Film Studies: King of the World? More like Sinking in the Underworld

As he grows older, the boyishness of James Cameron begins to turn to arthritis. All right! As an army of the offended and righteous springs up, like steel teeth, I will agree to wait for Terminator 3 (sub-titled, I must warn you, "Rise of the Machines") with an open mind, or at least a mind reliant on the evidence of The Terminator (1984) and Terminator 2 (1991). I want 3 to be a great movie; I abided by the oozing metamorphoses of 2 and its simultaneous and undeniable decline in story interest; I cling to the memory that Terminator was a superb, circular fable, simple yet profound, about the urge to save a child for the sake of the world. And, yes, I did link that to the heartfelt sympathy for both Newt (the stunted girl-child) and Bishop (the ruined android) in Aliens (which is one of the great combat films of our time, at least in the category of Fritz Lang's unrelenting Kriemhild's Revenge, from 1924).

I like James Cameron, more or less. Which is the main reason why I paid $11 and sat in a stupid 3D Imax helmet contrivance for 57 minutes for Ghosts of the Abyss, the latest warning of what Jim has made out of being "King of the World". Call me petty, if you will, but I remember when such a battle-cry heralded getting elephants over the Alps or audiences over the premise that Arnold Schwarzenegger is big and dumb and can hardly speak, let alone think. "King of the World" put the ordinary mortals of that place in terror, or wonder. It was a principle that might command great beauties, inspired music and sheer movie madness.

But now, even diehards have to admit some concern for Iron Jim, the wonder kid from Kapuskasing, Ontario. The boyishness is ingrowing. Not yet 40, he is already on his fifth marriage – let me just refer interested readers to John Ray's Infantilism and Serial Marriage (University of Idaho Press). Oblivious of the fact that his prolonged, if not indignant recreation of one wartime incident, Expedition: Bismarck, only made it to the Discovery Channel, now he has gone Imax and plastic helmets for Ghosts of the Abyss, a ponderous, slow-mo ghost-train dawdle in which nifty, deep underwater cameras prowl through what I'm sure is the wreck of the Titanic all that way down, but which could be the faded art direction sketches for Jim's smash hit of the same name.

Even his fans must concede that Titanic was James Cameron's dullest film to date. In this context, let me add the thought that this new documentary's use of the noun "Abyss" is in rather poor taste, for it leaves followers sadly mindful of The Abyss (1989), a fascinating muddle, but one of those films in which young Jim seemed as interested in people and ideas as in adventure and machines.

I'm sure that Ghosts of the Abyss will get its proper critical depth-charges elsewhere in this paper. Let me just fix on the worrisome sight of grey-haired Cameron staring with such mad scientist awe and concentration at the various computer screens and genius gizmos that he has at his command.

Let me utter the hitherto unspeakable thought: that becoming "King of the World" was actually announced less with elation than relief. For it meant that the exhausted 34-year-old didn't have to work hard anymore.

I know, that seems insulting. Like any boy with a hobby, Jim could assure us that he spends every waking minute (and I will concede sleep-time, too) thinking about getting a camera into every last orifice of a sunken ship. But the story-telling, the characters, the humour – the art, God bless us – they're packed up and put away. Did anyone say "George Lucas", as if to remind us of the terrible fate that overtook the great toy-maker when he stopped directing pictures and devoted himself to furnishing every child's playroom? Yes, he came back eventually – with those dire, dank Star Wars episodes – and the millions came out again, but they all knew that George had lost it. Boyishness had married middle-age – still no cure in sight.

But there will be T-3, you say, later this year. So there will, and it is John Connor grown up, with a slinky female robot supplying the trouble, and Arnold so old that there are breaks in the film for him to be oiled. I exaggerate. But Cameron hasn't directed this film. He shared in the writing, and he rides herd over 10 producers, but the direction has gone to Jonathan Mostow, who did such a tidy boy's own paper job on U-571. Meanwhile Jim presides over inane TV series like Dark Angel, and seems determined to find more wrecked ships for deadhead docs – anyone for the Pequod?

d.thomson@independent.co.uk