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by Bill Gibron

22 Nov 2007


Though every generation likes to think that they’ve discovered Hollywood’s dirty little secret, the truth is that remakes have been around forever. Back in the silent days, storylines would be revisited time and time again, and once sound reinvigorated the artform, notorious non-talkies were recreated for a sonically sensitive viewership. All throughout the Golden Era, previous hits were reconfigured for new stars and directors, and musicals were made over to keep the Depression/War weary audiences entertained. Though they didn’t call themselves by the now notorious name, the ‘50s and ‘60s were flooded with genre efforts that basically repeated the same narrative ideas and themes ad nauseum, and the ‘70s saw deconstructionist directors take on their Tinsel Town favorites as an experiment in homage/hubris.

Yet over the last few years, the remake has raised its profile significantly, thanks in no small part to the decision by filmmakers to take on well known and beloved projects from the past. When Gus Van Zant decided to soil the reputation of Alfred Hitchcock by creating a shot for shot revamp of his seminal Psycho, buzzers started going off in film fans heads. If such an important movie masterwork could be given such a pathetic post-modern push, what was next? The answer came at the cost of such genre classics as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Black Christmas, and Halloween. While one can debate the validity and viability of these recent retoolings, the words of the late, great Gene Siskel still reverberate – why remake good movies when there are perfectly bad films out there that could use a redux.

In honor of such cinematic wisdom, SE&L presents a few suggestions for lamentable works that could really use an artistic overhaul. With the exception of one genuine gem, the movies discussed here all had promise – at least, when they were originally conceived. But somewhere along the line, their ability to translate said potential into actual motion picture polish went askew. Now, they have a chance for aesthetic redemption – that is, as long as the right combination of creativity and consideration is utilized. If not, God help us all. Let’s begin the discussion with one of the biggest eggs ever laid by a major movie name:

Howard the Duck

Fans of the original source material were excited when it was announced that George Lucas and his production company were taking on the fowl from another planet, given the filmmaker’s still active Star Wars cred. Even when it was discovered that Willard Huyuck would handle the writing/directing chores, there was still optimism. This was the man responsible for helping script American Graffiti and Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. With the standard pre-production security that accompanied ‘fantasy’ films of the era, no one knew what the title character would look like, but with a creative staff like the one at ILM, it promised to be something really special. It turned out to be a little person in a kid’s party outfit. Gone was the gaunt, cigar chomping anti-hero of dozens of cynical comics. In its place was an obvious costume that constantly reminded the viewer they were watching some guy in a suit. Add in the other misguided elements – the bumbling Tim Robbins’ character, Howard’s asexual attraction to co-star Lea Thompson – and you’ve got an abysmal cinematic mess.

In 2007, all of this can be changed. First and foremost, CGI has come such a long way that fully realized characters like Gollum (or any number of Star Wars prequels props) can be rendered in life like, interactive expertise. Howard’s original grating gumshoe qualities can be reinstated, and this new animated version can blend seamlessly into the live action without sticking out like a dwarf in duck duds. Even better, the comic book movie has been reinvented and is now revered by Hollywood, which understands the wealth of goodwill and greenbacks they can earn by giving the fanbase what it wants. All someone has to do is convince Uncle George that this project would be worth his sagging genre reputation (one assumes he still holds the rights) and find the right industry obsessive (Kevin Smith, perhaps) to give this quirky quacker the cinematic respect he deserves. Oh, and one more thing – NO Thomas Dolby electro-pop soundtrack, please!

The Ghost and Mr. Chicken

When Don Knotts walked away from his role as Deputy Barney Fife on the solid ‘60s hit The Andy Griffith Show, he did so with an armload of Emmys, and a huge amount of performer popularity, on his side. Universal, long hoping to tap into that formidable fame windfall, put the actor into a series of specially designed projects, many crafted by the Griffith show’s staff writers. Who better to guide Knotts’ big screen persona than the men who developed it for the boob tube. After the combination cartoon/live action comedy The Incredible Mr. Limpet, the actor next appeared in this wonderful little gem. Using a horror theme (Knotts is a typesetter who investigates a local haunted house, hoping to become a real life reporter) and his personal pliability with physical goofiness, the filmmakers found the right balance between humor and heart. The result is an enduring classic that stands up well, even today. It showcases Knotts’ deft timing, and offers a perfect subject showcase for his shaky shenanigans.

