It’s obvious that the people behind The Thing remake studied John Carpenter’s gruesome masterpiece before they began their prequel. But studying ain’t the same as mastering; while Thing 2011 plays the same notes as Thing 1982, there’s barely any music to be heard. Maybe it’s an unfair comparison, but when you produce a prequel to one of the genuine horror classics of all time, you know the risks going in.
Carpenter attached the scenario of an alien that perfectly mimics other life forms to an isolated arctic base and amped the claustrophobia, resulting in a paranoid classic that is also one of the great practical effect showcases. Matthijs van Heijningen Jr. follows the template, but leeches away any hint of tension. It’s not that the audience knows the ending going in; it’s far more that you should never trust a brand property to an unproven talent (see also: anything produced by Platinum Dunes, Michael Bay’s production company). There isn’t one moment in this Thing that isn’t completely predictable.
Where does it go wrong? It’s the overuse of painfully obvious CGI where practical effects would have been a far superior choice. It’s the unnecessary Americans that join a group that we have, for 30 years, assumed to be completely Norwegian. It’s the marked lack of Kurt Russells, Wilford Brimleys and Keith Davids. It’s the oversights of particular plot points in the original (what happened to the thermite charges?). It’s the replacement of Ennio Morricone’s eerie score with a bombastic symphony that telegraphs every scare. It’s the disappointment of seeing that the inside of the spacecraft is just stereotypical weird tunnels. It’s rejigging the idea that anyone could be the monster to, “Oh, I think I know who the monster is: that two-headed guy running down the corridor.”
It’s all this, and more. When only one scene even approaches the level of terror and/or coolness of the original (think face-melting), you don’t have a true sequel, an adequate prequel, a loving tribute or an energetic fan film; you have a sweaty-faced Elvis impersonator in a polyester suit, fighting a heart attack while he bellows “Suspicious Minds” to a group of bored tourists in Nevada.
That said, it’s still better than anything Platinum Dunes has ever released. —Corey Redekop
In a fairer world, Will Forte would be a household name alongside fellow 
A little game for you. Read the following, and think of who could best personify such a monster: “When he grins, birds fall off telephone lines. When he looks at you a certain way, your prostate goes bad, and your urine burns. The grass yellows up and dies where he spits. … He has the name of a thousand demons.”
Here’s what I want in a movie titled 
The rest of the flick’s a mixed bag. Patrick Lussier’s direction is competent (I’d expect nothing more or less from the maker of