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Stargate
(1994)
When the German sci-fi filmmaker Roland Emmerich, having just scored a big hit with Universal Soldier after a string of low-budget productions, co-wrote and directed Stargate, it was in many ways the birth of a new kind of Hollywood monster: bombastic storytelling, extravagant visual effects, huge money splashed around – and big stars onboard, despite Emmerich’s inescapable B-movie sensibilities. That the result turned out to be not only a spectacle, but also a real adventure with a certain human touch was a modest confirmation that Emmerich wasn’t just a one-trick pony. The first part of Stargate is inspired filmmaking, consisting of clever ideas imbued with historical relevance and emotional resonance. The introduction of a typically fascinating James Spader character forms an effective starting point, and off we go on a combined space travel and anthropology lesson that will likely capture your interest – at least for a while. Not for the first or last time, Emmerich is guilty of rushing through the scientific elements of his story and quickly becomes preoccupied with animosity and warfare. No matter the amount of invention on display, both Hollywood and Emmerich always tend to fall back on the good ol' gunfight to settle the score. Still, the human element of Stargate elevates the experience. The film has a naïvely uplifting message – that any oppressor is only ever one collective revolt away from collapse. The power of union, love, and the human condition is proudly held aloft to sway and move you – if not quite to tears, then at least to a certain wide-eyed engagement.
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