So why remake it? Well, two reasons, actually. It’s a fantastic storyline – a little contrived and clichéd at times, but still effective as a quaint, quirky character study. It would be easy to see someone like Steve Buscemi, or a younger Jeff Goldblum, playing the part of nerdy nebbish Luther Heggs. Both are individuals who can infuse their performances with enough peculiarities and pathos to elevate the material. Secondly, special effects have grown so in the last 40 years that the haunted house element of the narrative can really be explored. The notion of a small town tainted by a towering estate with an evil past has a delightfully discordant ring to it, and done properly, the contrast between comedy and creeps can be winningly maintained – similar to the way the divergent emotions were equalized in Edward Scissorhands. In fact, if Tim Burton and Johnny Depp are looking for another project to participate in, this would be right up their alley.

The Sentinel (1977)

In 1975, two books dominated the genre fiction landscape. One was Stephen King’s vampires in a small town tome ‘Salem’s Lot. The other was Jeffrey Konvitz’s The Sentinel. Centering on a New York supermodel and her brownstone apartment (that just so happens to be poised precariously over the actual gates of Hell), it was a nasty little gem, a pure page turner with gore and gratuity in abundance. Naturally, fans who favored flocking to the Cineplex to get their spine tingled couldn’t wait for an adaptation. Sadly, what arrived in 1977 was a toothless, watered down version of what Konvitz created – and oddly enough, he was responsible for the inept, uninvolving screenplay. Part of the problem with the big screen translation was the terrible casting. Christina Raines defined blandness as the helpless heroine, and director Michael Winner (a Brit, hot off the success of Death Wish) decided to pepper the rest of the roles with old school Hollywood heavies like Martin Balsam, John Carradine, Jose Ferrer, Ava Gardner, and Burgess Meredith, among many others. This gave the narrative a lame Love Boat feel. Winner himself was also an issue. He kept the blatant terrors of the novel tented in a veil of ambiguity and subtlety, in direct contradiction to what readers wanted.

With the current trend toward turning every fright flick made in the last 30 years into a pre-tween remake, it’s astounding no one has thought of revisiting this material. In the right hands, you could easily have a menacing mesh of Dario Argento’s Inferno and William Freidkin’s The Exorcist. The book is bursting with sensational scare setpieces, and with the newfound F/X tech, they can be accurately recreated in all their blood drenching glory. Even better, Tinsel Town could easily find a filmmaker more in sync with Konvitz’s sense of splatter. Imagine this property helmed by Sam Raimi, Neil Marshall, or Nacho Cerda – filmmakers who understand the visceral appeal and ambient awfulness in a little arterial spray. And then there is the ending. Since we learn that the title entity stands guard over the entrance, keeping the demons and the damned from roaming the Earth, just visualize the last act spectacle once the doors to Satan’s sin palace swing wide. It’s enough to make true macabre mavens giddy. 

Robot Jox

With the towering success of Michael Bay’s Transformers (a hit despite the prominent display of his much maligned name on the marquee), the time seems ripe to remake this Stuart Gordon sci-fi epic. Granted, the premise is a tad perfunctory: there’s no more war. Country/conglomerates now wage battle as part of a spectator sport where the title ‘athletes’ operate skyscraper sized automatons in rock ‘em, sock ‘em beat downs to the death. But thanks to the undercurrent of espionage (someone is sabotaging the machines to favor one ‘side’ over the other) and the overpowering possibilities of the visuals, we have something that CGI could make truly magnificent. This is not to say that Gordon’s movie is bad. In fact, it’s very good. It’s just hampered by a lack of financing (the production company actually went bankrupts during filming) and limited stop motion animation effects. Add in the lack of true star power – the cast is recognizable, but definitely relegated to the lower tiers of celebrity – and a basic b-movie feel, and you’ve got a project ripe for rediscovery.

