should i watch robocop y/n

Predator

shame I can only click "add to favorites" once

when all is said and done i think this is my best thread ever.

three people said no omg!

Robocroc:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1162970/Meet-Robo-Croc-Ten-foot-crocodile-gets-metal-plates-41-screws-head-reconstructive-surgery.html
http://scienceblogs.com/tetrapodzoology/RoboCroc_head_shot_22-3-2009.jpg

I promised someone I'd watch it by tomorrow, but it's already 4:15 and I don't know if I feel like going to the library to pick it up. I need to decide in the next 10 minutes, someone encourage me.

it's always a good idea to watch robocop, do it.

there's no way on earth you will regret that decision if you get it

Already, I'm going now, thanks.

Also, on a class trip when I was 8-9 or so, I once saw the Robocop TV show being filmed downtown and got to see an actual proper robocop in costume. That's my robocop story.

robocop was the first 18 certificate film i saw and it still the best

GIVE THE MAN A HAND.

Well, listen, chief. Your company built the fucking thing. Now I gotta deal with it? I don't have time for this bullshit!

I'd buy that for a dollar!

p.s. Bitches, leave!

Lt Hedgecock: Okay Miller! Don't hurt the mayor! We'll give you what you want!
Miller: First, don't fuck with me. I'm a desperate man! And second, I want some fresh coffee. And third, I want a recount! And no matter how it turns out, I want my old job back!
Lt Hedgecock: Okay.
Miller: And I want a bigger office! And I want a new car! And I want the city to pay for it all!
Lt Hedgecock: What kind of car, Miller?
Miller: Something with reclining leather seats, that goes really fast, and gets really shitty gas mileage! Alright.
Lt Hedgecock: How about a 6000 SUX?
Miller: Yeah! Okay, sure! What about cruise control? Does it come with cruise control?
Lt Hedgecock: Hey, no problem, Miller. You let the mayor go, we'll even throw in a Blaupunkt!

bitches leave
― sanskrit, Saturday, January 5, 2008 12:55 PM (2 years ago) Bookmark

this is a really great line reading.

also ALL of miguel ferrer's lines in this film are just beautifully delivered. this whole movie is just one amazing character-actor turn after another. ronny cox. ray wise. miguel ferrer. dan o'herlihy, kurtwood smith. nancy allen is just OK but frankly given how horrible she is in other movies i'm grateful for that.

hell even the police captain gets some juicy lines.

the drug lord is the same guy as the dad from that 70's show right?

look at my face... DICK!

y

who the fuck voted no

x-rated version/director's cut is a must for extra ludicrous gibs

the answer to this question is always Y

y-rated movie ~.~

btw i read an interview with michael ironside the other day, he wasnt to play robocop as the internets would have you believe, he was to play boddicker. would this have improved the unimprovable i think so yes.

i mean he pretty much played that role in total recall, didn't he?

Saw the censored version on cable this weekend: "Ladies, leave."

that's why i revived, it was on G4 network

http://s3.amazonaws.com/data.tumblr.com/tumblr_l95l0xof771qd9jlto1_1280.png?AWSAccessKeyId=0RYTHV9YYQ4W5Q3HQMG2&Expires=1285326617&Signature=%2FFb2zRvpAePy2Q2FdumjtDBCZOY%3D

http://www.sweet-juniper.com/2010/10/part-kid-part-machine-all-cop.html

http://twitter.com/mayordavebing/status/34698788601860096

lollll

bitches leave

http://www.avclub.com/articles/detroit-will-have-its-robocop-statue-and-zodiac-mo,51939/

IF YOU THINK ITS SUCH A BAD IDEA OR A BIG FUCKING WASTE OF MONEY THEN TAKE YOUR HIGH MINDED RARIFIED FUCKING ASS OVER TO KICKSTARTER.COM AND START YOUR OWN FUNDRAISER FOR WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS THAT YOU SOMEHOW THINK IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN A STATUE OF FUCKING ROBOCOP. DONT CURSE THE DARKNESS MOTHERFUCKER LIGHT A CANDLE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pOoSe2K5DU

what the hell fried chicken

yo im trying to eat

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yw9GNz-EYP8

tune

top ten in the uk iirc

"Not now you can't get a cup of coffee."

