When Dwayne Johnson (né The Rock) is introduced to San Andreas’ watchers, he’s done so with a literal beam of sunlight encircling his bald noggin like a halo, as if to say, “Here is our hero, our savior. He will save us all.” Was there ever any doubt?
Fresh off Furious 7, Johnson plays Ray, a Los Angeles Fire Department rescuer loaded with all-American character traits: military service and more than 600 saves under his utility belt. Where are this do-gooder’s wings? They’re the blades of the helicopter he pilots above the City of Angels, plucking texting teen girls from their precarious cliffside perches.
So heroic is Ray, it’s somewhat of a surprise that when a good chunk of California succumbs to a totally bitchin’ earthquake, the script by Carlton Cuse (TV’s Bates Motel) is unconcerned with seeing how many more dozens he can add to his 600 record; instead, his focus narrows to only two people among the affected millions: his estranged wife, Emma (Carla Gugino, Sucker Punch), and their well-developed daughter (Alexandria Daddario, Texas Chainsaw). If you weren’t married to Ray or a product of that union … sorry to say, but fuck all y’all.
And you know what? That’s really all San Andreas needs. Effects-driven spectacles such as this often are criticized for being soulless; in (perhaps overcorrecting and) confining the emotional scope to the family unit, however fractured, Brad Peyton (who directed Johnson in 2012’s better-than-you’d-think “kidventure” Journey 2: The Mysterious Island) at least attempts to show that feelings can bloom while stuff goes boom. Now, it still comes off as manufactured schmaltz, but again, a solid try is a solid try; the film’s $155 million take is Peyton’s participation trophy.
But let’s get real: Who sees an action movie — particularly one constructed around what insurance companies love to term “an act of God” — with family values in mind? Disaster flicks are brain-off excuses to see buildings crumble and cities fall. The effects of L.A. and San Francisco tumbling to dust are so incredible, you may wish Peyton offered frame-by-frame footage to allow your eyes to soak in the detail. (He certainly does when Gugino and Daddario run, for those men on the fence about purchasing the Blu-ray.) This damage — coupled with an earlier sequence of the Hoover Dam getting decimated — outdoes Roland Emmerich’s globally apocalyptic 2012 on the only point that matters: destructoporn.
The dam’s demise gives college professor Paul Giamatti (Straight Outta Compton) something to do besides showing off his mad Richter-lecturin’ skillz. San Andreas reveres his science as much it despises the greed of Ioan Gruffudd (2005’s Fantastic Four) as Emma’s über-wealthy beau; notice how much the movie delights in causing the cad misery.
As for Johnson, he emerges from the rubble like the Son of God, life-reviving powers and all. This is his show, after all, and he more than makes good on his he-man promise, carrying San Andreas on his big, buff, broad shoulders and past a point where you might hate yourself for hanging on so long. —Rod Lott