In fact, Bay may be the perfect person to head up the remake. He has a tendency to inflate everything he does with an elephantine sense of importance, and he’s comfortable carving insular universes out of recognizable reality. Unlike The Island, which tried for future shock and wound up delivering flaccid schlock, Bay could really explore the dynamics of a planet gone playground, a world were a no holds barred rumble between giant machines determines the fate of nations. One can easily see the old Soviet iconography and new American jingoism being incorporated into the mix, and with the right set of actors – why does the name Nicholas Cage immediately come to mind? – this could be both monumental and meaningful. Indeed, Robot Jox is one of the few off title properties that carries a lot of inherent commentary possibilities. This means Bay could make something important for once, whether he realizes it or not.

The Incredible Melting Man

When Rick Baker was still an unknown scrub, drinking in the discerning genius of movie make-up guru Dick Smith, he was asked to participate in this peculiar project, a mid ‘70s update of a standard ‘50s sci-fi shocker. His mandate – create the title character in all its goo glop glory. And he did just that, much to the joy of slimy sluice fans everywhere. Too bad the film surrounding the slowly disintegrating astronaut was so lame. Filled with unintentional humor, oddball tangents, and a lack of other onscreen grue (while the man’s melting could be shown, his grizzly murders could not) the results are as ridiculous as they are repugnant. After a few play dates in the still standing passion pits and last remaining urban grindhouses, the film went on to obscurity, disdain, and in some outsider environs, considered cult status. It eventually achieved a newfound, if noxious, appreciation as part of a classic installment of the TV phenom Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Still, it’s a wonderful idea, and if handled by the appropriate genre guide, we could have a new installment of the one time fashionable “double dare” entertainment. For a little background context – back at the beginning of the ‘80s, when the VCR made make-up and physical effects the scare sets cause celeb, movies were made that tested the mantle of the average moviegoer with their over the top, exploitative gore. Examples included Lucio Fulci’s Zombi and City of the Living Dead/Gates of Hell, as well as John Carpenter’s version of The Thing. Their reputation as notorious, noxious examples of excess had fans challenging each other, putting their love of all things red and revolting to the true eye gouging, skull drilling, head-bursting test. In the considered hands of someone like Eli Roth, or Rob Zombie (two filmmakers who get the groove of outrageous offal), we could have a new puke paradigm on our hands. 

Nightbreed

Clive Barker wanted it to be “the Star Wars” of horror films. After successfully bringing his brilliant Hellraiser to the silver screen, he eyed his “monsters among us” novella Cabal as his next project. It was to be big and brash, the culmination of his reality based repugnance (ala the beloved Books of Blood) and love of all things fanciful and foul. Using up his entire cache of industry interest and filmmaking favors (remember, this was only his second full length feature behind the lens), he envisioned an epic terror tale dealing with psychopathic serial killers, hidden underworlds, and misunderstood menace. He even got body horror icon David Cronenberg to step before the camera as one of this main leads. Production was problematic, with cost overruns and budget concerns cranking down the creativity. Similarly, scope had to be scaled back and many of the more important moments in the film (the descent into the bowels of Midian, with all its accompanying creatures) had to be trimmed or merely tossed away. When it was all over, the studio hated what they saw, and buried the film via a short spring release.

Except for the lack of support, Barker no longer faces the massive monetary concerns that held the original Nightbreed back. CGI and other effects are relatively inexpensive, and can be mastered by any one of several outside the industry artists. Even better, DVD has made incomplete movies like this a much more saleable commodity. If Barker could just get his hands on the missing film reels, restructure the storyline, and fix it all up with some computer generated jazziness, he might have something. Even better, he could just give up the notion of revamping the film himself, and let someone else tackle the actual literary source. Cabal is one of the author’s best works, and in the hands of someone equally in tune with what Barker was after – say, Peter Jackson? – the possibility exists for the epic the author always hoped for. Of course, as the prequels proved, the Star Wars comparison can be restrictive at best. Perhaps reconfiguring it as “the Lord of the Rings of the macabre” would be a good place to restart.

by Bill Gibron

20 Nov 2007


For the long holiday weekend beginning 21 November, here are the films in focus:

The Mist [rating: 8]

The Mist is destined to go down as a modern horror classic.