"Oh, Sarge."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=McDjaLgrrRg

yo im about to eat

http://i.imgur.com/uk8Ks.gifhttp://i.imgur.com/Z9QFg.gif

http://img168.imageshack.us/img168/3780/robocop104.gif

was johnson gay for norton? there's the scene where he clutches norton for support during the ed209 fiasco and norton brushes him away. then the look on his face when robocop plays jones's confession: "I had to kill Bob Norton because he made a mistake"
then finally the look of satisfaction on seeing Norton's killer dispatched.

oh I forgot the "tastes like babyfood" scene but there the relationship seems paternal, or a big-brother. though the dynamic of johnson initiating and norton withdrawing remains.

has anyone ever read that martin amis essay on the filming of Robocop II?

-- smokemon (eman), Monday, April 10, 2006 3:14 AM

here:

ROBOCOP II

ROBOCOP: PRIME DIRECTIVES
1 Serve the Public Trust
2 Protect the Innocent
3 Uphold the Law

RoboCop II - and I mean the robot, not the movie - looks like a wasp-waisted three-ton Swiss Army penknife with all its blades outturned: cutters, skewers, pincers, gougers. Called 'The Monster' in the script and on the set, this sizzling cyborg is not RoboCop's successor but his adversary. 'The concept of two robots duking it out', says one of his creators, 'was a given.' Part Man, Part Machine, All Psychopath, RoboCop II is also, for good measure, a drug-addict, a vigorous abuser of a substance called Nuke. He is programmed to Break the Law, Protect the Guilty, and Trash the Public Trust. 'We're very pleased with him,' says his chief designer. 'The face is great. Those twin panels shoot back revealing a digitalised screen, with receding lines giving a weird to-infinity effect.' For now, the curved diagonal panels remain closed, impeccably hostile and severe, like the sharp prow — the leading edge — of the future.

