Following the massive success of Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings, fellow New Zealander Andrew Adamson has undertaken the equally ambitious task of adapting the beloved Chronicles of Narnia—the other great literary fantasy work of the era—to the screen. Unlike Jackson, though, Adamson is an unpolished director (as I write, he turns 40 today), having only directed Shrek and Shrek 2: the former was a clever, enjoyable satire, but that franchise doesn’t exactly inspire confidence that Narnia, a magical adventure full of mythical creatures, magnificent encounters, and the rarest kind of enchantment, was in the best of hands. Regrettably, the doubts turn out to be justified. Though The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe has several terrific elements, it never feels truly transporting. For a journey into a mystical land, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is oddly awkward and stale: while the CGI is magnificent (particularly that of Aslan and the Beavers), entire shots are pilfered directly from Lord of the Rings—the minotaur’s battle cry during the war, for instance, is identical to the Orc Captain’s bellow during Helm’s Deep in The Two Towers. Of course, it’s human nature to compare Narnia to The Lord of the Rings, and I’m not referring to the plot—I know the two were written around the same time, and that C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were close friends, and that the thematic similarities go way back. No, I’m referring directly to Adamson’s choice of visual techniques. They regularly feel like more immature versions of Jackson’s—long shots of landscapes and swirling pans in the heat of battle without the intensity and cinematic energy. While there are certainly worse filmmakers to emulate for this genre, Narnia lacks its own directorial identity, much like the first two Harry Potter pictures. The children appear confused, repeatedly stumbling unconvincingly over their words (more on this later), and only a handful of sequences stand out as examples of powerful fantasy storytelling: Aslan’s reincarnation, for instance, or most scenes involving the White Witch. And even these are frequently tempered by soppy verbal exchanges a few seconds later.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe begins in 1942 battle-torn London, with the wintry war in Narnia serving as an allegory for WWII. The Pevensie children—Peter (William Moseley), Susan (Anna Popplewell), Edmund (Skandar Keynes), and Lucy (Georgie Henley)—hate the war for ripping their family apart, and use their personal heartbreak as motivation to aid Aslan in his quest to reclaim Narnia from the Witch in their parallel universe. It’s a beautiful premise, and the film gets off to a promising start before screeching to a halt. Beyond Adamson’s direction, Narnia’s deepest problems lie in its script. The dialogue ranges from mediocre to downright bad, and unlike The Lord of the Rings, there’s no Ian McKellan or Viggo Mortensen around to bail the screenwriters out (the screenplay is 1000 times better in Jackson’s films anyway, suffering from only an occasional clunker here and there). Instead, Adamson turns to four kids and asks them to save the day. Alas, they’re not up to the task. Both boys lack range, particularly Keynes, and their performances come across as astonishingly one-note. Popplewell is adequate, but her role requires little: she simply has to make wise comments, and play the cautious cookie. Henley is the one member of the quartet who really shines. Her smile is beyond precious, and she strikes just the right note of optimism and fear that make Lucy such an appealing character. As a result, only her delivery of lines is particularly convincing—the others are passable at their best moments, unbearable at their worst (this includes the battles; it’s difficult to make a 12 year-old swinging a sword believable). The supporting roles fare quite a bit better. Liam Neeson voices Aslan with dignity and grace, and the Beavers are a riot. But the real star of Narnia is Tilda Swinton, who’s simply mesmerizing as the White Witch. Her calm enunciation, pale skin, and cold eyes make her the perfect Snow Queen, and the entire movie picks up whenever she’s onscreen.

There’s no question that Adamson faced a serious challenge with Narnia: with children as the leads, there wasn’t much margin for error, and the target demographic was extremely varied—more Harry Potter than Lord of the Rings. Still, it feels to me like he’s wound up somewhere in the middle. The writing and execution are too childish to fully be embraced by adults and youths, yet the 140 minute length, choppy pacing, and historical backdrop (as minimal as it may be) will test the kiddies’ patience. It may sound like I’m completely panning The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and while it’s definitely middling filmmaking, it’s not without merit. The silky, naturalistic CGI and astounding sets and makeup deserve Oscars, and much of the movie is at least moderately entertaining. Still, I expected more from such a highly anticipated adaptation of a classic masterpiece, especially one so up my alley. Perhaps diehard aficionados of C.S. Lewis’ novels will find more to admire here than I did, but it’s difficult to envision this being hailed as a great cinematic work in any circles. Here’s hoping that Adamson’s reign as King of Narnia will be short-lived, because there’s some serious potential here for a long-lasting, memorable franchise.