The indirect partnership of author Stephen King and writer/director Frank Darabont remains one of film’s most fascinating. Somehow, after crafting several genre scripts (for the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, the Blob remake, and the Fly sequel), the soon to be cinematic savoir hooked up with George Lucas, working on the heralded Young Indiana Jones Chronicles. Yet Darabont never forgot his earlier experiences crafting a short film out of King’s least supernatural story, the autobiographical cancer tale The Women in the Room. From there, he was determined to tackle another obscure tale from the fear master’s canon- the prison drama Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption. The results, considered by many to be a mid-90’s masterpiece, cemented his status as the ultimate interpreter of King’s work. Even the slightly bloated Green Mile couldn’t undo his reputation. read full review…

Enchanted [rating: 7]

Enchanted is a sugar spun delight. It’s as fluffy as a bunch of newborn bunnies and as cute as an entire collection of buttons.

It’s amazing that the House of Mouse never thought of this before: taking one of their signature, slightly saccharine animated heroines and tossing her – pen and ink pell mell – into the modern world. Via careful character matching, or the company’s patented cartooning techniques, this forlorn beauty could come in contact with some real metropolitan beasts. Even better, the anthropomorphic world of 2D fantasy could come crashing into the realities of a 3D world, with lots of satiric hi-jinx ensuing. And just imagine if, for once, Disney had a sense of humor about it all. Instead of lording over its legacy like a deranged demagogue, it could use the effort as a knowing nod and wink to all the critics and complainers who’ve labeled the studio out of touch, both in its aging artistry and its lack of contemporary commercial appeal. Handled properly, you’d be looking at a monster hit – and a celebrated return to form. Well, get ready audiences, because Uncle Walt’s wise men have indeed devised such a stunner – and it’s called Enchanted. read full review…

August Rush [rating: 3]

Heavy-handed, undeniably saccharine, and about as magical as a clown at a kid’s party, August Rush is an implausible, pus-covered pixie stick

Music is given credit for a lot of things. It forms the soundtrack of our lives, has charms to soothe the savage breast, and expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent. It’s our heartbeat, our sense of spirit, and exposes the depth of our very soul. It is also a callous and cruel mistress, messing with us when we don’t want to be manipulated and infusing us with aspirations we may never attain. Because of its excruciatingly personal and private nature (one man’s Beethoven is another’s Ol’ Dirty Bastard), it makes for a rather tenuous cinematic base. While your story may be sublime, the songs or sounds you use to accent it can come across as atonal and discordant. Oddly enough, the exact opposite happens in Kirsten Sheridan’s disastrous August Rush. The melodic moments are some of the best ever captured on film. Too bad the rest of the narrative is as nauseating as a boy band ballad. read full review…

Hitman [rating: 3]

Hitman overstays its welcome from the moment the ammunition starts flying, and never finds a satisfying way of winning us back. It’s dry and dour, so full of itself that you’d swear it was a college athlete.

Come back John Woo – all it forgiven. Sure, Windtalkers was a waste of time, and anything for a Paycheck didn’t demand you lower your standards to brash Benifer levels. No, the adrenaline rushed crime thriller needs you – and with the newly released Hitman ready to louse up theaters worldwide – it’s not a moment too soon. All the lessons you taught us about re-imagined action, about giving the standard fire fight a sly, slow motion significance, have been ignored in favor of big guns, big bangs, and big disappointment. Only you could make this feeble foreign intrigue work, and with the sloppy script and underwhelming cast, it would be a Herculean task. You weren’t sitting in the director’s chair, unfortunately. As a result, the so-called shoot ‘em up turns into a snoozefest.  read full review…

by Bill Gibron

20 Nov 2007


Come back John Woo – all it forgiven. Sure, Windtalkers was a waste of time, and anything for a Paycheck didn’t demand you lower your standards to brash Benifer levels. No, the adrenaline rushed crime thriller needs you – and with the newly released Hitman ready to louse up theaters worldwide – it’s not a moment too soon. All the lessons you taught us about re-imagined action, about giving the standard fire fight a sly, slow motion significance, have been ignored in favor of big guns, big bangs, and big disappointment. Only you could make this feeble foreign intrigue work, and with the sloppy script and underwhelming cast, it would be a Herculean task. You weren’t sitting in the director’s chair, unfortunately. As a result, the so-called shoot ‘em up turns into a snoozefest. 