Last fall, downtown Houston was also giving a good imitation of the henceforward. The main precincts are deserted after 6 pm - for this is a modern city, and no one is seriously expected to live in it. You work in it. Elegantly alienated youths rollerskate through the empty malls. They aren't sullen or simmering or smashed; they are just not interested. Later, the night sky will contain the faint reports of gunfire: the crack wars of the crack gangs. Driving through the more depressed areas the next day, you will find the streets littered with beercans, hookers ('Hey, white boy!'), undergarments, human wigs - and the nomadic poor, clustered in the steel and concrete crevices of the city; soon, the police will come and briskly pressure-hose them out of there, and they will be obliged to regroup somewhere else. But not downtown, where the future is contentedly going about its business. Look into the magenta glass of the looming skyscraper, and what do you see? The reflection of another skyscraper — and then another, and then another.
This month there is street theatre in Houston: the making of RoboCop II. Onlookers gather early behind the police lines. The crowd (mostly black) has come to see what the imported natives (mostly white) will get up to this evening, what explosions and firestorms they will stage, what miracles of wreckage they will achieve: what strafings, what stompings, what splatterings. The ahs and ows of this first preview audience are strictly calibrated to the size of the bang, the height of the flamespout. All week the night action takes place amid the fortress architecture of Houston's cultural centre: between the theatre and the opera house. The filmmakers are obliged by the city to get through their most thunderous scenes before 8 pm, when the curtain goes up on the other performance (tonight, a rock opera of Measure for Measure). But they never make it.
'HOLD THE SMOKE!' says the Assistant Director into his bullhorn. 'I'LL NEED SOME BEEF.' Beef means muscle, means sceneshifters - for the upended cars, the shattered stanchions. 'I SAID HOLD THE SMOKE,,, MORE BEEF!'
A mist of stardom shrouds the trailer of Peter Weller, who has yet to appear. Everyone waits. A rejuvenated, reglamorised Nancy Allen sits chatting on a director's chair (her handsome new boyfriend is near by, the silent custodian of her second blooming). Nancy plays Lewis, RoboCop's sidekick. It is a pivotal role, and she understands its centrality. She is the only 'real' presence in both movies: everyone else is either a hood, a corporation ogre, a scientist, or a robot. Nancy is happy to kill time; indeed, she is an expert time-killer, like all movie stars, for there is much time to kill. Everyone waits. Weapons expert Randy Moore trundles on to the set to deal with 'a blanks problem'. Randy's outrageous handguns and bazookas look at home in Houston: they wouldn't seem out of place, you feel, in the average Texan kitchen. At length, Randy resolves the blanks problem, and everyone goes back to what they were doing before: waiting.
Unbelievably, about five hours later, two whole shots are in the can. Nancy has scaled an armed-personnel carrier and successfully back-kicked a security guard in the face. And Peter has scaled a media truck and readied himself to pounce on The Monster. But the street audience is unconvinced, and gives a collective shrug before it disperses, as if to say, 'Is that it?' And you sympathise. You want to explain to the Houston crowd that what they are getting is, as yet, only half-formed, only half-made. As yet, the illusion is embarrassingly - but necessarily — incomplete. Peter hasn't got his RoboCop pants on, for instance (the shot is only waist-up). And Nancy's back-kick looks dainty and innocuous. And the battleground is littered with scene-coordinators with their walkie-talkies. And the corporation HQ seems punily small-scale. And The Monster is still in the prop shop . . .
This is the thing with RoboCop: it all comes later — the sheen, the finish. What you see here in Houston is just raw material, the chaos of the merely contemporary. Only in the lab will it take on the hard edge of the future. RoboCop is itself a sign of things to come; the new depth of illusion, the widening gulf between set and screen. On screen, the corporation HQ will have a matte painting on it and will loom eighty storeys high. The scene-coordinators will be blacked out of shot. The Monster will be on duty. Peter will appear to have his pants on. And Nancy's back-kick will be crunchy.

