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Suburbia and the military-industrial complex, "turning swords into plowshares for you and your family." Miniaturists are as susceptible to being engulfed by corporations as any other artist, toymakers earnest (David Cross) and cynical (Jay Mohr) report to the slick executive (Denis Leary) who groans at the word "learn." The products at hand are action figures split between the jingoistic ramrod packing Tommy Lee Jones' gruff bark and the gentle mutant given Frank Langella's noble tones. (The former leads a brigade of sadistic jarheads voiced by Dirty Dozen vets, the latter shepherds a cluster of misshapen peaceniks dubbed by This Is Spinal Tap jokers.) Surplus military chips explode their conflict in Everytown, Ohio, observed by teens (Kirsten Dunst, Gregory Smith) while Dad (Phil Hartman) sighs at Audie Murphy on the telly like Spielberg imagining Saving Private Ryan: "I think World War II was my favorite war." America as a sitcom set invaded by its own bellicose playthings, a coruscating Joe Dante formulation. Steroidal G.I. Joes recognize the enhanced interrogation potential of kitchen garbage disposals, turn toasters into flamethrowers, get reinforcements from distorted Barbie dolls. Programmed to hide and lose, their ragtag foes ponder the ancestral home on a computer screen and commiserate with Karloff's Monster. Dante's glee rises to the heights of the satire, from a lawnmower's Lilliputian massacre to the Spice Girls blasting across a besieged front yard. "Psychological warfare. The Marines did this against Noriega." The upshot is a demolished neighborhood, the CEO papers over the cracks with checks and laments a happy ending wasted on the young protagonists. "This would have made a hell of a commercial." With Kevin Dunn, Ann Magnuson, Dick Miller, Wendy Schaal, Robert Picardo, Alexandra Wilson, and the voices of George Kennedy, Ernest Borgnine, Jim Brown, Clint Walker, Bruce Dern, Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer.
--- Fernando F. Croce |