Born into a weird world of purposefully programmed orphans, Number 47 was raised to be the ultimate lethal weapon. He’s a hired assassin, working for the mysterious ‘Organization’. When a political hit goes array, our killer faces a quandary. Set up by someone and about to take the fall, he needs to find out who framed him – and make sure no one will benefit from it. All roads lead to the initial target (a Russian leader named Belicoff), his drug dealing brother Udre, and a prostitute/potential witness named Nika. After saving the girl from a parallel plot, 47 heads off to find the source of his betrayal. Turns out, the target in question may not be dead after all, and the international intelligence community may be playing a part in all of this. And then there is the Interpol agent named Mike Whittier who has been chasing 47 for three years. All he needs is one lucky break, and he can put this cruel killer away for life.

Hitman overstays its welcome from the moment the ammunition starts flying, and never finds a satisfying way of winning us back. It’s dry and dour, so full of itself that you’d swear it was a college athlete. In a genre not known for its subtlety, cinematic tact, innovation (unless you’re John Woo), or lack of contrivance, this vacant videogame adaptation is a barely passable poster child. It’s the kind of effort that slinks when it should soar, that substitutes brooding for that all important bullet ballet. If the ability to glower successfully was a true underworld asset, the pretentiously named Number 47 would be Tony Soprano. Even worse, a movie named Hitman should revel in its gory, gratuitous killings. It’s the main purpose for inviting an audience. Sadly, screenwriter Skip Woods and director Xavier Gens don’t comprehend the fun in firepower. Instead, they keep pushing the film into political intrigue mode – and in these days of uncertain international ideology, a From Russia with Love storyline feels so Tom Clancy.

With his hairless head, slight physique, and back of the neck barcode tattoo, 47 is a manufactured psycho, a pre-credits sequence providing the only insight into how and why he became the way he is. This material, the most unique and different element Hitman has to offer, is underplayed to the point that we forget it after a few minutes. Even when the character discusses his make-up later on, it takes a second for our brains to recall said reality. Why Woods and Gens would avoid such origin material for more mindless intelligence agency protocol is just one of this film’s failings. In order to make 47 something more than an assassinating automaton, we need to see how he suffered, to witness the inner demons he is constantly dealing with. Instead, the storyline keeps him distant, and therefore dull. Even intriguing clues (a church key, a bag of deadly tricks) become nothing more than throwaway moments.

Of course, if lead Timothy Olyphant were a more present actor, we’d have little to worry about. Hitman was originally planned as a vehicle for Vin Diesel, and say what you want about the limited range lunkhead, but when it comes to action bravado, that cueball has it in spades. Olyphant, on the other hand, is like a kid playing cops and incredibly skilled hired gun. During a mandatory sequence of isolated inner turmoil (expressed best by a steamy shower) we see he has the physique for the job. But instead of the charisma of Chow-Yun Fat circa The Killer, we get someone who looks surprisingly like a refugee from a Euro-trash version of Extreme Makeover, Home Edition. Wisely, Woods gives the character very little dialogue. Instead, 47 is fleshed out by his meticulous attention to death-delivering detail. He is so many steps ahead of his potential captors that we never once fear for his safety – not that we care, actually.

Indeed, the biggest problem with Hitman is its lack of any and all emotional pull. Since 47 is so proficient, there is no suspense. He’s so asexual that when slinky Soviet sexpot Nika (a wannabe Asia Argento named Olga Kurylenko) straddles him like a stripper, his only response is to drug her and leave. When he’s joking, it barely registers. He’s never outright angry or totally deep in despair. No, 47 is exactly like everything else in Hitman – he’s moderated to the point of meaninglessness. The story, the tone, the action sequences, the plodding plot twists all reflect Gens desire to dilute anything that could conceivably enliven the proceedings. In a film centering around slaughter and the skillful application of same, we expect lifelessness…just not from anything other than the corpses. And yet everything we see and anything we experience is filtered through a lumbering lack of energy.

