Last week, I wrote about some of the crappy movies awaiting us this summer. But there are so many, I’ve had to take two whole weeks just to gripe about them. Below, I continue my rant about the disappointment that is the summer movie season.

Movie that may once and for all prove Steven Spielberg is the Antichrist: A.I. Finally! I was beginning to think it would never happen! Someone of importance has stepped forward and declared that, yes, Steven Spielberg is overrated. Last week at the Cannes Film Festival, French director Jean-Luc Godard declared that he didn’t consider Spielberg’s films to be terribly good—something that the main character in Godard’s new film apparently reiterates in much harsher terms. Well, I’m here to say that I’m with him 100 percent.

There’s little question that Steven Spielberg was, at one point in his life, a talented director, and a couple of his movies deserve to be considered among the best ever made. His films up through E.T. exemplify everything he’s best at: smart, imaginative, escapist entertainment. Jaws and Raiders of the Lost Ark are classics, and Close Encounters of the Third Kind is one of the best of the science-fiction genre.

But after E.T. made more money than most Third World countries’ annual gross domestic product, something changed. Apparently, Spielberg needed an Oscar for doing “serious” work. So he decided to water down Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, and since then he has managed to compromise the art of dramatic filmmaking just as effectively as he created the summer blockbuster with Jaws. Even Schindler’s List, an admirable project in many ways, had to resort to manipulating our emotions by throwing in scenes of Schindler’s repentance, which in real life apparently never happened.

If any director had no use for sentimentality, it was Stanley Kubrick. A resolute pessimist, the guy didn’t seem to have a lot of faith in humanity. A.I. is adapted from a screen treatment that the methodical Kubrick had been working on for nearly two decades. He and Spielberg had discussed the project, and after he died, Spielberg took it over. I can’t say what exactly was in the treatment, but if it was anything like Kubrick’s previous work, I’d guess that this futuristic Pinocchio tale would have been another of his thought-provoking meditations on man’s relationship with technology. But the trailer for the Spielberg version, with its garish set designs, cuddly robots, and overbearing John Williams score, represents everything Stanley Kubrick seemed to be against.

Spielberg claims that he wanted to honor the memory of his friend and a master of film by finishing this project. I think he just wanted to steal a good idea and ruin it.

Movie for which you can’t hold Steven Spielberg entirely responsible: Jurassic Park III Last week, I said that Pearl Harbor represented everything reprehensible about big-budget summer schlock. Jurassic Park III is the same thing, except that everybody involved went into it relying on a formula to do all the work for them. Acting only as an executive producer on this film, Spielberg clearly just wanted a paycheck without all the hassles of directing.

But apparently he wasn’t the only one uninterested in doing actual work. Reports from the set maintain that actors and crew went into filming with literally almost no script. Changes were made on a daily basis, and nobody seemed to know what was going on. Actor William H. Macy was even asked to write a scene on one occasion. How do you go into a hundred-million-dollar film without a solid script? You count on a franchise name to do all the work for you—and end with something on the level of Friday the 13th VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan.

Lamest comeback attempts from so-called indie filmmakers: Made, Sidewalks of New York, and Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back In the mid-’90s, after Pulp Fiction made it cool to be an indie filmmaker, several writers/directors managed to turn so-so movies into big hits. Kevin Smith, Ed Burns, and Jon Favreau all cranked out conventional movies in indie, low-budget clothing. But instead of being inspired by B-movie flicks or obscure Hong Kong movies, all three seemed more likely to be influenced by the almighty Spielberg. Since then, they’ve all struggled to turn out another success—which is why this summer each director is attempting to reaffirm his supposedly rebel status.

In 1994, Smith cranked out Clerks for $27,000 and earned an instant reputation for being a brash writer confronting gender politics with crude honesty. Then he made Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma, and viewers quickly realized that his crude honesty was really just shallow immaturity. Smith’s new film supposedly lampoons his movies—which, after his previous three, would seem a little redundant.

Burns, meanwhile, first scored with the sensitive-male totem The Brothers McMullen and then proceeded to turn out a series of movies that made Smith look like a feminist. To combat the dismal failure of those follow-ups, he became a New York-smartass-for-hire and played the same role in several movies. Now he returns to his sensitive indie roots with Sidewalks of New York. Should be deep.

Finally, Favreau wrote the big buddy comedy Swingers, which was mildly amusing but unfortunately unleashed the limited acting talents of Vince Vaughn. He hasn’t written anything since, choosing instead to concentrate on his acting career with a series of abysmal flicks. This summer he returns with a new script and his directorial debut in Made. This boxer crime caper has possibilities but seems hindered by the irritating presence of “newcomer” Puff Daddy.

Glimmers of Hope: Evolution, Planet of the Apes, Osmosis Jones, and Ghosts of Mars I’ll admit that sometimes mindless brain candy can be just what the doctor ordered, as will hopefully be the case with these four films. The trailers for Evolution aren’t entirely encouraging, but director Ivan Reitman is returning to a genre he pretty much simultaneously created and perfected with Ghostbusters. And it’s the first movie that may showcase David Duchovny’s dry wit, which is what I believe really made him a star on The X-Files.

Planet of the Apes is one of those rare occasions where a remake is put in the right hands—in this case, Tim Burton’s.

The Farrelly brothers tanked big-time last summer with Me, Myself & Irene. This time, with Osmosis Jones, they smartly apply their gross-out humor where it belongs—on the inside of the body. The setup is a little Innerspace redux, but I’m willing to see anything with Bill Murray these days.

Finally, if anybody understands cheap thrills, it’s John Carpenter, director and co-writer of Ghosts of Mars. He makes his own cheesy soundtracks, he’s not afraid of a little gore or nudity, and his dialogue is ripe with hysterical clichés. Sometimes the worse one of his movies is, the better it is. Besides, who would want to miss out on Ice Cube and Pam Grier teaming up to kick some paranormal extraterrestrial ass?

Quotidian Challenge

“Look, I’d had a lovely supper, and all I said to my wife was, ‘That piece of halibut was good enough for Jehovah.’ ”

Be the first to e-mail the origin of this useless bit of trivia to poplife the shame of your name printed in the paper and some free useless crap from the Nashville Scene!

Previous week’s answer: “I ain’t no goddamned son of a bitch! You’d better think about it baby!”—“Where Eagles Dare” by the Misfits.

Winner: Phillip Wallace.