The RoboCop II team has a boy-genius or crazy-professor feel to it. On the set the atmosphere reminds you of the exotic unsalubriousness of Washington Square Park in New York, where all the skateboarders are chess prodigies, the bums are International Grand Masters, and the lounging brothers have four-figure IQs. Director Irvin Kershner (Never Say Never Again, The Empire Strikes Back) looks like a radical Sixties academic. Producer Jon Davison (Piranha, Airplane!, RoboCop) has the droll, wheedling delivery of a Greenwich Village intellectual. All around there is a reassuring sense of strength-in-depth. Unit publicists are usually cyborgs themselves, but RoboCop IPs Paul Sammon is an omnicompetent film-maker, writer, computer ace. And here's cold proof of how hip and classy this outfit is: nearly everyone had read my stuff. Even the continuity girl turns around and quotes me, word perfect . . . And shabbily lurking by the coke-machine and the chow-trailer are Oscar-winning designers, make-up artists, stop-motion animators, stunt illusionists — tricksters, wizards, futurists.
RoboCop made money (£50 million in the US alone), and everybody hopes that RoboCop II will do at least as well. But they are in it for love — obsessive love. Between rehearsals they crouch down among the cables, the webbing, the gizmo wagons and gadget trolleys and gimmick barrows, the cans of engine enamel, the bottles of Havoline. They talk about the film — 'the show' — with almost parental earnestness and cautious pride, as if they were preparing an enormous machine, or an enormous robot, for smooth functioning, fully tuned and 'tweaked'. Someone is going around with a box of Noisebuster earplugs. We help ourselves. One of the redetailed Ford Taurus turbocruisers is about to blow. 'Not the "beauty car" — the one nearest camera - but the oldest car,' Paul Sammon tells me. 'They might not get it done in time, but if they don't they'll want to do something else noisy.' The atrocious detonation comes and goes, and the team gets ready to do it all again.
'Wetdown,' says Irvin Kershner — Kersh — to his assistant. 'WETDOWN,' says his assistant. There ensues, of all things, a long delay, as every inch of the set is hosed with water. The set is regularly wetdowned to give it a glossy, slinky, noiry look — also to preserve continuity, in case it rains. 'BEEF . . . MORE BEEF.' On conies the beef: unsmiling figures who all seem to be called things like Tug and Tiff and Heft. The beef on RoboCop H, you feel, will be better beef than usual, real thinking man's beef, the most skilled and dedicated beef you can buy.
That night's shoot spluttered on until 4 am, but Jon Davison is at his desk early the next morning. Like all on-the-job moviemen he has an air of exalted exhaustion, of priestly fatigue. 'The whole thing was awful the first time around,' Davison croaks. 'Robo himself just didn't work visually. You know: his ass moved in a funny way, he looked smaller than the women. But now . . . it's all going along.' Nobody knows exactly how much the first movie's frisson owed to its director, Paul Verhoeven, and his 'neurotic elan', in the phrase of one team-member (here are some other phrases: 'He's a wildman.' 'A sick genius.' 'A real extremist.' 'Bananas.' 'Nuts'). 'Kersh', says Davison, with some concern, 'is, of course, much less violent than Paul .. .' Kersh is also sixty-seven; and at present he is too busy to sleep, let alone be interviewed. There is a feeling that Kersh will have to be kept an eye on. He may have a weakness for the light. Others, then (the deep talent), will have to make sure it's heavy.
The floors of the production offices are heaped with Fed Ex envelopes and copies of Variety, but the walls are papered with fanatically exact 'storyboards' of the scenes to come, frame by frame. The drawings remind you of RoboCop's imaginative origins: comic books. Comic books, given flesh, and metal - given hard life. 'What made you choose Peter Weller?' I asked. I wondered if it had anything to do with his mouth (his only visible feature for much of the film) and what my wife described as the 'unerotic perfection' of its cupid's-bow lips. 'His mouth? No! Peter was chosen because no other actor would do it.' Like all surprise successes, RoboCop was something of a lucky accident. It gathered the right people at the right place at the right time. Davison put them there. He is the puppet-master - or rather the master of the puppeteers: Verhoeven, Weller, the designers and animators, right the way down to all the unsung eggheads at Dream Quest, Praxis, Intervideo, Screaming Lizard and Visual Concept Engineering.

RoboCop was a genuine original. All its admirers know this, and even its detractors partly sense it. RoboCop was doubly futuristic. As a movie, and as a vision, it wasn't just state-of-the-art. It was also state-of-the-science: when you see its twirling rivets and burnished heat-exchangers, when you hear its venomous shunts and succulent fizzes, you suspect that the future really might feel like this — that it will act this way on your very nerve-ends. Technology is god in RoboCop, but it is also the villain, with its triumphant humourlessness, its puerile ingenuity, its dumb glamour. And that ambivalence explains why RoboCop's special effects had a special effect.
Also a special affect. To define: affect means 'feeling tone'; and affectlessness means 'no feeling tone' - no heart. And the heartlessness of our response to the RoboCop future is most noticeable, of course, when we confront the movie's extreme violence. American children laugh at Rambo because they don't yet know what violence means, because they shouldn't be watching Rambo (what, you wonder, will their children be laughing at?). The hoods in RoboCop — and in most American thrillers of the past twenty years — laugh as they kill and rape and devastate because this is the expression of their anti-ethics, their sociopathology. But we laugh at the violence in RoboCop, even though we really should know better. We laugh because we have no response to it. We laugh to fill the silence, to fill the vacuum, like embarrassed Japanese.
Take the celebrated and show-stealing scene in the corporation boardroom, when the grinning VP introduces the executives to his latest concept in 'urban pacification', Enforcement Droid 209. An android is supposedly 'a robot with human form', but there is nothing humanoid, or even organic-looking, about ED 209, whose otherness is in fact emphasised by its weird borrowings from the animal kingdom: the shape of the 'face' (killer whale), its warning growl (angry black leopard), its squeal of distress (dying pig). By way of demonstration, the VP asks a young executive to raise a gun at ED 209 'in a threatening manner'. The robot jerks into its attack mode, and says, in its warped baritone (the voice is actually Jon Davison's, slowed and distorted), Please put down your weapon. You have twenty seconds to comply. The executive complies, but the machine advances, citing the appropriate penal violation before announcing, with robotic probity, I am now authorised to use physical force.
There instantly follows a scene of startling butchery, partly cut by the censors, in which ED 209 applies physical force — with twin machine-guns. 'We always knew that sequence was going to be excessive,' Jon Davison has said. 'I sent somebody down to the local 7-11 to get the biggest ziplock baggies they had; and then we filled them with blood.' In the footage submitted to the MPAA, the executive's corpse received an additional 200 rounds. 'I thought it was funny and the preview audience thought it was funny. The censors didn't think it was funny. The result was that they took something that was basically funny and turned it into something horrifying.' Actually, the comic element survives. Where there is no affect, there is no horror. And we laugh because there's nothing else to do.
But our laughter isn't entirely wanton. I finally met up with ED 209, in one of the unit's prop shops. It looks smaller than it does on screen, and slightly bedraggled: one of its gun-arms was ripped off while it was making a PR appearance at a Los Angeles theatre. But it still inspires real menace and amusement, because of the integral brilliance of its design. This is ED's creator, Craig Davies:

