Jason F.C. Clarke

I first read The Lord of the Rings at the rather late age of fifteen. I’d heard of the books before; the title occupied a dim, misty part of my mind, and were associated with a sense of cultishness and even history. Their recent commercialization has been for me bittersweet. I suppose this is not unlike the lesson of the novel itself — everything magical fades (fortunately, there is always something else magical to focus on).

The Return of the King, like its predecessors, is a work of cinematic art. It is not particularly innovative, and its story and themes are of the type that has been portrayed since The Iliad, but as an epic film it can stand proudly next to the best such movies that have ever been made — and a good head taller than many of them. It is a successful culmination of all that has gone before it.

I did spend the first day or so after seeing the movie trying to work past the changes made from the book, as I have for each film. The Fellowship of the Ring followed the plot of the novel relatively closely, but The Two Towers veered off sharply at a few points. King follows more closely than Towers, but still makes some significant changes. Faramir (David Wenham) gets an even shorter shrift than he did in Towers, and his romance with ?owyn (Mirando Otto) is barely suggested. We never see ?omer (Karl Urban) crowned king of Rohan after the death of Th?oden (Bernard Hill), and the Mouth of Sauron makes no appearance before the Black Gate.

What bothered me most, though, was a very slight change. In the novel, when the gates of Minas Tirith are broken open, the Lord of the Nazgul appears at the gates on a horse and attempts to enter the city. His way is barred by Gandalf, who sits astride Shadowfax. Just as the two are about to do battle, the horns of the Riders of Rohan can be heard in the distance, just as dawn rises over the plain. Tolkien wrote that this was his favorite scene in the novel, and it certainly has great cinematic potential. But in the film, the Riders arrive after the gates have been broken, and there is no significant emotional build-up to the Riders’ arrival — despite the despair of Gondor’s steward, Denethor (John Noble), at their absence.

But aside from these quibbles, The Return of the King is a worthy successor to the previous films, and caps the trilogy satisfactorily. After the martial triumphs of The Two Towers, the new movie returns the focus to the journey of Frodo (Elijah Wood) and Sam (Sean Astin) through the dark land of Mordor to Mount Doom in order to dunk the One Ring. Gollum is back (voiced by Andy Serkis), but unfortunately, most of the psychological will-he-or-won’t-he-betray-them has been discarded; Gollum is mostly a villain in this piece.

The largest part of the non-Mordor sequences are devoted to the defense of Minas Tirith. Here Jackson delivers some of his most astonishing visuals; my favorite is Grond, the massive, fire-spewing battering ram that breaks through the gates of the city like a mechanical dragon.

The performances are, as always, top-notch. Particularly kudos go to Wood, who manages to convey some of the pain and greed the Ring inspires, and to Viggo Mortensen, who is given less than an hour to transform his character from a self-doubting ranger to the rightful king of Gondor. Ian McKellen, whose wizard Gandalf was sorely missed for much of The Two Towers, has a much larger role in this film; and the friendship between Legolas (Orlando Bloom) and Gimli (John Rhys-Davies) is finally given its due. (Rhys-Davies should also be credited for carrying the lion’s share of the movie’s much-needed humor.)

What is most impressive is the movie’s successful capture of the sad, elegaic tone of the novel’s conclusion. Like the book, the movie shifts its scope from the epic back to the bucolic as the story returns to Hobbiton, and then finally to the melancholy departure at the Grey Havens. The movie also contains one powerful, beautiful scene, in which the hobbit Pippin (Billy Boyd) sings a haunting song to Denethor while the Steward’s son and his soldiers ride to their deaths.

Of the three films, The Return of the King is the most compressed. Jackson has stated he believes the theatrical versions are the best versions of the films, carrying the most emotional impact. That’s probably true in the case of the first two films, but there’s no denying the slightly rushed feeling of King, and the suspicion that next year’s extended DVD will fill in a few unfortunate gaps. (That, however, may just be from a fan’s perspective; having read the book, I know what the writers skipped over, such as the Faramir/?owyn romance.) Aragorn gets no time at all to enjoy his kingship, and his reunion with Arwen is brief.

