If I was a doctor performing a surgery on John Carter, I would have called the film's death about a dozen times. Its heartbeat kept slowing to a snails pace, and its pulse seemed practically non existent; what other choice did I have but to call it quits? I had to shut down the monitor, put away the defillbulator—it was over, and there was nothing I could do to save this film. But right before I would write the time of death, the film's heart rate would suddenly rise, and its pulse would miraculously return! I would be thrilled, entertained even! But before I could even begin to appreciate just how strong a film it was, the heart rate would once again collapse.