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I watched a bit of Jurassic Park this morning in large part because my six-year-old likes the part where the Tyrannosaur bites the tire off of the safari vehicle.
However, from the very beginning, I have always hated Ian Malcolm's pop-culture worship of chaos and the sacred plan of nature. Sure, these both factor into the story in direct ways, but the fancy dressing-up of trite postmodernist bastardization of science really makes me want to vomit.
Malcolm's central premise, that "life breaks out, life finds a way" is only realized because Nedry threw a monkey wrench into the works. From this we can draw one of two basic conclusions (consistent within the framing of the film, that is):
1. "Life" somehow plotted to make Nedry engage in corporate espionage and then foul up the presumptuous system that had the audacity to "fence" Nature in.
or
2. "Life" was simply waiting for the opportunity to exploit a vulnerability, and it would have done so regardless of what that vulnerability might have turned out to be.
The dinosaurs in general are, of course, the proxy for "life" or "nature" in the film, and of the two interpretations above, the latter is arguably less cloying. Of course, we also get the added plot device of a wayward hurricane and gene-mod dinosaurs spontaneously changing sex (a la frogs), not mention their ability to overcome the "so-called lysene contingency" explicitly described in the film. All of these things miraculously line up to clear a path for "life" to "break out." And instead of saying "gosh, that was a hopelessly contrived sequence of events," the reader is expected to say "gosh, life really won't let itself be fenced in."
I'm not arguing for unchecked experimentation at all costs, but given Crichton's late-in-life transformation into a vocal propagandist for horribly bad science, one can't help reading Jurassic Park and his other scripts--I mean novels--without wondering what the ill-concealed agenda might be.
Incidentally, though the film is a fun romp and a technological masterpiece, the story itself is incredibly linear and boils down to "run from the monster." Even in the book, no deeper social commentary is offered or explored. If Crichton had been a novel writer instead of a script-seller, we might have gotten something more engaging. But after his basic idea of harvesting DNA from amber-locked mosquitos, the story does little else to impress.
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