These are minor flaws in an otherwise great film. In part, it’s a victim of its own success; the first two films set a high standard for King. Of the three, I think King is my least favorite, though Towers had to grow on me. Only time will tell how these movies hold up. For now, however, we can all bask in the glory of Middle-earth.

“Pirate movie.” Even the phrase itself sounds like a cliche – an old, worn-out cliche. But perhaps it’s so worn-out that, much like “gladiator movie” a few years back, it’s almost something new to contemporary audiences.

There’s absolutely no reason The Pirates of the Caribbean should be anything close to a “good” movie. It’s a “pirate movie” based on a theme park ride. A theme park ride. If I were a hoity-toity Denbyesque film critic, at this point I might make some drily witty comment regarding how blockbuster films, which are promoted (as Neal Gabler discusses in his book Life: The Movie) much like theme park rides (”it’s a non-stop thrill ride!” etc.), might as well be based on theme park rides – but I won’t, largely because I don’t want to bother coming up with something drily witty.

Getting back to the point, there’s no reason “PotC” should be anything even remotely resembling good. But then, in this day and age of cinema, with the incredible paucity of creativity endemic to Hollywood, perhaps there’s also no reason for it not to be.

Pirates is good enough for me to engage in some hyperbole: it’s a glorious, lush Hollywood adventure, the kind we haven’t seen since Raiders of the Lost Ark. None of the pirate films in recent years have dared to be this fun.

Yes, many of the sets look like sets; yes, the dialogue can certainly be cheesy; yes, Geoffrey Rush, as the zombie pirate captain Barbossa, needs more lines. But Pirates has an ace-in-the-hole that renders all other flaws irrelevant: Johnny Depp as Cap’n Jack Sparrow.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a non-Jim Carrey film that I enjoyed solely for one actor’s performance. Oh, Legolas’s – I mean, Orlando Bloom’s – performance as Will Trevor, the film’s ostensible, small-mustachioed hero, is serviceable, and Keira Knightley’s “tough damsel” is suitably simultaneously strong-willed and bodacious. But dear God, someone give a massive bonus to the person who decided to let Depp play Sparrow like an eighteenth-century Keith Richards! Depp is a pure joy to watch. I loved every moment he was on screen, and tapped my mental foot impatiently when he wasn’t. I’ll be buying this DVD for his performance alone.

Generally, the quality of Depp’s performances have been dependent on whether he’s being directed by Tim Burton. Burton was the director who realized Depp was a “character actor” (read: real actor) who got accidentally caught up in the whole celebrity thing. It was Burton who unearthed the touching, sublime Depp of Edward Scissorhands; the neurotic, fastidious Depp of Sleepy Hollow; and most significantly, the ambitious, gloriously wacky Depp of Ed Wood.

Here, in a performance that Richards reportedly did indeed inspire, Depp’s hilariously flamboyant Sparrow flits from one scene to the next. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a film where all the actors seem to be having so much fun, and Depp is clearly having the most fun of all. He plays Sparrow’s eccentric behavior so naturally, one almost wonders if this represents some untapped id in Depp’s psyche.

Director Gore Verbinski, who was responsible for last year’s effectively creepy The Ring, has somehow found a way to tap into that same wacky reservoir. Or maybe he just loosed the leash, it’s hard to tell. In any event, Depp’s Jack Sparrow steals the entire film out from everyone, including Rush (whose Barbossa is essentially a variation on his Casanova Frankenstein character from 1999’s Mystery Men).

Depp’s Sparrow screams sequel – and more than one, if audiences are lucky. The rest of the film – a high seas adventure that runs just a little too long – is simply a vehicle for Depp’s delightful eccentricities. Nonetheless, it all amounts to a few hours of wonderful, true escapist fun, and I can only hope the film’s success will ensure us more adventures with Cap’n Sparrow.

