By Mark Ramsey | 2005/10/24

Universal Pictures meekly presents a movie based on a video game based on the utter bankruptcy of fresh ideas. Said a Universal spokesperson “We would make more B movies, if only we could spell them.”

Although originally called Doom, the game is now called “how many chumps does it take to fill a movie theater?”

Now granted, when you buy a ticket to Doom you’re not expecting a Meryl Streep cameo, but even Bob Saget wouldn’t cameo in this flick, and Bob’s only been busy watching Wheel of Fortune. “I’ve been spooning a quart of Haagen-Dazs since 1997,” said Saget. “Damn those Olsen twins. Damn them all to Hell!”

Enter Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. A man whose very name says two things: “Don’t mess with me” and “I’ll meet you doom_metakebiggun.jpgand the boys poolside in a Speedo.”

Rock is “Sarge,” and his neatly waxed brow and late-model manicure suggest “Sarge” has been fighting the battle of Iwo Shiatsu. “Yeah, but my terry robe and slippers were in camo colors,” explained Rock.

“Our mission is to find our necks,” Rock tells his ornery platoon. “I left mine in a locker at Gold’s Gym in 1985, and I haven’t seen it since.”

“Everyone, take a firearm and a six-month supply of ‘roids,” Rock orders. “Your massive body strength will compensate for balls you can’t find with a ultra-high-resolution CT scan.”

“And take some bath beads, too” he added.

“Our orders are to use extreme prejudice,” Rock tells his platoon of tough-ass soldiers. “That means ‘Your momma is so ugly….’ is an appropriate offensive weapon.”

Evidently there’s a secret portal to an ancient city on Mars located somewhere in the Nevada desert, and you don’t need a neck to find it. All well and good, but I’d really prefer a secret portal to St. Tropez.

“I wasn’t keen on visiting the red planet before,” noted a somber Rock, “but in this light it looks pink.”

It’s time for menace, so Rock lowers his forehead and menace drips off his brow. “No, that’s excess aloe and comfrey massage oil,” says Rock.

Pretty soon the plotline descends to the murky depths of “the genetic blueprint for the soul,” just when I thought we were watching the genetic blueprint for soulless Hollywood profiteering.


“Does it ever bother you that you could have spent your life looking into a microscope instead of a sniper’s scope?” the lone woman in this movie asks her brother.

“Does it ever bother you that you could have been serving up Venti Caramel Macchiatos instead of dumb-ass dialogue like that?” he replied.

Evidently, an extra pair of chromosomes turned an ancient humanoid race into demons who terrorized Mars but also provided a reliable pool of employees for gas station mini-marts all over America.

“Don’t shoot until you see the fake-ass pixels of their eyes,” warns Rock. “We’re going in hot!”

“You’re not wearing those leather chaps, are you Rock?” asked one of his grunts.

“I told you we were going in hot!” Rock said. “This carnage will be both fabulous and artfully arranged! On my mark, strut fiercely!”

Rock is out to upgrade his weaponry. He finds a big gun spinning on a pedestal under a spotlight like it’s a Ford F-150 at the auto show. “The last time I handled a weapon this large, it didn’t even spend the night,” sighed a wistful Rock.

“That Johnson really knows how to manipulate a unit,” marveled one of Rock’s Marine comrades.

Before you know it, we’re sitting in the audience like the knobs that we are watching a first-person shoot-em-up in autoplay mode. So embarrassing was this experience, the ticket should also admit one to the witness protection program.

Doom is a movie for an audience who never met a girl who wasn’t in two dimensions, widescreen, and invariably finding someone else more fascinating than you.

And like so many bad movies, you don’t play this game it plays you.

Photos Copyright ©2005 Universal Pictures

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