herself confronted by a population gone wild, descended into utter savagery and cannibalism.

On some level Marshall obviously wants Doomsday to be “timely,” and assay governmental conspiracy, but his script addresses this in only the most perfunctory and purposeless way, through an ineffectual prime minister (Alexander Siddig) under the spell of a scheming second-in-command (David O’Hara). The Reaper virus survivors, meanwhile, are weirdly divided into a medieval constituency, headed up by disaffected former doctor Kane (Malcolm McDowell), and the more outlandishly roguish, Road Warrior-type thugs under the sway of his mohawked son, Sol (Craig Conway). It’s as if crucial story points were based on what costumes were most readily available.

Marshall doesn’t have the imagination to scratch beyond the surface of his conceit, let alone explain why and how post-apocalyptic survivors have the time and inclination to style their hair into purple mohawks. Other narrative decisions (including Eden having a removable eyeball that she can use as a portable DVR, as well as a messianic rave/human cook-out set to… the Fine Young Cannibals’ 1989 pop hit “Good Thing”?) are merely odd, or come across as parody, definitely out of step with the rest of the movie. Most plainly damning, though, is the fact that Marshall simply cannot firmly establish any sense of space within his action scenes, leaving audiences awash in nonsensical cross-cuts and jump-cuts. For the full, slightly longer original review, from Screen International, click here. (Rogue, R, 105 minutes)