Somewhere around Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, Star Trek fans (a.k.a. “Trekkers” – never “Trekkies“) began to notice a pattern: the even-numbered Trek films were good, while the odd-numbered ones were invariably mediocre at best. This pattern continued once the crew of Star Trek: The Next Generation (TNG) took over; of the three TNG films prior to this year’s Nemesis, only the middle TNG film (and eighth film overall) – First Contact – was a hit with fans and general audiences alike. After 1998’s disappointing Insurrection, fans eagerly awaited the next Trek film – which, as number 10 in the series, had to be good.

But the pattern is broken. One would have preferred it be broken by two consecutive good films, but this is not the case. Star Trek: Nemesis was hoped to be the TNG crew’s Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, but it’s not even The Search for Spock.

Nemesis begins with a party celebrating the wedding of Will Riker (Jonathan Frakes) and Deanna Troi (Marina Sirtis), as well as Riker’s promotion to the command of his own starship, the Titan. The party has a few cute moments, with a number of in-jokes and references for fans, but it also feels very much like an episode rather than a movie – not a good sign.

Meanwhile, on the homeworld of the Romulans, a number of senators are murdered in a coup. The new ruler of Romulus is Shinzon (Tom Hardy), a very young, very bald lad with big plans for the Romulan Empire. Shinzon sends out a request to the Federation for an envoy to discuss a peace treaty. Given the trailers for the film and its very title, the overtures are an obvious pretense.

It turns out Captain Picard (Patrick Stewart) & Co. are the only Federation representatives nearby (thanks to an overly-elaborate scheme by Shinzon involving B4, an apparent prototype of the android Data (Brent Spiner), that the crew stumbles upon). Picard confronts Shinzon and discovers they have much more in common than their shiny pates.

It’s soon obvious that Shinzon is up to no good, and it falls to the crew of the Enterprise to stop him. Though the story may sound complex, it’s surprisingly weak. The screenplay was written by Spiner and John Logan, the man who is mistakenly credited for the success of Gladiator (in fact, the script for Gladiator was written by David Franzoni; Hollywood brought in Logan to dumb the script down to their standards). It seems clear that Spiner and Logan were hoping to channel the spirit of Wrath of Khan, still the best Trek film, but the result is a mess. Worse, when the ultimate Khan-inspired moment occurs – I won’t give it away (though the movie itself does a good job of that) – it seems contrived and arbitrary, completely lacking the emotional power of the same moment in Khan. In fact, the dialogue and acting of the crew’s response to this supposedly awful event is so bad, there was laughter in the theater.

What makes a Star Trek film work are changes – promotions, weddings, the birth of children, character deaths. Unfortunately, these are often constrained by external considerations – bringing back a beloved character like Spock, Kirk’s demotion to captain so he can still command a starship, Worf hanging around the Enterprise even though he supposedly moved on long ago.

It may be that the leap to cinema simply came too fast for The Next Generation. More than a decade separated the end of the original series and the release of Star Trek: The Motion Picture – a film which, for all its flaws, worked its ass off to seem like a movie. The majority of the Trek films featuring the original crew feel like movies; the TNG movies feel like extended episodes with slightly higher budgets. Perhaps taking a decade off would have allowed the property to simmer a bit before making the leap to the big screen.

It’s also possible that the problem lies in Next Generation itself. The original series, while it occasionally made a social comment or two, was primarily a scifi-themed adventure series (or, as creator Gene Roddenberry famously described it, “Wagon Train to the stars”). TNG, on the other hand, focused primarily on social commentary or characterization (and usually attempted to give equal share to the entire cast, rather than developing a dramatic pair or trio like Kirk, Spock and McCoy). One wise friend of mine, a Trekker herself, has said that First Contact, with its action-oriented storyline and macho heroics, is actually the furthest from the show in spirit. The original series, packed with adventure and drama, translated well to film; TNG, so much more a product of an entrenched television culture than its predecessor, has not.

