I can’t be bothered with the director
I'm at a loss for words. If I were reading this out loud, instead of huddled in the dark typing and trying to avoid watching America's Next Top Model, I'd say I was speechless. Instead, I'm just hovering over the keyboard, trying to decide which fate is worse: to have to relive the cacophonous nonsense of Ultraman, or to watch a bunch of poofs and fag-hags try to convince the viewing public that modeling requires more than long legs and a coke nose. I feel that while America's Next Top Model may be infuriatingly stupid, but thinking about the disordered gibberish that is Ultraman may be capable of finally pushing me over the line separating charming idiosyncrasy and schizophrenia. And as much as I like talking to myself, I'd rather not do so while cutting open my palm in order to mix blood with ropey strands of semen and defecate. Seriously, this movie is mentally ill.
That's the kind of crazy Ultraman inspires. It's an unsettling mess, an entry into the famous Ultraman series of Japanese films, made all the more distressing because it's not a Japanese film. As near as I can tell, this is an Australian movie made to introduce Ultraman to Western audiences. The strategy for said introduction, it seems, is to make a horrible movie in English that requires the viewer to have seen several dozen films in Japanese to understand what's going on. This is not unlike teaching English to Slovakian kids by reading them the third act of Henry V Part II, only with more monster suits. For those who haven't had the pleasure of having their pre-frontal lobe drilled long enough to enjoy Ultraman, the series is like Godzilla mixed with Power Rangers, with all the ridiculousness that implies. Ultraman, the character, is essentially a huge guy in what appears to be an Olympic luge uniform, who fights latex monsters that resemble the Skeksis in The Dark Crystal. I'd love to say that that sentence sums up the plot, but I think trying to explain the actual story would take longer than the film itself. You know when you're talking to, let's say, your niece, trying to take her mind off of what you just did to her so that she won't tell her mother, and she's just rambling on with some story she's making up as he goes along, and it gets more and more bizarre and convoluted the more blood she loses from her now-mangled genitals? That's what this story is like. It's an incoherent, rambling rant, not quite frothy at the mouth, but nowhere near cogent; a screenplay with wanderlust and an unlimited Dexedrine prescription.
I don't know if there's a point describing the plot, or the actors, the characters, the technical aspects of the film, or anything that a film review would normally contain. For to name these things will be to give them power, and this film needs to whither away and die before it starts causing seizures in children. It's like the lost name of God, or the word "Shazam". I dare not speak about the film, lest the earth be torn asunder or I be transformed by a lightning bolt into Captain Marvel, Black Adam, or worse, Ultraman.