I did include things that were my own digs at what I see as a really lame current corporate design policy. For instance, there are four huge hydraulic rams on the legs, even though a creature like ED wouldn't need nearly that many. So it's like complete redundancy - a true corporate product.

The violence of RoboCop isn't the 'poetic' violence of, say, Peckinpah. It is 'sweet' violence: violence as technological fix. When we laugh at ED 209, we laugh at corporate overkill, corporate literalism. Here is a death-dealer with a heart made by Yamaha: thoroughly sophisticated, thoroughly murderous, and thoroughly moronic. When we laugh at ED 209, we laugh at something that already exists in the present and eagerly awaits us in the future. The future won't just happen: it will be our creation, our machine.

The time had come to do the star interview — a nervous interlude. Peter Weller was chosen for RoboCop because he was the only actor who would do it. For the sequel, naturally, he is the only actor who would do. This is a period of what Hollywood calls 'dignity' for Peter. Already, the night before, Paul Sammon and I had tiptoed to the Star trailer. Covertly we watched Peter limbering up in his cycling shorts, his face already 'gone' in Robo's numb glaze. We tiptoed away again. For RoboCop, also, must come close to affectlessness incarnate. Not quite incarnate, because he is part machine. And not quite affectless, because he is still a man.
There are three distinct phases in the evolution of a movie star. Stage 1 represents the swirling, gaseous years of ambition, fever, hard work. In Stage 2 (the briefest stage: you might call it 'Denial'), the star solidifies and heats up, all the time pretending that nothing irreversible is happening to him. Stage 3 brings the nuclear burning of full deity; hereafter, no mortal can ever really look his way. Peter Weller is halfway through Stage 2, still struggling somehow to combine stardom with his original identity. It can't be done. Such laws are universal. The old Peter will be lost for ever in the cosmic fire. And then the star awaits its final destiny: white dwarf, red giant, black hole.
Wonderfully opaque and stylised on the screen as RoboCop, Peter Weller, in real life, is all affect: it's like being in a room, or a trailer, with about fifty different people. Simon Schama's new study of the French Revolution is cracked open on the table; so is Teach Yourself French; so is Teach Yourself Italian. He puts down his trumpet, looks up from the stack of inspirational videos (Ivan the Terrible) and shouts out of the window for more classical CDs. His feeling-tone is intense; but so is his muscle-tone. He hums with vigour. I would too, I suppose, if I got up at three and ran 16 miles every morning, which Peter does, before settling down to his two-hour make-up session. What with one thing and another, he's neglecting his yoga and karate and aido - or was it his ashinto, or akimbo? 'He's a maniac,' says Moni, Peter's mime coach, admiringly. 'Very systematic.'
'The patience factor on number one was nuts,' says Weller, in his hybrid style. 'It took ten hours just to get into the suit. Then five. Then four. Now it's one-and-a-half. Robo II is easier because we're over the hump of making this shit work. There's a Harvard professor who teaches RoboCop in a course on the Hellenistic hero. But I tell you, it's heroic just to be in that suit. The real preparation went much deeper. Moni and I worked our ass off, man.'
I believed it. There is nothing accidental about the strange beauty of RoboCop in motion; the effect is fully thought out, and fully achieved. Like many others on the team, Weller is more than a perfectionist. He is an absolutist. For him, it is a kind of liberation, and not a hindrance, to do all his acting with his neck. 'Did you have any doubts about doing the sequel?' I routinely asked. 'Now that you're a major - '
'Now that I'm a major shit, you mean?' He smiled brightly. 'No. I didn't worry about the dangers of all that career shit. I thought: Do I want to judge up all that jazz?'
'What's the key to the part? For you.'
'Aside from executing the physicality of the robot - I think of him as like a guy with amnesia. That's the only plane on which I address this character.'
Later, Weller arrives on the set in a caddycart; he stands there, holding the rail — a modern Steve Reeves, on a modern chariot. An entire truck-sized cooling unit is trained on him as his dressers do the final clip-on and polish. Additional helpers attend to his itches and aches and stiffnesses. He looks charged. He is the man. Like the creation he plays, though, Weller is only partly human now; to some extent, inevitably, he is product. The lost-self theme works so powerfully on us — perhaps we all feel it. Perhaps, as we speed into the future, we all feel that something has been left behind.