But the problems of Nemesis go deeper than the inherent problems of making a TNG film. The movie is loaded with contrivances so obvious they give away the rest of the plot. At one point, a character beams over to an enemy ship and the transporter immediately breaks down. Sure, Trek history is rich with such plot devices – how many times has the Enterprise been unable to go to warp speed, only to be rescued miraculously by Scotty or Geordi? – but by the time the transporter incident occurs in Nemesis, it’s as if the writers have thrown up their hands in helplessness, unable to find a convincing way to build tension. The B4 subplot, abandoned in the second half of the film, serves no purpose other than to reinforce the “duality” theme of the film. Most bizarre of all is the trip to the planet where the android is found, a trip rife with flagrant violations of the Federation’s infamous non-interference Prime Directive (never mind the dorky sight of Picard, Worf and Data in a dune buggy).

Even the acting is sub-par. I doubt this will be remembered as Hardy’s breakout role; he plays Shinzon with such ham, I began to wonder if the actor secretly had it in for Star Trek. Stewart phones in his performance – he’s clearly bored with the role and is just cashing that check. Deprived of his directorial duties, Frakes is back to doing what Will Riker does best – taking up space on the bridge. Only Spiner shows a little life, though this may be due to his stake in the film’s reception (due to his screenplay credit). The only thing I found interesting were the Remans – deformed genetic cousins of the Romulans who look like the Star Trek equivalent of Orcs from The Lord of the Rings.

Speaking of directors, the best credit Nemesis director Stuart Baird can boast is Executive Decision, a.k.a. “the movie where Steven Seagal dies in the first ten minutes” (which presumably sticks out in people’s minds because they were immediately given what they wanted). It may be time to let a more interesting auteur take a crack at Star Trek. Perhaps a Ridley Scott or a Bryan Singer could inject the vitality or vision the Trek cinematic franchise lacks these days. But my suggestion remains: Trek needs to take a nice, long break from the silver screen and regroup. Born at the height of the Cold War and infused with its ideologies (both in endorsement of and in response to them), Star Trek needs to reinvent itself and find a new direction. Until then, the franchise will remain its own worst nemesis.

Having been educated at a college – and in particular, an English department – firmly entrenched in the traditions of mid-to-late twentieth century criticism, it was ingrained in me that to fervently love a text is to sacrifice one’s ability to critique it without bias. As the term and the concept of being a “fan” consolidated over the last few decades it brought with it a corresponding negative connotation with regard to academic integrity. However, I soon discerned that there was a double standard at work. Most professors are “specialists” or “experts,” or, if they’re feeling particularly naughty, “aficionados” of the particular texts discussed in the classes of their own making – one professor, an expert on the Transcendentalist era, taught a class on it, and no one questioned his integrity. It was when a student (or academic) attempted to find the merits in a “popular” work that his or her bias was called into question. This may be something that passes with time; few academics would quibble with a lover of Dickens teaching a class on his novels.

J.R.R. Tolkien, however, seems to be a lightning rod for such debates. Everyone, from scifi/fantasy authors like Michael Moorcock to critics like Harold Bloom and Andrew O’Hehir seem to feel it necessary to loudly proclaim their belief in or against Tolkien’s literary merits. Moorcock’s dislike stems largely from an anti-populist mistrust of the Tolkien “cult” (one wonders at what point Moorcock will consider Tolkien popular enough that his fans no longer comprise a “cult”).

It was partly due such debate that I chose not to review The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring last year. A diehard Tolkien “aficionado,” I went into the movie with some doubts – I’ve read the book three times – but the film was all I’d hoped for, and more. I was so taken with it I knew a review would be fruitless; it would either be some brief ad copy (“The movie of the year!”) or an exhaustive analysis of the relationship of the book to the film, and the merits of each. Ultimately I chose to forego the review entirely.

Now comes The Two Towers, the second installment of the Rings film trilogy. This time around, while I admire the new film nearly as much as the first, I feel assured in reviewing it fairly and equitably. Part of my confidence, I’ll admit, comes from the rather stunning consensus of my critical peers; if Two Towers (TT) doesn’t win the Oscar for Best Picture, it won’t be for lack of critical acclaim.