Still, the fanboys should be happy. Though nothing here can match the vicarious thrill of envisioning you finger on the trigger of a joystick jerryrigged weapon, game devotees will see a lot of their console fave here. And since they are fully ensconced in all aspects of the Hitman mythos, a lack of onscreen depth or explanation won’t really matter. All they require is the recognizable iconography - the tribal symbol logo of the enigmatic “Organization”, the Reservoir Dog style black ensemble, the double barreled defiance of two gleaming guns – and all is well in the PlayStation universe. Filmgoers, on the other hand, don’t have the benefit of endless hours investigating the various nuances of their interactive experience. Instead, they need their information and intrigue plastered across the screen. Sadly, not even blood gets sprayed across the feeble framework provided. Hitman had some minor potential. Too bad the filmmakers decided to temper that as well. 

 

by Bill Gibron

20 Nov 2007


It’s amazing that the House of Mouse never thought of this before: taking one of their signature, slightly saccharine animated heroines and tossing her – pen and ink pell mell – into the modern world. Via careful character matching, or the company’s patented cartooning techniques, this forlorn beauty could come in contact with some real metropolitan beasts. Even better, the anthropomorphic world of 2D fantasy could come crashing into the realities of a 3D world, with lots of satiric hi-jinx ensuing. And just imagine if, for once, Disney had a sense of humor about it all. Instead of lording over its legacy like a deranged demagogue, it could use the effort as a knowing nod and wink to all the critics and complainers who’ve labeled the studio out of touch, both in its aging artistry and its lack of contemporary commercial appeal. Handled properly, you’d be looking at a monster hit – and a celebrated return to form. Well, get ready audiences, because Uncle Walt’s wise men have indeed devised such a stunner – and it’s called Enchanted.

When we first meet the fair Giselle, she’s singing about love’s true kiss in the far off fairytale realm of Andalasia. With the help of her woodland creature friends, she is making an effigy or her dreamboat desire, the spitting image of none other than Prince Edward. Naturally, his highness’s evil mother, Queen Narissa, wants to keep her seat on the throne. If her son gets hitched, he inherits the realm. Hoping to avoid a meeting (and a marriage), she puts loyal servant/sidekick Nathaniel on the payroll. He thwarts Edward every step of the way. Sadly, it’s all for naught. Giselle and her true love meet, and prepare for their wedding. As a last ditch effort, Narissa sends her future daughter-in-law to the one place her boy can’t find her – the real world. Manhattan, New York actually. There, Giselle is ‘rescued’ by a cynical divorce attorney named Robert Phillip. A single dad raising six year old Morgan, he’s been dating the Type-A career gal Nancy for nearly five years. As Edward and Nathaniel head to the big Apple themselves, Giselle tries to teach Robert about love – and starts to discover her true feelings as well.

Enchanted is a sugar spun delight. It’s as fluffy as a bunch of newborn bunnies and as cute as an entire collection of buttons. It features a fantastic, star-making performance by actress Amy Adams, a wicked sense of humor, and enough cartoon/CG spectacle to keep even the most easily distracted tweener happy as a clambake. As an entertainment, it’s beyond chipper. As acknowledgement of the standard fairytale formulas, it’s wonderfully wise. Not really a parody in the traditional sense, Enchanted earns a lot of its wit from shamelessly embracing the archetypes that many feel have deadened hand drawn animation in the last three decades. Toss in a classic score by long time Disney hit maker Alan Menken (working again with lyrical collaborator Stephen Schwartz) and a flawless meshing of animation with actuality, and you’ve got something that stands as a post-modern Mickey-made classic.

The main reason for the movie’s unflappable appeal is lead Amy Adams. While Oscar nominated for her turn in Junebug (how many remember her…or the film?), she is simply astounding here. So perky and upbeat she could make a corpse conga, there is an amazing amount of bright spirit and uncomplicated emotion in this pure, pretty princess. Even when working with New York’s notorious wildlife (a classic moment has her straightening up Robert’s apartment with the aid of cockroaches, flies, rats, and pigeons), she’s snowier than Ms. White and sunnier than a certain Cindy. Without Adams’ dead-on performance, Enchanted wouldn’t work. Instead, it would be Aquamarine. In fact, the closest any previous film comes to this is Ron Howard’s hilarious Splash – and that fabled literal fish out of water tale had the late great John Candy around to keep things rib tickling.

