Masters Of The Universe

Hollywood’s latest trawl through the frayed old toybox of Generation X dusts off its He-Man action figures and thinks “hey, there’s gotta be a movie in this!” To their credit, the film-makers at least try to build a more interesting arc for its central character than the simplistic 1980s cartoon ever bothered with; then it blows up his colourful world into three dimensions, telling his tale in a mostly playful register cribbed most obviously from Thor: Ragnarok.

Once you get past the twenty-minute lore-establishing prologue, Prince Adam (He-Man’s supposedly wimpy alter-ego) is depicted as an unlikely hero, barely master of his own life, never mind the universe. He’s been softened by a protective exile on planet Earth, crowbarred into the legend as a sop to newcomers to the film’s illustrious but actually very simple good-vs-evil mythos.

Adam’s birth planet of Eternia is bathed in perpetual magic-hour orange sunlight that lends a certain majesty to its hi-tech/medieval details, but also suggests the eternal childhood of its target audience of arrested-development fortysomethings.

You certainly can’t argue with the design, costuming and makeup departments’ fidelity in adapting these characters, weapons, vehicles and playsets for the big screen. Director Travis Knight (who has form, thanks to 2018’s Bumblebee) tries to hold his nerve in taking all this nonsense just seriously enough to satisfy fans of all ages, while also landing much of the comedy with a light touch.

The action scenes are staged with the requisite bombast and some imaginative camera moves, and even though they’re generally more dynamic than interesting, editor Paul Rubell cuts back to close-ups on faces often enough to remind us that the impossibly agile CGI avatars are still supposed to be real people.

Composer Daniel Pemberton’s primary themes consist of enough synths, choirs and electric guitars (compliments of a very famous axeman whose style you’ll recognise immediately) to fill half a dozen 1980s compilation albums. However, the score is less enjoyable when a proper orchestra files into the studio to accentuate the intended emotional impact, with all the subtlety of a violin in the face.

The six-penned script constantly undermines its own pomposity with self-aware Marvel-style quippage and a few too many lame jokes. A good cast, spearheaded by the blond-bobbed, amiably nerdy Nicholas Galitzine, makes the very best of this ‘witty’ dialogue which is nowhere near as clever as it thinks it is, and whose light social satire feels at least a couple of years out of date.

Galitzine’s Adam is a vessel for the writers’ commendable, if somewhat forced, attempts to investigate the mindlessly macho nature of a character called ‘He-Man’. Through him they seek to present a healthier form of masculinity that’s built around honour, integrity and responsibility, but then they keep undermining the idea by taking the piss out of it again.

Idris Elba ensures that Man-at-Arms, the gruff drill sergeant, has a heart of gold beating beneath that suit of armour and battle-hardened wisdom. But he’s much more fun when he’s a clapped-out dipsomaniac liability who has to re-earn his place at the front, not to mention the respect of his sensible, tactically astute daughter Teela (Camila Mendes).

Jared Leto plays the villainous Skeletor like it’s Shakespeare, but one of his comedies rather than one of his tragedies. His punchable face is thankfully hidden by computer-generated skull makeup, while his voice fluctuates between Tom Hardy’s Bane and Donald Sinden. He exudes smug entitlement and knowing malevolence, but the script keeps dumping those pellets of unfunny humour at his metatarsi.

Alison Brie, veteran of Netflix’s camp-inflected wrestling drama GLOW, is a great choice to play Skeletor’s duplicitous and masochistic lieutenant Evil-Lyn. But she isn’t given quite enough screen time to lean into the ostentatious devilry she needs to make a real impression.

Regardless of its fan-servicing attention to detail, Masters Of The Universe ends up a patchy, rather functional exercise in brand maintenance. At two and a quarter hours it’s a bit too bloated, plodding through its very straightforward King Arthur narrative when it would be better off sprinting. Still, if you give yourself over to its childish power fantasy, it’s a great-looking, passably entertaining ride.

-Stew Mott-