Where to begin? The story picks up immediately where the previous film left off, with the intrepid hobbits Frodo (Elijah Wood) and Sam (Sean Astin) trekking through the wilderness of Middle-earth, heading for the volcano known as Mount Doom to destroy the One Ring, an evil golden ring that once belonged to the dark lord Sauron. There is a brief flashback to the first film – one of several reuses of previous footage, which is one of the few missteps director Peter Jackson makes in the sequel. But the flashbacks are worked into the narrative, rather than simply being a recap of the previous film’s events.

In the course of crawling toward Mordor, Frodo and Sam accost Gollum, a wretched former owner of the Ring desperate to get his “Precious” back. The hobbits persuade Gollum to guide them through Mordor. Gollum is far and away the most stunning achievement in the film. Rendered entirely in computer graphics but based on the movements of actor Andy Serkis, who also does Gollum’s raspy voice, the creature is miles ahead of Jar Jar Binks or even Dobby from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Gollum is, I think, one of the first realistic computer-generated characters to have not only a number of close-ups but even soliloquys. And since Serkis was actually interacting with Wood and Astin, there are none of those misdirected looks by hapless human actors that haunt the appearances of Mr. Binks. Voiced by Serkis, Gollum is a truly tragic, pitiable figure, torn between his lust for the Ring, his newfound loyalty to Frodo, and his guilty rage.

While the hobbits follow Gollum through Mordor, the fort is held down back in the Western lands by the human ranger Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen), the elven warrior Legolas (Orlando Bloom) and the dwarf Gimli (John Rhys-Davies). As the film begins the trio is tracking two other hobbits, Merry (Dominic Monaghan) and Pippin (Billy Boyd), who have been kidnapped by the monstrous orcs. Along the way they run across the warriors of Rohan, a kingdom ruled by King Theoden (Bernard Hill), who has been ensorcelled by the evil wizard Saruman (Christopher Lee).

Like the novel, the film is loaded with characters. A friend of mine recently called Lord of the Rings a historical novel set in a fantasy world, and I think that sentiment perfectly captures why it is so uniquely compelling. It is not entirely, as Anthony Lane wrote of it in The New Yorker, “a last stab at epic” so much as a novel of war, not unlike War and Peace. Yes, it’s got elves and dwarves, but these races are presented in such a realistic detail, complete with their own well-defined languages, cultures and traditions, that it’s little wonder so many Tolkien fans lose themselves in the endless volumes of errata. It has all the pleasure of reading history combined with the pleasure of mythology or folklore. (On a side note, it would be nice if critics like Lane, and even O’Hehir, could come to terms with their fondness for Tolkien’s work without the vaguely insecure-seeming need to qualify that fondess with sniffed asides.)

Despite all the characters and the seeming complexity of plot, The Two Towers is actually easier to follow than its predecessor and zips right along, alternating between three plotlines: Frodo and Sam’s journey through Mordor, Merry and Pippin’s dealings with the Ents (huge walking, talking trees), and the tale of Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, whose adventures lead them to a desperate battle with Theoden and the men of Rohan in a mountain fortress known as Helm’s Deep.

In the 1960s, as group of filmmakers approached Tolkien about making an animated film based on LR, and even offered a script treatment. Generally displeased with the whole script, Tolkien sent back detailed notes about what changes he disliked and why. He has this to say of Helm’s Deep:

“I am afraid I do not find the glimpse of the ‘defence of the Hornburg’ – this would be a better title, since Helm’s Deep, the ravine behind, is not shown – entirely satisfactory. It would, I guess, be a fairly meaningless scene in a picture, stuck in this way. Actually I myself should be inclined to cut it right out, if it cannot be made more coherent and a more significant part of the story…If both the Ents and the Hornburg cannot be treated at sufficient length to make sense, then one should go. It should be the Hornburg, which is incidental to the main story.”

–The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter #210

Jackson, for his part, devotes nearly forty-five minutes to the battle. This decision may be responsible for many of the departures from the novel that TT takes, particular in the story of Sam and Frodo. As anyone who’s read the novel knows, TT ends with an excellent cliffhanger for the two Mordor-bound hobbits. Jackson has saved this for next year’s The Return of the King, claiming he didn’t want three battles at the end of the second film. In my opinion it might have been better to downsize the Helm’s Deep battle, or move it closer to the middle of the film.

