Philadelphia Weekly

Share this Story:

Prequels are the bane of science fiction. There’s something about the richness of fantasy worlds that compels folks to fill in the gaps that creators once wisely left to our imagination. More often than not these are exercises in diminishment, chipping away the wonder that gave these works their mythological pull in the first place. Is it even possible to watch Star Wars now without picturing Darth Vader as a snot-nosed teenage brat?

But JJ Abrams’ Star Trek reboot is a delightful surprise. I haven’t been alone in mocking this picture, sight unseen, for months now. It takes lot of gall to recast characters as iconic as Captain Kirk and Mister Spock with fresh-faced barely knowns, promising in the annoying ad campaign that “this is not your father’s Star Trek.” Intrepid YouTubers have hilariously rescored the trailer with theme songs from Beverly Hills 90210 and Muppet Babies, while the Internet roars with accusations of heresy from Trekkies in their mothers’ basements across the land.

The punch line is: No matter what the TV commercials and billboards might say, this really is your father’s Star Trek. Sure, there’s a fresh coat of CGI paint, and everybody’s impossibly good-looking in a modernized, metrosexual sorta way, but Abrams has captured the upbeat sense of adventure that defined Gene Roddenberry’s original 1960s series. More than any Trek project in decades, this one conjures the camaraderie, the easy humor and most important the swagger we associate with headstrong Jim Kirk and his logical, pointy-eared pal. Rare for a landscape dominated by dour popcorn blockbusters, this one isn’t afraid to be fun.

Chris Pine is saddled with the unenviable task of strapping on William Shatner’s girdle and playing the young, cocky Kirk without benefit of easily imitated dramatic pauses. It’s no small feat bringing the Enterprise captain’s larger-than-life bravado to the fore without teetering into camp, but Pine is more than up to the task. He’s not doing a Shatner impression per se, yet he carries himself with a similarly heroic self-regard, walking into every room as if he owns it.

When we meet James Tiberius Kirk, he’s a trouble-making townie, picking bar fights near Starfleet’s Iowa Academy and earning a lecture from Bruce Greenwood’s Captain Christopher Pike, who dares the troubled youth to clean up his act, make something of himself and maybe even boldly go where no man has gone before.

Greenwood is marvelous, bringing just the right touch of glorious, foursquare sincerity when espousing Roddenberry’s utopian ideals. Most science fiction is fixated on grim visions of the future, but Star Trek has always been defined by positivity and hope. I’ve always assumed that the reason its followers are such fanatics is because of this inclusive, aspirational quality, one that might have seemed dated and cheesy just a year ago, but feels rightly timed for the age of Obama.

Kirk’s skirt-chasing antics arouse the ire of Starfleet prodigy Spock, played here by Zachary Quinto with a bit more volatility and angst than expected, especially for fans of Leonard Nimoy’s profound loneliness. Torn between his Vulcan call to logic and his messy human emotions, his Spock is very much a work in progress, and it’s one of the screenplay’s sweeter touches that he and future BFF Kirk instantly despise one another.

You might ask what’s the point, when we all know exactly where this is headed? Well, writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman—previously responsible for the odious Transformers and the idiotic television show Fringe—have devised a crafty solution to prequelitis. A nasty Romulan named Nero (Eric Bana) exploits a rift in the space-time continuum to settle a grudge with the 150-year-old Ambassador Spock (Nimoy, in a lovely cameo). The villain’s planet-crushing antics also lay waste to four decades of Trek canon, sending this young crew off on an alternate timeline with a clean slate. In other words, anything can happen.

Much like the terrific Casino Royale, Abrams’ Star Trek finds ingenious ways to serve up familiar pleasures in ways that feel fresh. All the phaser battles, sexy green girls and transporter-beam antics you’d expect are present and accounted for, just with slightly unexpected spins.

By the closing credits, that beloved original crew of the Enterprise (including Karl Urban’s uncanny Bones McCoy and Simon Pegg’s hilarious Scotty) is at last assembled on the bridge, warping out for what we hope will be a happy series of sequels. May they live long and prosper.