Review: Ghosts of Mars

In the past, I often made it a point to watch at least one John Carpenter film on Halloween night (though a double feature was always preferable). For various reasons, my commitment to the informal tradition has lapsed over time, but the Criterion Channel’s recent curated retrospective of the certified Master of Horror’s work provided a convenient excuse to return to it. Rather than revisit an old, tried-and-true favorite (e.g., The Thing, They Live), however, I decided to reevaluate a critical flop that I, like so many others, had previously dismissed.

Ghosts of Mars is, in essence, a remix of the director’s greatest hits—the cinematic equivalent of reheated leftovers. The basic premise, for example—a ragtag band of survivors is besieged by a gang of bloodthirsty lunatics—is recycled from Assault on Precinct 13 without alteration. Ice Cube’s character—a reluctantly heroic convict—is likewise virtually identical to Escape from New York’s Snake Plissken. Even the sci-fi setting and satirical tone owe an enormous debt to Dark Star, Carpenter’s early collaboration with writer Dan O’Bannon (who would, of course, later pen Ridley Scott’s Alien).

Unfortunately, Ghosts of Mars is significantly less than the sum of its parts. Indeed, its familiar tropes merely emphasize Carpenter’s apparent lack of investment in the material; the film is little more than a shadow—a hollow, lethargic imitation of its iconic predecessors. The choppy editing (which frequently utilizes bizarre cross-dissolves to trim literal seconds out of otherwise interminably long takes) suggests that insufficient footage was captured during principal photography, necessitating awkward shortcuts to conceal the absence of adequate coverage. The performances are stiff and wooden across the board; the actors seem utterly lost—desperate for guidance that simply wasn’t forthcoming on set. And the atmosphere? As inert as the vacuum of space; you could slice through the tension with one of those flat, dull spoons that the Mister Softee driver gives you when you order an Italian ice.

Still, Ghosts of Mars isn’t entirely devoid of merit. At the very least, it epitomizes that endearingly kitschy B-movie charm that has all but vanished in the current era of indistinguishable, commodified, made-for-streaming “content” (I believe the kids nowadays refer to it as “slop”). Despite its numerous blemishes, it actually has a distinct visual identity—albeit one that closely resembles bargain bin heavy metal album covers and FMV cutscenes from a forgotten FPS video game. It is, in short, a solidly decent Paul W. S. Anderson flick.

The problem is that it was directed by John fucking Carpenter, a bona fide legend capable of so much better.