But Jackson’s decision highlights one of the other reasons TT takes significant liberties from the novel: the emphasis on Aragorn & Co. versus Frodo and Sam. For all the lip service Jackson and his fellow filmmakers have paid to the centrality of the two hobbits’ story, the films have nevertheless expanded both the role and characterization of Aragorn. In the novel, Aragorn is an experienced leader with almost nine decades of experience behind him (his family usually reaches the age of 200 or so, so he’s not even middle-aged). The Aragorn of the novel is plagued by few doubts; he’s something of a demigod. Jackson’s Aragorn is far less sure of himself, making his story more dramatic.

But there’s also the form itself to consider. Jackson is trying to appease both fans and general audiences alike (and, judging by TT’s returns, he’s done an excellent job of it). An hour of Sam and Frodo traipsing around the outskirts of Mordor does not gripping cinema make. Gollum aside, their storyline lacks the epic feel of the Battle of Helm’s Deep, and so they are marginalized (at least for TT).

The other plot point that has many Tolkien purists miffed is the depiction of Faramir (David Wenham). They argue that Faramir should not be so tempted by the ring. But Faramir’s characterization is related to that of Aragorn. Jackson’s Aragorn is far more brooding and uncertain than Tolkien’s demigod. In the novel, Aragorn, like Gandalf and Galadriel and whatnot, is never really tempted to take the Ring. Faramir provides the self-doubting hero role (however briefly) that Tolkien denies super-confident Aragorn. In Fellowship of the Ring (the film)there’s a lot about Aragorn’s fear of being corrupted by the Ring, as Isildur was; and PJ even added that last meeting between Aragorn and Frodo, where Aragorn resists taking the Ring. To have this Faramir fellow – who is blood-related to Boromir, the only member of the Fellowship whom the Ring was able to corrupt – have a big scene where he resists the Ring would have made it seem like the brother of Grabby Boromir is as pure and self-restrained than Aragorn himself, if not more so.

But enough about plot. Visually, The Two Towers is incredible. From the stunning opening sequence – I won’t dare give it away – to Edoras, the capital city of Rohan, built upon a hill – to the sight of ten thousand orcs marching upon Helm’s Deep, TT is full of images that stun the imagination. True, some of the effects don’t quite work; the process by which the hobbits are shrunk doesn’t seem as effective this time around, and the Ents are a tad goofy-looking. But these are easily forgiveable when compared to the likes of Gollum.

And then there’s the acting. George Lucas should take a lesson from Jackson: the best way to make a good epic blockbuster, in this day and age, is to stack the deck with talent. I could write quite a lot on the acting in this film, but I’ll confine my praise to the aforementioned Andy Serkis as Gollum and John Rhys-Davis as Gimli. In TT, Gimli’s role in the films becomes clear: he’s the comic relief, and it works perfectly. In the midst of the hellish battle of Helm’s Deep, he is the Falstaff to Aragorn’s Prince Hal (minus the cowardice). Unlike the hobbits, the artifice surrounding Gimli’s portrayal is never evident; somehow, they’ve managed to shrink Rhys-Davies (who is not a small man) down to four feet.

With that observation, I will bring this long and rambling review to a close. Like many reviewers, I don’t think I quite grasped the substance of this film; I might try some choice words about escapism and the relevance of these films’ popularity in the current world climate…but that’s as much as I’ll say. I won’t try to convince you that this is a “good” or “bad” film. Maybe the hype has turned you off, maybe you don’t like three-hour movies, maybe it all seems like a lot of hooey to you. That’s fine. I loved this movie, I loved the previous one, and I’m fairly certain I’ll love the last one.

