Some times, when the trauma becomes too much to bear, the mind just wants to quell all memories associated with it. Believe us, we know, for we just watched The Chronicles Of Riddick. While the ol' brain pleads with us to not relive those moments of absolute anguish, the charitable nature compels us to regurgitate some info - for greater common good, you know.
For a movie that nurses aspirations of creating for itself a niche like the Star Wars, The Chronicles Of Riddick is abysmally disappointing. And that is a compliment. Riddick (from the 2000 release, Pitch Black) still has that built-in night vision, there still is a bounty on his head (and the rest of him), and there still is enough steroid to cure a small country of arthritis.
And we learn an important lesson in sci-fi - just because a sequel can be made doesn't mean it should.
The movie begins with a weird contraption of a space craft chasing Riddick in order to kill him. Riddick, and his brand of smile-less snappy, continues to thrive in a universe that seems to be succumbing, rapidly, to the imperialist Necromongers.
As civilisations lose their souls to the Necros, the grunting anti-hero must save the day. For all the people who like this kinda stuff, this just isn't the kinda stuff they'll like.
And through all the chaos and confusion of blitzkrieg scene-changes, the Oscar Winner Judi Dench (as Aereon) comes along looking ethereal in white, vanishing in and out of the frame. But as you watch this movie, you understand her reluctance to be in.
Thandie Newton plays the ambitious wife of Lord Marshall's second-in-command, goading and egging her husband on to dethroning Marshall. But by now, it is clear that only Riddick can save the universe. And nothing can save this movie.
TCOR includes its share of torture-paraphernalia, gore and claustrophobia-generating movie-sets. But it really has nothing that can be chronicled. It is, in all totality, just noise - incessant, grating on your nerves kind of noise. It has no reason to exist.