No, what Enchanted has is a noble supporting cast including James Marsden as your typically dense Prince, Susan Sarandon as a workable wicked witch, beefy Brit Timothy Spall as Nathaniel, and a goofy animated chipmunk named Pip that steals every scene he/it is in. Grey’s Anatomy fans might wonder about their favorite manly medico, Dr. Derek “McDreamy” Shepherd. Luckily, Patrick Dempsey is very good here, doing quite a bit with what is, clearly, the film’s most underwritten role. We don’t really see his character’s warming to Giselle as much as expect it, and his last act heroism is oddly uninvolving. Indeed, if Enchanted has a flaw, it’s the lack of an emotional epiphany. Since we are dealing in predictability (it’s part of a cartoon’s model), we know who’s ending up with whom. While getting there is fun, it’s not the three-hanky happiness we could have received.

Still, Kevin Lima deserves as much credit as Ms. Adams for pulling this off. As a director, he worked on previous Disney efforts like A Goofy Movie, Tarzan, and 102 Dalmatians, and he really outdoes himself here. Taking a savvy script by Bill Kelly and introducing all manner of genre in-jokes into the mix, we wind up with a slightly surreal, decidedly non-sappy lark. The musical moments – both drawn and danced – are expertly handled, and Lima really understands how to build a scene. When Pip disrupts a pizza parlor, or a costumed ball clashes with fairytale villainy, we completely buy the jarring juxtaposition. Thanks to the expert performances, the naturally unreal feel of New York itself, the careful controlling of the narrative, and the heartfelt sense of happiness and fun, any minor missteps are instantly forgiven and forgotten.

In a legacy that once saw the studio dominate both the live action and hand drawn cinematic realm, Enchanted is a real renaissance. It proves that Disney was only down, not out, when it came to challenging up and coming classicists like Pixar – and they didn’t need to rely on crass, pop culture heavy efforts like Shrek or Ice Age to restand its ground. Certainly set up to be a frequently revisited future franchise (we get a happily ever after, but there’s clearly more material to explore here), they’ll be no complaining as long as the sensational standards created here are kept. Who would have thought that after a year which saw a formidable Fred Claus, a middling Mr. Magorium, and an underachieving Underdog, that the best family film would find the House of Mouse embracing and redirecting years of aesthetic atrophy. The results are as charmed as the title suggests.

by Bill Gibron

20 Nov 2007


The indirect partnership of author Stephen King and writer/director Frank Darabont remains one of film’s most fascinating. Somehow, after crafting several genre scripts (for the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, the Blob remake, and the Fly sequel), the soon to be cinematic savoir hooked up with George Lucas, working on the heralded Young Indiana Jones Chronicles. Yet Darabont never forgot his earlier experiences crafting a short film out of King’s least supernatural story, the autobiographical cancer tale The Women in the Room. From there, he was determined to tackle another obscure tale from the fear master’s canon- the prison drama Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption. The results, considered by many to be a mid-90’s masterpiece, cemented his status as the ultimate interpreter of King’s work. Even the slightly bloated Green Mile couldn’t undo his reputation.

So when it was announced that Darabont would next take on the much beloved novella, The Mist, fans almost instantly began foaming. Even when less than impressive casting and the director’s decision to go ‘low budget’ were announced, the geeks were prepared for macabre manna. It was well worth the wait. The Mist is destined to go down as a modern horror classic. After all the pro and con Stephen King sniping is said and done, when expectations have been shattered and new realities firmly affixed, those who ever doubted Darabont’s ability will see the frightening forest for the desolate, deconstructionist trees. The filmmaker deserves a great deal of credit for what he’s accomplished here. Like Stephen Spielberg’s revisionist attempt at a realistic fantasy blockbuster with his reality based War of the World, the man behind this innovative inversion of King’s creepshow has crafted the most unconventional conventional b-movie ever.

When a powerful Nor’easter tears through a tiny Maine town, movie poster artist and family man David Drayton surveys the damage. A massive branch has torn through his studio, and a stubborn neighbor’s dead tree has destroyed his beautiful boathouse. After heading into town to buy supplies, he is stunned to see a local man running into the store, screaming. He claims that there is something in the mist, and as the patrons watch the fog roll over the parking lot, the screams of those stuck outside suggest that there may be a presence there. At first, some think it’s a joke. That includes the big city lawyer Brent Norton and local yokel Jim Grondin. On the other side of the situation is bitchy Bible thumper Mrs. Carmody. She’s convinced its Judgment Day, and suggests the shoppers use a blood sacrifice to appease a vengeful God. Between Drayton, who believes in truth, and Carmody, whose stirring up dissent, clear sides are drawn. About the only level headed individual is store clerk OIlie – that is, until the monsters actually arrive.

