Somehow, at some point…people forgot how to make films. This would be considered cinema in today’s Hollywood (which is to say, a great film). Sadly, this is barely a good film.
Once upon a time there were masters like Murnau and Lang and Dreyer. They worked in an age before sound. They had less variables to ponder. And yet, they managed to tell stories in elegant, sophisticated ways. There was no CGI.
Cut to the present film. Saoirse Ronan is truly lovely, yet not even she can salvage this schmaltz. To be sure, this is not a happy story. I would like to congratulate director Peter Jackson, but I cannot do so without a plethora of caveats.
Let me start by saying that Mark Wahlberg, at least, does an excellent acting job. I can’t help thinking of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch every time I see his name. That was the age I was raised in: ridiculous, posturing hip-hop. Don’t get me wrong…some of it was good. I even remember having a fondness for Wahlberg’s group, but suffice it to say that their oeuvre has not aged particularly well. I fear the same might be the case with this film.
Stanley Tucci is excellent and creepy as hell as the serial killer George Harvey. Susan Sarandon, on the other hand, is a caricature of herself…completely ridiculous and superfluous to any of the aims which this film should have had. Rose McIver is actually quite good as Susie’s younger sister (though the film seems to suggest she is the older sister in the beginning…just one loose end among many, many others).
There are moments when this film touches on the sublime, but they may not be the ones of which you’re thinking. When director Jackson approaches the realm of Hitchcock, he does so quite capably. One even gets the sense that a Silence of the Lambs might be developing on screen. Sadly, we seem to slip into What Dreams May Come. Much better to emulate Alfred than Vincent Ward. Yikes!
About these dream sequences–this “In-Between”…it is as if Salvador Dalí’s superb imagination was being hijacked by a third-rate M.C. Escher reproductionist. It is as if we were watching the music video to Seal’s “Crazy.” It is horrible.
Nikki SooHoo’s acting is really, really bad. Poor girl. She is the Jar Jar Binks of this ill-fated venture.
After all this CGI tomfoolery we finally have another shard of cinema when McIver find’s the murderer’s sketchbook. The close-ups of her fingernails trying to silently lower the loose floorboard back into place have a gripping suspense worthy of Hitch. Jackson at least does a good job of making fingernails (you heard me) a significant motif throughout the picture. Tucci’s neatly manicured nails are pictured in close-up as he disgustingly fondles the dead Susie’s house charm which he ripped off her bracelet.
The story is not bad, but Jackson has not inspired me to read the book any time soon. The motif of the kiss is a sweet sentiment and it is just one of many touching moments in this train-wreck of a film. Susie is supposed to be the amateur photographer. Jackson directs like a 14-year-old. The film would doubtless have been better had he 1/100th the budget.
The overall narrative (with voiceover by Ronan) is a formulaic, staid, pale imitation of American Beauty.
One last thought: I can’t believe Brian Eno did the music. Sadly, the only musical moments which are transcendent come at the hands of Dave Edmunds and The Hollies (though the latter’s is ruined by a Sarandon montage). Nay, I shan’t be running out to see any Lord of the Rings movies anytime soon. This is a stinker which won’t soon enough evaporate from my memory. Jackson could really use a good night in with TCM for starters (and then, perhaps, God forbid…an Ingmar Bergman movie). Harmony Korine’s Julien Donkey-Boy obliterates The Lovely Bones in every aspect. Google Dogme 95, Mr. Jackson. Learning is fun.