47/100

With Brokeback Mountain, director Ang Lee faced a daunting challenge: cinematically portraying homosexuality as romantic and erotic in an era where homophobia still intensely rages (those who object to this perception are living in denial). That he succeeds—resoundingly, at that— is a testament to his filmmaking prowess: Brokeback Mountain is a beautiful love story, and one of 2005’s best movies. Set in the grasslands of Wyoming, Brokeback Mountain is the story of ranch hand Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Texan rodeo cowboy Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal), both paycheck-to-paycheck laborers who meet while sheep-herding together on Brokeback Mountain in 1963. Alone in the fields, they begin to develop fierce feelings for each other, feelings which boil over into sexual release inside a tent—no discussion is needed, just carnal passion and a little spit. It’s the type of sequence that would have sexual voyeurs applauding…if it involved your standard heterosexual pairing. Among many of our more narrow-minded viewers, however, a moment like this is bound to elicit controversy at best, if not outright revulsion. And that’s unfortunate, because seen from a strictly human-to-human perspective, Brokeback Mountain is as pure as any romance in quite some time. It’s one of Lee’s gifts to inject ardor into genres that are normally devoid of it—Betty’s relationship with Bruce Banner in Hulk, or Jen & Lo’s relationship in the martial arts masterpiece Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. All of his films are much deeper than their topic matter hint at (how many, “oh, is that the gay cowboy movie?” jokes have you likely already heard?), and linger long after you leave the theater.

Unfortunately for Ennis and Jack, the 1960’s wasn’t a kind time for gay people, and the West wasn’t a kind place. Rather than embrace their passion, they’re forced to hide it. After their freewheeling summer, both return to their homes: Jack to Texas, Ennis to Wyoming. Ennis marries his high school sweetheart Alma (Michelle Williams), and has two daughters. Jack continues to flop off bulls at the rodeo, and weds Lureen Newsome (Anne Hathaway), the vivacious, work-obsessed daughter of a filthy-rich farm-machinery tycoon. Four years pass, and neither man has been able to shake the magic of their summer on Brokeback. Ennis finds himself struggling to show his wife the appreciation she deserves but the resonances are ambiguous: one particularly wonderful scene involves Ennis flipping his wife around to penetrate her from behind, obviously wishing that she was Jack. As it’s filmed from a very similar angle to the first homosexual sequence on Brokeback, it has an eerie sense of unfulfilling déjà vu that rings a strong emotional chord. Even more excruciating is Ennis’ relationship with his daughters. His marriage is destined to fail (and it does), but his children are forever…and they love him to death. It’s evident, in his tormented forgetfulness as a father, that he feels he was never meant to have kids, and that his path has gone completely awry. When he shakily tells Alma Jr. that he can’t take her for a few extra days, it’s obvious that he wishes he did want to. And despite his clear realization that he’s meant to be with a man, he’s unable to garner the inner strength to fight the system: Jack’s constant requests that they should both just toss everything to the wind and go away together fall on frustrated, deaf ears. Jack, meanwhile, loathes his father-in-law (who returns the favor), his corporate routine, and his existence without Ennis. His bull-bucking lifestyle gives him a more assertive and heart-on-his-sleeve approach than Ennis’, and he’s unable to survive on their measly allotment of weekend-of-fucks a few times per year (the two periodically escape to Brokeback on “fishing trips.”) He’s forced to take other male lovers, and when he reveals it to Ennis in a poignant explosion late in the picture, we’re given one of the film’s most powerful, unsentimental moments.

