Though noticeably absent of the suggestive yet antiquated special techniques that so famously rendered Lon Cheney Jr. into a howling mass of pseudo-humanity, this recent update, starring Benicio del Toro and Anthony Hopkins, feels both unnecessary and leaves us wondering why we ever gave up on solid effects like the ‘lap-dissolve’ in favor of CG that looks about as authentic as a Puerto Rican playing an 19th Century Welshman (thanks goes out to Mr. Conal Huetter for that one).
Even after the opening scene in which an unwitting man, whom we can already tell is going to die, stumbles through the forest, it doesn’t take much to assume that the pacing is going to be a scattershot of odds and ends. God knows it primed me for something terrible. Which is quite a shame since, for a genre in which everything seems to have been done before, I was hoping they had an ace in the hole. Alas.
If you’re not familiar with George Waggner’s original, this one begins much as its ’41 predecessor did. In an interesting but ultimately futile act by Joe Johnston, director of such phantasmagorical delights as “Jumanji” or “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids”, the timeline is shifted from a contemporary locale to a more rustic time, the rationale probably being more aesthetic than logical. But that’s not to say I didn’t appreciate the atmosphere. It conjures up all sorts of shadowy Gothic images. Toss that in with werewolves and you’ve got something that looks pretty good on paper and even occasionally decent on screen. But sadly the lazy suspense and another casting snafu have ostensibly ruined what could have otherwise been an interesting re-make.
Hopkins seems oddly bored through much of his performance and Hugo Weaving doesn’t even get the chance to display any of that furrow-browed menace he’s just so good at. Meanwhile, the romantic entanglements between del Toro, who plays the travelling actor son of Sir John Talbot (Hopkins) returning home to a dilapidated mansion on the Moors, cannot seem to conjure one single iota of chemistry between himself and the vulnerable widow, Gwen Conliffe (played by Emily Blunt). And, as if to prove a rather sordid point in all of this, the most interesting character out of any of them, the manor’s caretaker, a heavily-armed Sikh (True Lies’ Art Malik), gets the worst treatment of them all: complete and utter neglect.
Yet what seems to be the biggest problem with this gory update is not so much its characters or the acting, for even cheesiest movies can overcome the worst of flaws if the director has the right sense of flair. And I can’t bring myself to truly blame Mr. Johnston for this mess because I feel as though he has the potential to do so much better. Rather, I blame the territory through which he treads, the land of modern American horror. Anyone who’s seen a Japanese or Korean film in the last ten years can tell you that when it comes to mesmerizing fear tactics, no one can match the likes of guys like Takashi Miike or Hong-jin Na. Filmmakers like them have come to understand something truly fundamental about their business and it seems that in the rush to box office martyrdom, the American system has forgotten something. That sense of horror that was pioneered by the very same industry giants almost a half-century ago, the same ones cranking out crap like “Saw VI” or “The Crazies”, seem to be gaining a more studious legacy overseas than they are here. We’ve forgotten that the apprehension of loud noises is by no means synonymous with the emotion of dread. Though that word itself might not inspire a good deal of feeling in you these days, it’s that sense of foreboding which makes us truly afraid of what’s hiding out there in the fog or crawling around under the gaze of the moon. We all know its coming. We weren’t born yesterday. It’s just a matter of whether or not the thing that surprises us is going to be now or later. And I’m sure none of us likes that feeling of tension in the neck and shoulders, your muscle memory stationed on high alert because you don’t want everyone in the theater thinking you’re some kind of wuss. It’s just uncomfortable and you find yourself simply trying to run out the clock on your own reflexes. We don’t (or at least shouldn’t) go to movies because we’re trying to compare our anti-flinching capacities. We go because deep down, we really want to find out what’s lurking just below the surface of our nightmares, even though we squeeze our eyes shut in the darkness. We go because the consequence of that unseen horror might be too much for us to bear and the sick thrill that comes from that realization is a real rush. Not because the consequence of the film itself is too much to bear.
Best when: A.) It’s a full moon. B.) You liked Robert Downey Jr. in black-face (make-up effects artist Rick Baker, one in the same) C.) You can withstand infuriating dead-end plotting.
No comments:
Post a Comment