Like recent apocalyptica (Book of Eli, Oblivion), Dawn of the Planet of the Apes delivers the future through linear narrative and little context (geographic, political). Beneath the film’s vindictive semi-automatics, San Fran Endor, and human-like expressions (humans, by the way, are apes, but Hollywood repudiates phylogeny) lies another thin take on one-dimensional man. He’s territorial and gun-crazy. Perhaps a post-sapien world doesn’t permit one-dimensional dystopia as Herbert Marcuse saw it: technological rationalization, consumer irrationalization, and the deluge of “unfreedom” that naturalizes both. Even so, these missed complexities are far less egregious than Dawn’s feeble Oedipal relations, that between Caesar and his rebellious son, “Blue Eyes,” and the scarred, Scar-like (less Claudius-like) adjutant Koba. Oedipus Rex may be as old as simian flu, but that shouldn’t mean a flat rendering of the myth. Dawn’s excellent actors (Serkis, Clarke, and Russell) do not deserve the betrayal.