I love Judge Dredd (the movie, not the source material; who in the hell reads source material?). I have loved it since the second time I saw it, which was probably some random Saturday on TBS, or USA, or AHETROIUSDJH--one of those all letter stations that knows and respects the fact you don't want to watch anything serious or complex at 2:00 on a weekend afternoon. Well, TBS used to have The Shawshank Redemption on a freakin' loop, but I think a movie loses it's "serious" label the 7th time you've had to watch a commercial for Taco Bell's FOURTH MEAL sandwiched in between Andy Dufrain trying to escape butt rape and that big, ugly, SOB of a guard crippling the main instigator of said butt rape. (Wait, is it "butt rape" or "buttrape"? Hrm. I like the two separate words.)
My point being-ish, Judge Dredd fit right in with those Saturday afternoon, alphabet-soup channel movies. And that was part of what made me love it. It's hard for me not to love movies that belong in that category (see The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Van Helsing, and Hellboy for other examples). Movies that allow me to mimic Stallone's rather . . . unique speech pattern with gems like, "I am the law!" and "I knew you'd say that." Hell, this movie allows me to mimic Rob Schneider, MIMICKING STALLONE. Inceptional mimicking (cue the kick music). Plus, it has armored cod pieces designed by Versace. You. Can't. Beat. That.
Stallone's Judge Dredd was goofy and shiny and an absolute bomb. Critics panned it and true Dredd-heads (I just made that term up, but that is totally what they should call themselves) detested the film. I mean, he did have his helmet off for a vast majority of the movie--a cardinal sin. The "real" Dredd does pretty much the opposite.
But there are those of us who love nothing more than to grab this movie, some good beer, some greasy food, and laugh/groan a couple of hours away. And while Stallone may regret what the film turned into, I couldn't be more pleased. It's the movie equivalent of cotton candy, GOOD cotton candy--not that stale, scary stuff at the super market packaged in foil bags or cardboard tubes (YOU WOULDN'T BUY IT IF YOU SAW IT'S TRUE FORM). And now . . . now they're remaking the damn thing.
There's no official trailer out yet, but there are some posters, pictures, and a synopsis. It looks like they're trying to stay much closer to the source material and offer up a much grittier dystopian future. I see no shiny, gold cod pieces and no cumbersome and, let's face it, garish armor. This shit's hardcore. Or at least it wants to be.
They've tapped Karl Urban to play Dredd.
Lemme give you a little history on Mr. Urban and I: I first "met" Urban as I-am-prettier-than-my-sister-even-though-I-have-facial-hair Éomer in the last two Lord of the Rings films. I next saw him in Chronicles of Riddick and Doom (can't remember which I saw first). Aaaaaand I kind of started to like the guy. Then, well, THEN HE WAS BONES FUCKING MCCOY. Anyone who will willingly wear that hair in this century has my heart. Don't think I haven't noticed a genre trend in the guy's film roles. Way to pigeon-hole yourself there, Karl. I mean, if you want faithful and (often) rabid fans, sci-fi/fantasy is the way to go, but it's pretty much the Hotel California of genres. Anywho, I am officially enamored with Karl Urban, especially as he is less "pretty" with short hair. Pretty boys are not my thing. So now I want to see whatever movies he's in.
So I'm drawn to the film due to my love of Urban (oooh the jokes that could be made there, especially as I am a very white girl who loves living in her very suburban neighborhood), penchant for comic book films, and general curiosity; but I don't know if I'm ready for another Dredd. Sometimes, reboots/remakes are awesome and Chris Nolan-y. And sometimes they're completely needless and disappointing--I'm looking at you horror movies; GET SOME NEW IDEAS.
Currently, I'm reserving judgment (har dee har har, but I seriously doubt my ability to be okay with Urban's 6' 1" Dredd when Stallone's 5' 9 1/2" Dredd is, well, my ideal. You know, in a slurred speech, crazy blue contacts, and a freaking gold codpiece-parading-as-armor kind of way. Because I'm sure Sylvester Stallone's crotch gets no attention on its own . . .