RoboCop II was being made by a kind of brotherhood - a brotherhood of know-how and can-do — and on the set there was an attempt at a kind of moose secrecy. One of Paul Sammon's duties was to thwart paparazzi ('They want shots of The Monster. Or Peter without his suit on'). Similar interdictions apply to the script, I'm not allowed to quote from it. But presumably I'm allowed to praise it.
The author is another boy-genius, Frank Miller, who wrote the cult comic book Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. He is perfectly placed to expand and deepen the RoboCop idea; he understands how 'this unique creation' vibrates with myth, everything from Frankenstein to Captain Marvel. RoboCop II will feature the same underlit corporate boardrooms, the 'mediated' reality of ads and newscasts, the same reflexive corruption and passionless violence. The script also offers us a more pained and plangent hero, and two resonant new villains: a murderous twelve-year-old drug baron, and RoboCop II itself - the heir, not of RoboCop, but of ED 209, the latest concept in machine literalism, machine justice. Frank Miller has seen the future. And it sucks.
On the last night I patrolled the set with Paul Sammon. We quizzed and banished a lady 'onlooker' with a four-foot lens on her camera. The street audience had already gathered for the night's viewing ('They're going to blow that one'). All around, monitoring the set, was the city's superstructure and its real personnel: real firemen, real cops.
And beyond them, meanwhile, on the higher ramps, the young rollerskaters loop and glide, remote and self-possessed. Ironically, these incurious youths are themselves much talked about and widely celebrated; magazine articles have been written about them. They exude calm and indifference and silent esprit de corps: immaculately affectless. They are the audience of the future. They will watch the RoboCop double bill with no response at all — without a tremor, without a smile, without a flinch of recognition.

Premiere, 1990

the whole book is here: http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/1002554/Amis_Martin_-_Visiting_Mrs_Nabokov_and_Other_Excursions.html

Wonderfully opaque and stylised on the screen as RoboCop, Peter Weller, in real life, is all affect: it's like being in a room, or a trailer, with about fifty different people. Simon Schama's new study of the French Revolution is cracked open on the table; so is Teach Yourself French; so is Teach Yourself Italian. He puts down his trumpet, looks up from the stack of inspirational videos (Ivan the Terrible) and shouts out of the window for more classical CDs.

lol

can you fly bobby?