“Fear comes with imagination, it’s the penalty, it’s the price of imagination.”
–from Red Dragon by Thomas Harris

The crime thriller, a combination of the classic pulp thriller and “true crime” accounts of the 1950s and ’60s, was beginning to solidify into its own genre by 1981, when Thomas Harris published his second novel, Red Dragon. This new genre broke away from the much older tradition of mystery fiction by identifying the killer early in the novel and then setting up a cat-and-mouse game between the killer and the protagonist, usually a cop or, more often, a federal agent. Rather than focusing on the protagonist’s effort to solve the crime (as a mystery novel would), the crime thriller took the time to characterize the killer and, often, try and “explain” him or her. The genre frequently used detailed descriptions of forensics methods to fill pages and, in some cases, distract the reader from a predictable plot or flat characters. To distinguish his novel from the bevy of thrillers that had by then saturated the market, Harris needed a hook, something unusual to make his novel unique.

He found two. The first was to have his protagonist, special agent Will Graham, consult an infamous serial killer for help on his case. But this killer couldn’t be some generic sociopath, nor even a strangely charismatic (but still berserk) type like Charles Manson. This killer would be an intellectual, he would be supremely cultured; elitist even. And he would eat people. As such, he would need a name that rhymed with “cannibal.” Thus was Dr. Hannibal Lecter born. In his original incarnation, he is described as having maroon eyes, a “pointed” tongue, and six fingers on one hand – a much more obvious manifestation of evil than the calm blue eyes and ten fingers of Sir Anthony Hopkins.

But a character as gimmicky as Lecter cannot carry a novel alone, as both the novel and film adaptation of Hannibal made very clear. Red Dragon needed something more. Harris envisioned a sleuth who was just one step away from being a psychic, for whom a capacity for “imagination” replaced the supernatural talents claimed by others. In the course of the novel, Graham tries to get inside the killer’s head, forcing himself to think exactly as the killer does. This is no small strain on his psyche; in the case of Lecter, it drove him to a temporary stay in a psychiatric ward.

Red Dragon is a better novel than either of its literary sequels, The Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal, though it lacks the psychological mystique of the former and the humor of the latter. It also has the distinction of being the only book of the Lecter trilogy to be filmed twice: as everyone knows by now, it was first adapted as 1986’s Manhunter, directed by Michael Mann (The Insider, Ali). Mann’s adaptation is a good one, though I will not fall in line with the many critics who find it fashionable to tout Manhunter’s supposed superiority over director Brett Ratner’s new version.

Red Dragon does have one hurdle to get over initially: the fact that it is clearly an attempt to cash in on the franchise that was started not by Manhunter but by 1991’s sleeper hit Silence of the Lambs. It took more than a decade from the writing of Silence for Harris to complete Hannibal, and another year for the film version to come out; then, two years later – boom! Red Dragon. Michael Mann, Jonathan Demme, Ridley Scott…Brett (Rush Hour, Rush Hour 2) Ratner? Red Dragon smelled like Hollywood cashing in on a franchise, and many reviewers were quick to follow that scent.

Surprisingly, Red Dragon defies its cynical detractors. There’s certainly no question about the producers’ motivations – Universal Pictures and MGM Studios gladly put aside their differences in this joint venture to rake in the cash – but that didn’t prevent the cast and crew from putting out a film that stands up well to its fifteen-year-old predecessor. Ratner may be something of a novice director, but when your film stars Sir Hopkins, Ed Norton, Harvey Keitel and Ralph Fiennes, you can just point the camera and something good will come out of it. Fortunately, Ratner does even more than that, and the result is an adaptation of the literary Red Dragon that is as good as, if different than, Manhunter.

Since this is first and foremost a Lecter film (despite Lecter’s relatively minor role in the original novel), Red Dragon begins with a fairly faithful rendition of Lecter’s capture by agent Graham (Norton). From there, the plot is similar to that of Silence of the Lambs: it’s a few years later and a serial killer is on the loose. Nicknamed “the Tooth Fairy” for his predilection toward biting his victims with his hideous dentures, the killer wipes out two suburban families before the baffled FBI turns to Graham for help. Now retired and living in Florida, Graham is reluctant to return to the game after his painful experience with Lecter (who nearly managed to disembowel him before going down). Finally his boss (Keitel) coerces him into taking a look at the case. Graham tries to imagine the killer’s mind and motivations, but he too is brought up short. With only a few days before the next expected killing, Graham turns to the one man who might be able to shed some light on the killer’s behavior: Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

