Two hours. That’s the runtime I pondered reclaiming after sitting through Godzilla: King of the Monsters. What begins as a delightfully cheesy spectacle of colossal creatures quickly devolves into an exhausting barrage of monster mayhem, unsure of when to take a bow. Just when you think the curtain is about to fall, another pseudo-scientific explanation emerges, prolonging the narrative and leading us to yet another earth-shattering climax. Even the obligatory post-credits scene feels like overkill – a dance that goes on far too long.
The story, in essence, revolves around the awakening of Mothra. A misguided military intervention ignites a global chain reaction, unleashing a quartet of Toho Studio’s iconic monsters, now dubbed Titans: Godzilla, the three-headed Ghidorah (Monster Zero), the majestic Mothra, and the fiery Rodan. While the premise of these titans engaging in a colossal clash sounds promising, the execution feels more like a clumsy monster mash than a graceful “Godzilla Dance.”
But can a monster movie truly suffer from an excess of monsters? In the case of Godzilla: King of the Monsters, the answer, unfortunately, is yes. As the titans engage in their earth-shaking battles, the spectacle becomes strangely detached and devoid of genuine tension. The intended awe and terror morph into a numbing sensation. Perhaps a younger audience might be more enthralled, but even that feels questionable. The elaborate “godzilla dance” of destruction ultimately lacks rhythm and impact.
King of the Monsters Clash
Adding to the film’s woes are the underdeveloped human characters. We have a scientist (Vera Farmiga) haunted by a past Godzilla encounter, her estranged husband (Kyle Chandler) grappling with grief, and their daughter (Millie Bobby Brown), caught in the familial crossfire. A roster of esteemed actors, including Ken Watanabe, Ziyi Zhang, Bradley Whitford, and Charles Dance, are relegated to roles as exposition-dumping scientists and stoic authority figures. Bradley Whitford, thankfully, injects some much-needed levity with his stream of witty remarks, offering brief moments of respite from the titan-sized tedium.
While I wouldn’t claim to be a connoisseur of classic Japanese monster movies, this overstuffed rendition makes me yearn for the simpler charms of the originals. The vintage Godzilla, portrayed by an actor in a rubber suit with rudimentary special effects, possessed an unpretentious appeal and a mercifully concise runtime. Those films, despite their limitations, were genuinely entertaining. Sadly, those days of uncomplicated monster movie fun seem to be long gone, replaced by bloated spectacles that mistake excess for excitement and leave you longing for a less exhausting “godzilla dance”.