Given that Ledger and Gyllenhaal are both straight when not working, their performances are nothing short of remarkable. They attack their onscreen infatuation with zeal and zest, and the spark in their eyes when they’re together is unmistakable. Ledger’s emotional outbursts are much rarer, which makes them even more powerful than Gyllenhaal’s: still, it’s difficult to find fault with both of the actors’ raw, untamed fire in their respective roles. The supporting work is less noteworthy, but more than competent, with Michelle Williams’ tormented performance as the token wife the most moving. And all the actors greatly benefit from Lee’s meat-and-potatoes script, which is completely unpretentious without being banal. The dialogue flows naturally, as do the time shifts (Brokeback Mountain spans 20 years, and the passing of time never feels awkward). Visually…well, I’m sick of directors exploiting nature with no real purpose (see: Walter Salles in The Motorcycle Diaries for an example), and Lee refreshingly utilizes the natural aesthetics pointedly and with focus. His camera sweeps the Brokeback, emphasizing the emptiness of the surroundings: the wilderness serves as a metaphor for both the helplessness of the men’s predicament, and the isolation that brought them together in the first place. Elegant long shots on the mountains properly create a contrast with the more intimate close-ups that ironically capture their false lives at their homes. Brokeback Mountain is a complete picture: strong in all technical aspects, dramatic without resorting to sop, and bound to reap the benefits of repeat viewings. A rich love poem with boundless soul, Brokeback Mountain is another wonderful gem to be placed atop Ang Lee’s filmic mantle.

75/100

A schmaltzy, standard road movie, Roger Donaldson’s The World’s Fastest Indian nonetheless manages to be palatable—despite its numerous flaws—for two reasons: Anthony Hopkins as Burt Munro, and a warm heart at its core. As such, The World’s Fastest Indian is impossible to hate, whether it’s striding over oft-trod ground, or spouting genre clichés that Hopkins must have been ashamed to read aloud. Set initially in New Zealand before making its way to Utah, The World’s Fastest Indian is the story of Munro, a kind-hearted old cod whose life is consumed by a dream of setting a speed record on his motorbike. And that bike is his joy: a 1920’s “Indian,” which was an archaic model by the time Bonneville rolled around in 1967. Despite the deck being stacked against him—his age, his creaky ride, etc—Burt’s stubborn determination allowed him to zoom past 200 MPH and into history. Along the way, he meets all sorts of odd ducks: transsexuals, frisky 50-something women, and a suave biker from Santa Fe with a heart of gold. That every single person in the movie seems to exist only to cheer Burt on is ludicrous, of course, but there’s something touching about Donaldson’s idealistic viewpoint, and the never-ending stream of “thattaboy, Burt!” or “come on, for Burt’s sake” that seem to pop up every three minutes. And Hopkins, whose career has been on a bit of a precipice of late (Alexander, The Human Stain, etc), pumps everything he has into Munro. His accent is convincing, and his smile and wearied resolve go a long way in keeping this mostly porous picture from completely sinking into the cheesy abyss.

I knew absolutely nothing about The World’s Fastest Indian before popping my screener into the DVD player, and as such was surprised to find, upon the credits rolling, that it was based on a true story. However, the emotional honesty that’s prevalent throughout the picture makes it easy to buy into in retrospect, and I’d assume the same would be true if you did know going in. Let’s face it: The World’s Fastest Indian is on the wrong side of the “thoroughly mediocre” barometer cinematically.. Donaldson’s ham-fisted direction leads to multiple soppy, cringe-inducing moments (Burt talking about his brother Ernie takes the cake), and the photography is dullsville: every road movie is shot the same way. The score is beyond annoying. The structure of Burt’s meetings and relationships are nonsensical, aside from his cute rapport with little Tom, his next-door neighbor in New Zealand who admires him, and takes over Burt’s curious custom of urinating on his lemon tree every morning when Burt heads off to America. And despite it all, The World’s Fastest Indian manages to be passable entertainment, and might even strike a chord in your weepie detector: hell, I even got a bit misty at the end, in that, “goodness, how am I tearing up watching this sap!” kind of way. It’s difficult to recommend it in good faith, but there are worse fates out there than spending two hours of your life enjoying Sir Anthony Hopkins try to warm your soul.

43/100

“It was beauty that killed the beast,” remarks Carl Denham (Jack Black) at the conclusion of Peter Jackson’s bloated King Kong, but he might as well have been referring to Jackson’s formerly obese figure suffocating all the life out of his 2005 remake. While the aforementioned beast himself is an extraordinary cinematic concoction—one that makes us dizzy with his shocking humanity and naturalism—practically everyone else is little more than irritating filler, and King Kong drags intolerably whenever the great ape isn’t onscreen. Set in New York City during the depression of 1930, King Kong opens with avaricious movie producer Denham scared out of his wits at the prospect of his financial backers pulling the plug on his dreams, and desperate to follow up his needle-in-a-haystack fantasy of shooting his picture on the mythical Skull Island. After soliciting beautiful, out-of-luck actress Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) to star, Denham bribes the ship’s captain (Thomas Kretschmann) into a hasty departure, sailing away from Manhattan as the cops and investors shake their fists from the docks. Along for the ride: renowned screenwriter Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), who’s written Denham’s script; pompous-and-handsome movie star Bruce Baxter (Kyle Chandler); and a slew of scurvy sailors. Trouble assaults the group from all angles when they actually find the mysterious Skull Island, however, as it turns out to be a hidden Lost World, full of wild natives, dinosaurs, giant bugs & bats, and of course, Kong himself.

