Dir: Jonathan Liebesman


Sunday morning cartoon time in the houses of millions of tv hungry kiddie winks got a lot weirder in the late 1980s; Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird‘s comic book about 4 catchphrase spewing mutated turtles named after renaissance painters who were raised by a kung fu master rat, fed pizza and fought crime in the sewers was an immediate smash hit when it was beamed all over the world. Whom ever you are, reading this, you may have found memories of the show, maybe memories of your younger self out in the back yard wielding a broom handle in front of your terrified parents; A handkerchief with holes cut out of it around your face. For example. You might also have realised more recently, if you’ve ever attempted to watch the show again, just how spectacularly, undeniably bad it was; Nothing more than a hideous franchising dream come true which can now be unfortunately seen by those same obsessed children as adults for the idiotic piece of fast food sponsored twaddle it was.

But if you really want or need the absolute realisation that our generations bad memories and nostalgia are nothing more than precious and intangible sugar-coated trinkets to be snatched and molested by executive producer Michael Bay and hung in his trophy room, look no further than Jonathan Liebesman‘s complete waste of money, talent, space, time and, ultimately, life. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles really stands proudly among a few other filmic brain tumours this year, high-fiving and grinning, completely oblivious to how terrible it is. The plot, as above, contains little change, the “humour”, beyond the premise, is a flat as a pancake and the over-cut computer generated action scenes are akin to firing the sparks from a welding torch into your eyeballs.

The fearless reporter April O’Neil (Megan Fox) is reduced to a typical Michael Bay “femme terrible”, cowering behind burning bits of metal and hulking green turtle muscles, screeching. Of course she gets a chance or two to bend over (if the scene calls for it) with Liebesman’s camera and a gawking Will Arnett as her cameraman lingering far, far too long. Once the mean green fighting machines enter the picture to rid the world of the giant robotic samurai named Shredder any semblance of any character becomes secondary to the screeching sound FX and the endless clattering amphibian pixel orgies. You’re better off living with your memories and shunning this raging tidal wave of junk. Ah nostalgia! you magnificent sweet lying bastard.