Everything you expect from this kind of story is here, - the otherworldly setup, the recognizable heroes and villains, the coincidental clashes, the big moment attacks, the smaller sequences of suspense. There’s even a nice amount of gore and some unexpected darkness. But Darabont is not content to simply let this opportunity go by without messing a little with the mannerisms. The Mist is so purposeful in how it thwarts genre ethos that it’s almost arrogant. There are times when you can literally see the director ducking the likely to lunge over into the unpredictable. This is a movie that has no music during its first 80 minutes, that never announces via sonic cues when the terror is about the strike. It’s also a film that lets its character’s core elements overstay their welcome. Good guys are almost too noble, baddies belligerent in their shocking psychotic cravenness.

Take Thomas Jane’s David Drayton. He’s the perfect hypocritical hero. Out of one side of his mouth comes a calming, ‘let’s work together’ sort of spiel. On the other hand, he gets his ‘followers’ together to horde food and plan an escape. Similarly, he warns others about apparent acts of altruistic sacrifice. Yet he’s typically the first to volunteer for any suicide mission. Though he’s more a b-list personality than a real blockbuster anchor, Jane is very good here. He balances both sides of his protagonist with Darabont-intended ease. Sitting on the other end of the situational scale is outright horror Marcia Gay Harden. Her Jesus loving Mrs. Carmody is not just some Gospel spewing shrew. She’s a manipulative cow, the perfect embodiment of the Jim Jones type of cult killer that King used originally to formulate the story. There are moments where you literally want to reach up from your seat and wring her self-righteous neck. That’s either great writing, great directing, great acting, or a combination of all three.

Indeed, what happens between people is far more potent than the various chaotic creature sequences in the film. When King wrote them, they were perfect mind’s eye payoff, gifts for the reader rapidly turning pages. In the film version of The Mist, they are the inevitable catalysts, the reasons for the characters challenging – and in some cases, harming – each other. Without them, we wouldn’t have the standoff between Drayton and Andre Braugher’s Norton. There wouldn’t be the reunion between young lovers Sally and AWOL GI Wayne…or the fatal finish to their relationship. We wouldn’t have the preaching, the plotting, the gun waving anarchy, or the fear-based fisticuffs. And then there are the fiends. Some may argue that they’re rather unbelievable in their computer generated junkiness, but that’s another Darabont objective. He wants his terror to be derived from seemingly silly entities. It makes the bigger ‘bugs’ waiting out in the mist that much more horrifying.

And here’s another clear caveat – don’t believe the half-baked hype about the “new ending” either. Yes, Darabont does stray rather significantly from King’s original conclusion, but there’s a reason for that. You can’t have an ambiguous send-off after 90 minutes of purposefully paced realism. Imagine if the characters that you’ve followed for nearly two hours simply got in a vehicle, plotted a course, and headed on down the highway. Fade out. Roll credits. There’d be much more fervor over such an anticlimactic moment than the angst being aimed at Darabont’s decision. Logic states that a bleak and rationality based narrative demands an equally dour and grim finish. Is it painful and purposefully harsh? Yes. Does it ruin the experience overall? Only if you’re the kind of person who can’t stare the truth in its desperate and ill-prepared face.

After all The Mist is not a movie about semi-super human men challenging the forces of darkness like invincible immortals. This is not the kind of film where antagonists heed the pleas of those wanting compromise or the reckless reel in their hasty reactions. Darabont has used King’s creative premise as the outline for a dissection of panic – how people react to it, and how our very humanity helps to fuel it. What we are witnessing is not really a horror movie, but a mock doc depiction of how man is more menacing than some interstellar interlopers. It’s an uncomfortable lesson to learn, and it may put some people off this otherwise remarkable motion picture. Frank Darabont may by now be a cliché, the first filmmaking name associated with the most successful genre author ever. But there is nothing formulaic, or false here. The Mist is magnificent.

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