King Kong’s soul is the relationship between Kong and Darrow, and Jackson nails this aspect of the story: the work on the ape is nothing short of extraordinary. Played by Andy Serkis of Gollum fame, Kong seems more human than anyone else in the picture (whether this is a good thing is extremely debatable, and will be discussed later). He emotes, roars, learns, and loves. Whenever Kong and Darrow interact—or Kong is simply wreaking havoc on his own—the movie soars. The T-Rex battle is a tour-dé-force in action filmmaking, lasting over eight minutes without a single lull in the energy; Kong ripping apart a T-Rex’s jaws is something to behold. Similarly, the classic Empire State Building scene features some of the better photography I’ve witnessed: every dip of the camera is astonishingly heart-pounding, making my stomach swoop as if I were going to fall thousands of feet myself. But Jackson, who put so much heart into The Lord of the Rings, makes sure to capture the quiet side of the beast as well—Kong and Darrow gazing at the reddened sunset, or Kong sliding around on the frozen pond in Central Park after his capture and subsequent escape (this “ice skating” moment has caught a lot of flak from critics, but I actually thought it was charming). These sequences indicate what King Kong could have been: a first-rate adventure with a pulse, and a wonderful blend of camp and sincerity. Unfortunately, this is mostly where Kong Kong‘s pluses end for, and as someone who flat-out worshiped Jackson’s work on The Lord of the Rings, that makes for a crushing disappointment.

Jackson attempts to make Lord of the Rings all over again, from the swooping crane shots to the multiple narratives; the crazy beasts to the sweeping, ambitious vision. There’s just one problem: King Kong doesn’t have nearly the scope to support so many arcs, and it buckles and crumbles under the pressure. Entire characters and storylines could have been sliced away without King Kong losing a bit of what makes it magical—Mr. Hayes and Jimmy (Jamie Bell), for instance, make up one of the most useless father-figure & son tandems in recent movie memory. More troubling is that the leads themselves feel overstuffed. Black tries, but it’s hard to resist the impulse to laugh whenever he speaks, which is compounded by the fact that he’s written in too comedic a manner anyway: his unwavering infatuation with his camera loses any symbolic value and just seems dumb. Brody is flat as an ironing board, and Driscoll has no business having such a major role anyway. It’s not a good sign that he could have been entirely erased from King Kong and the film wouldn’t have missed a beat. Jackson tries to forge some kooky love triangle between Ann, Kong, and Driscoll, but given that Kong is by far more emotionally appealing, this falls on its face too. The bottom line is that we want Kong—most of the extraneous stuff is little more than superfluous fluff that makes the 187 minute run-time feel extraordinarily unneeded.

Thematically, there’s much more to King Kong than just action, but Jackson easily gets that across in the picture’s strongest moments: hammering it in was overkill of the worst kind. I hate to say it, but there’s definitely some filmic self-indulgence on display here after Jackson’s massive success with The Lord of the Rings. The sloppy editing and excessive filmic overload is surprising coming from Jackson, who has shown himself to be capable of remarkable accomplishments at the helm—not just Lord of the Rings, but smaller works like Heavenly Creatures as well. Perhaps directing his childhood favorite put too much pressure on him, or perhaps Hollywood had a bigger hand in this than we know (though even the failed moments feel like P.J. gone wrong, not someone else). Perhaps the absurd marketing plan, which included toys, a video game, and a “making of” DVD before King Kong even opened (!), was an extra burden on his back. Or perhaps Jackson just needs a vacation. Regardless of what went wrong, the bottom line is that King Kong, despite some astounding eye candy and a score of marvelous moments, fails to prove itself as a worthy follow-up to The Lord of the Rings, and leads me to hope that Jackson takes a step back into quieter terrains for awhile, hopefully emerging refreshed, ready to rock-and-roll with epics again, and return as a king.

44/100