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Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man’s Chest

jelewis8 — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 22:45:25 +0000

The newest spectacle to hit viewers’ tired and vaguely entertained retinas is probably the most impressive outing we’ll get all summer, but don’t let that fool you. Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man’s Chest is a mish mash of a movie, one that borrows any and all devices to convince its audience that something neat is taking place, all the while disguising the fact that its plot has all the substance of a Yo Ho Ho and barely a quarter of a bottle of rum.
The movie does stand out in its own way, of course. Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow is a class above most of his pirate-y crew, though he is matched easily by Bill Nighy as Davey Jones, the newest baddie to hit the high seas. Orlando Bloom has more facial hair this time around, which covers up some of the acne and one dimensionality of his character Will Turner, and Kiera Knightly barely has time to smile in her reprised role of Elizabeth Swann. There are more action set pieces than a pirate has gold teeth, and the effects are utterly seamless, and a good thing too–the Kraken is an impressive beastie with a couple of good moments in the film, and much applause should be given the CG artists who did some tricky integration with the in camera action.
The film opens with Elizabeth and Will arrested for helping Jack escape, sentenced to death by the grasping and ambitious Cutler Beckett (Tom Hollander), who offers Will a deal: Find and retrieve Captain Jack Sparrow’s magical compass in exchange for a full pardon. Meanwhile, Jack’s reunion with his crew is disturbed by the pseudo undead ghost of Bootstrap Bill (Stellan Skarsgård), who warns Jack that he owes Davey Jones his soul in one of those soul-for-ship deals gone bad. Jack, looking to cheat Davey out of his threadbare soul, looks to evade the seas and the mighty Kraken, whom Davey Jones can summon at will, whilst attempting to retrieve a key that could turn his fortunes around and leave him master of his fate.
The plot grows more dense, and without giving too much away, the crew and the luckless Swann and Turner face cannibals, the sea-infested crew of the Flying Dutchman, and of course, Davey Jones himself, who features a slimy mollusky octopus for a face, and who seems perfectly willing to take Jack’s counteroffer of one hundred souls in exchange for his own back. Naturally, this involves Jack being dastardly and conniving whilst simultaneously charming, but surprisingly, it’s difficult to like him in this. He’s more worldly and less friendly, more self-centered and even possibly cruel as he attempts to wrangle poor drunken souls from a tavern for his ill-gotten deal with Davey Jones.
On the whole, however, the film functions as even more of a ride than the first film. It all seems set up and carefully plotted, which ruins the natural fun of it all. Writers Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio try to mix international maritime skullduggery with a quest for a hidden key that opens a chest that contains a smaller chest which holds the living heart of Davey Jones, but it’s too gimmicky to work as a reasonable plot, and the film bogs down under the weight of its own pointless wanderings. Viewers wondering where the action is will be disappointed by the amount of droll dialogue about who loves whom, why Jack Sparrow may or may not be a good man at heart, and whether Will Turner has the same penchant for pirating as his father Bootstrap Bill, and all too often the action seems disconnected from the rest of the plot. An early island scene featuring cannibals seems pointlessly long and mostly uninteresting, though there are enough laughs to keep viewers afloat until the pirates return to the open sea.
Obviously, a film like Pirates is not meant to rock someone’s worldview or change lives. If anything, it’s supposed to be over the top. I can give it some leeway, and there are parts that are genuinely enjoyable. However, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of sustainability in the trotting out of scenarios that all have the dubious task of getting Captain Jack closer to answering a fundamental question: has the world had enough of pirates and their plundering ways?
Fortunately for the studio, the money brought in over the weekend smashed records and proved that, in theory, at least, Jack’s got a few more years of life and a relatively prosperous career of dapper high seas criminality. Here’s hoping the third (and final?) movie in the trilogy will find a good story in the treacherous reefs. These days, pirating ain’t what it used to be.
Fringe Rating: out of 5

Antarctica, Smantarctica

jelewis8 — Tue, 27 Dec 2005 05:00:40 +0000

I’ve decided that writing a blog post on the day before, of, or after Christmas is like lighting yourself on fire in Antarctica. It might be hot stuff, but no one’s around to appreciate it. Except yourself, of course, though self-appreciation is basically mental masturbation. Nevertheless, I’m duty bound to provide at least the semblance of a post, lest I be outblogged and overshadowed by such worthy stalwarts as Greg and Steve (I’ve never met Steve, but his facial hair post pretty much made me a believer).
The flight across the Midwest was as miserable as I expected it would be, given my sickly condition. I left LA at 8:45pm Christmas Eve and flew into Phoenix, endured a 1.75 hour layover, then caught another connection to Chi-town which took a little less than 4 hours. 3.25 hours after that, I finally arrived in Madison at 7:44 Christmas morning.
Speaking of Antarctica, Wisconsin was not the snowbound, blizzards 24/7, air-so-cold-your-thoughts-freeze place I had expected. I blame my sister Stephanie, whose forecasts of White Christmas had me tingling the week before. Instead, I was greeted with just over par temperatures (that’s 33 to you), the ground a muddy, gravelly mixture of dirty snow and thawing ground. And flat.
I didn’t read Little House in the Big Woods, about winters so harsh the government eventually had to outlaw them, for nothing as a child. You can bet I demanded a recount, and quite stridently. The Supreme Court of Winter has seemingly spoken, however. The weekly forecast shows temps in the high thirties the rest of this week.
Gypped once again. I blame Bush (global warming son of a so-and-so).
Yes, I know gypped is politcally incorrect. Let’s move on.
Despite my red eyes prompted by both sickliness and the flight (having not slept at all), I still managed to enjoy Christmas with my sister and her family, including two very excited kids, though I sacked out early afternoon and dozed on the living room floor for a couple of hours, which caught me up until after the evening meal, after which I retired and slept a blessed twelve hours.
I have more to blog yet, including more observations from the airport, but that can wait. I stand to get a good nine hours in tonight, and hopefully by tomorrow morning I will be feeling better.
Merry Christmas, in case you didn’t hear.

You Feel Lucky?

jelewis8 — Fri, 14 Jan 2005 03:28:56 +0000

Clint Eastwood gave Michael Moore a warning he’ll be hardpressed to ignore.

“Michael Moore and I actually have a lot in common – we both appreciate living in a country where there’s free expression. But, Michael, if you ever show up at my front door with a camera – I’ll kill you.”

All in good fun, of course. Where politics ends entertainment begins, and Moore showed he took the comments in the spirit they were intended.
Which makes me think that perhaps this is a new tactic for Moore, whose recent personal revolution in the hygiene department has sparked accusations that the rebel “documentarionist” (it’s like “fictition” for the masses!) may be forgetting his roots as an obese liberal circus entertainer and taking on the more pleasant characteristics of 1950′s beat icon Buddy Holly (joke courtesty of Greg Piper, who also alerted me to this story), sans the thin physique and with devilishly sculpted facial hair.
Or perhaps this is just the bizarro-world Michael Moore, an evil twin only South Park fans can adore. Who’s to say? Clearly, though, the real story is Eastwood, who at 74, is Hollywood’s most rugged frontman, tougher than Heston and more gnarled than Haggard. He’s also the man who has defied the odds and history to produce and direct some of the past couple years’ most insightful, darkest human dramas, including 2003′s Mystic River and this year’s Million Dollar Baby, a film that could have Annette Bening sweating again this Oscar night around if critics like Hilary Swank’s tough-to-beat performance.
If Eastwood threatens me, I’d take it with a grain of salt. But not too big a grain. You just never know what he’s hiding behind those steely eyes.