In Manhunter, Brian Cox’s performance was both fittingly low-key and surprisingly creepy; his Lecter toyed with Graham, but did so more successfully because he didn’t talk slowly or put on airs. In Lambs and Hannibal Hopkins redefined the character, and now he must work backward from his characterization in Lambs. Back in his cage, the sense of barely contained chaos Lecter inspired in that film is restored. You get the sense that cutting the man loose would unleash hell on earth. Sadly, Hannibal revealed that wouldn’t be the case, as Hannibal the Cannibal was transformed into everyone’s favorite creepy grandpa. But in Dragon Hopkins makes the good doctor a threat once more.

Of course, Lecter is really ancillary to the main plot, which involves Graham’s efforts to track down the Tooth Fairy, aka Francis Dolarhyde (Fiennes). Norton is a bit young for the role of Graham, but he brings a naivet to the role that acts as a good counterbalance to William L. Petersen’s more been-there-done-that take in Manhunter. Fiennes, playing the heavy, is in full-psycho mode, but ultimately I found it eerie how similar his performance was to that of Tom Noonan in the previous version.

In fact, Red Dragon contains whole scenes that seem to have been lifted out of Manhunter and deposited in Red Dragon, despite having a screenplay written by Ted Tally, author of the Lambs script. This is largely due to the fact that both films really heavily on the book for dialogue, a rarity in this day and age. (On a side note, the dialogue never seems off-kilter – a sharp rebuke to those critics that sniffed at Harris’s supposed “tin ear” for dialogue when Dragon was originally published). But Red Dragon restores a number of plot twists from the book that were absent from Manhunter. In one memorable scene, Dolarhyde, in an effort to quell the beast within, goes to a museum to find the original William Blake painting of the Red Dragon, which he believes has been tormenting him into committing crimes. I won’t reveal what happens; but while it’s an interesting scene, the film fails to explain why Dolarhyde does it. The audience is left with an odd cul-de-sac that serves only to reinforce Dolarhyde’s status as a standard movie psycho.

The cast is rounded out by Harvey Keitel as Graham’s boss and Emily Watson as Reba McClane, Dolarhyde’s bizarre love interest. McClane role, in the both the book and the movie, is to suggest that Dolarhyde may not be quite as bad as he seems to be. Unfortunately all the Watson role does is emphasize Dolarhyde’s textbook social ineptitude and overall creepiness – it’s difficult to believe a woman who seems so chirpy and well-adjusted would ever stick around with a guy who behaves as Dolarhyde does. Finally, the reliable Philip Seymour Hoffman (who always reminds me of Joe Don Baker) gives some sardonic punch to the thankless role of tabloid reporter Freddy Lounds.

Of course, the filmmakers give Lecter much more time than he has in the book – ultimately this is a “Hannibal Lecter movie.” This leads to at least one unnecessary scene in which Lecter enjoys a pleasant dinner (sans hominids). But Hopkins does manage to bring back some of the creepiness and edginess of his original portrayal – watch as his face twists into a demon’s visage as he petulantly cries “No” in response to Graham’s pleas for aid.

My biggest concern for Red Dragon was whether it would focus enough on what I feel is the most significant theme of the novel, that of Graham’s imaginative powers and how they are both his blessing and his curse; also, the way Lecter is blessed with the same gift, but minus the fear. I must give credit to Manhunter for doing a better job with this theme than Dragon. While the exchange quoted in the introduction to this review is given more weight by being moved from Crawford to Lecter, the theme is never played out. We never learn why Graham had to spend so much time in an institution after capturing Lecter, or worry that he might have become so much like the killer that he’s a threat to others.

Red Dragon delivers more scares than Manhunter and is a much better film than Hannibal, although Manhunter still wins for stylishness and Silence of Lambs remains the best of all four films. I will concur with my fellow critics in one respect: let this be the end to the good doctor’s adventures.