Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides

Choose your caption:
a) Shipwrecked; b) Adrift; c) Washed-Up; or d) Cast Away

Grade: C
Director: Rob Marshall
Starring: Johnny Depp, Penélope Cruz, Geoffrey Rush, and Ian McShane
MPAA Rating: PG-13
Running Time: 2 hr. 17 min.

Early in Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, Johnny Depp’s Capt. Jack Sparrow must devise an escape from the heart of King George II’s court. His throwaway rearrangement of an armchair, a stray napkin tossed on the floor, even a cream puff he skewers onto an overhead chandelier are mere components in an elaborate Rube Goldberg machine designed to facilitate Sparrow’s flight. The scene pointedly seeks to answer the recurring question over Sparrow’s renowned unorthodoxy: “Do you think he plans it all out, or just makes it up as he goes along?”

Unfortunately, the same query can rightly be asked about the Pirates of the Caribbean films themselves. Gore Verbinski’s original trilogy was successful, handsome, and exhilarating, but also bloated with a convoluted mythos that saw Jack literally travel to hell and back. Under new helmsman Rob Marshall (Chicago; Nine), however, On Stranger Tides is a repetitious, plunder-by-numbers spectacle that breaks free from Verbinski’s muddled moorings only to find itself adrift in well-charted waters.

For this latest voyage, Jack and crew set sail in search of the mythical Fountain of Youth, although part of the film’s problem is that you never really know why. Indeed, two previous Pirates films included pirates trying to free themselves from the shackles of the undead, so when did eternal life become such a valuable commodity?

Jack finds himself the prisoner of the villainous, legendary pirate Blackbeard (Ian McShane), whose evil manifests itself mainly through natty facial hair and an ability to telepathically control his ship’s rigging. Blackbeard’s first mate and daughter is Angelica (Penélope Cruz), a Spanish sexpot Sparrow once corrupted who hopes to salvage her father’s wretched soul. In pursuit is Capt. Barbossa (reprised by Geoffrey Rush), now peg-legged and in service of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.

Little in On Stranger Tides makes sense, even for fantasy fiction. Barbossa’s ultimate revenge motive does not square with why he gave chase to Jack and the Fountain in the first place. Minutes after Jack and Co. enter the Fountain’s sanctum through a subterranean portal, a group of Spaniards simply march in from beyond the mist. And, why doesn’t Blackbeard zombify his entire crew, not just just the officers, to achieve their compliance and stave off any pesky mutinies?

Of course, there is the obligatory swashbuckling and swordplay, interjected with a nocturnal attack by carnivorous mermaids that brings a sexy but sinister edge that On Stranger Tides needed more of. Instead, we get Philip (Sam Claflin), an indentured clergyman whose presence could have fostered some chatter about the dangers of playing God by cheating death but instead only serves as half of a puppy love romance with a captured mermaid (Astrid Berges-Frisbey).

Jack is still the disarming rapscallion who can reel off the periodic chuckler - “I support the missionary’s position,” he quips to denote his assent to Philip’s viewpoint. But, Jack is the focal point of virtually every scene, and his flailing gait and fey bon mots have devolved into an exercise in self-parody, a long way from the sense of gleeful, mischievous discovery that once propelled Depp to an Oscar nomination.

During the nicely choreographed sword fight that accompanies Jack and Angelica’s first encounter in On Stranger Tides, Angelica is disguised as Jack Sparrow, fake mustache and all, in order to pass herself off as the infamous pirate. That such a beautiful woman could easily double as the foppish Jack is the crux of the joke. However, that their duel ends with Jack kissing his doppelganger is even more symbolic. For all his talk of “stirrings,” Jack Sparrow is in love with only one person: Jack Sparrow. Regrettably, it’s an infatuation that has spread to the caretakers of this nearly shipwrecked series.

Neil Morris

Nine

Victoria's Secret

Grade: D +

Director: Rob Marshall

Starring: Daniel Day-Lewis, Marion Cotillard, Penélope Cruz, Nicole Kidman, Judi Dench, Kate Hudson, Stacy Ferguson, and Sophia Loren

MPAA Rating: PG-13

Running Time: 1 hour, 58 minutes

Revisiting the musical genre for the first time since his Oscar-winning Chicago, director Rob Marshall adapts another Broadway production based on previous work with Nine. The film is based on the Tony-award winning musical, itself derived from an Italian play by Mario Fratti inspired by Federico Fellini’s 1963 autobiographical film, 8 ½ . Even if the pedigree for Marshall’s film is as muddled as a Fellini storyline, one thing is crystal clear: Nine is a bombastic mess.

Daniel Day-Lewis plays esteemed 50-year-old Italian director Guido Contini, now suffering a midlife crisis and bout of writer’s block just as filming is poised to begin on his epic comeback, tentatively titled Italia. As Guido tries to jumpstart his creative juices, he is forced to confront his chaotic personal life by reconciling a bevy of formative women in his life. They include Luisa (Marion Cotillard), his diffident wife; Carla (Penélope Cruz), his comely (and cuckoo) mistress; Claudia (Nicole Kidman), his platinum-blond film-star muse; Lili (Judi Dench), his confidant and costume designer; Stephanie (Kate Hudson), an American Vogue fashion reporter; Saraghina (Stacy Ferguson, a/k/a Fergie), a mondana from his youth; and his mother (Sophia Loren).

Set in 1965, Nine aims to present a multilayered, contemplative examination of life, love and craft, much like its Fellini forbearer. In actuality, the screenplay by Michael Tolkin and the late Anthony Minghella depicts the philandering, chain-smoking, sports-car driving Guido as a monumental bore who spends more time lamenting his inability to make new films than convincing us he was ever capable of crafting one.

There is a glint in Day-Lewis’ eye that suggests a great actor aching to unleash his talents but not quite sure how with the material he’s been given. Even still, Guido’s accent—particularly when singing—sounds weirdly like The Count from Sesame Street. That is better than Dench, I suppose, who doesn’t even try; her brogue is as Italian as Chef Boyardee.

The already lackluster narrative interludes feel like mere bridges to the next musical offering. With the occasional exception of Luisa, the rest of the female characters exist mainly for their particularized songs, most of them burlesque, kitschy spectacles that are a bit like watching a Cirque du Soleil show sans the acrobatics. Indeed, this disposable use of seven A-list actresses is emblematic of 2009’s woeful roster of female film roles.

The only thing worse than Guido’s chronic, self-induced malaise is Maury Yeston’s ear-gouging lyrics. The original Broadway numbers are grueling enough, including the treacly “My Husband Makes Movies” and a garish production of “Be Italian” featuring Fergie. What’s more, Yeston penned three new songs for the film, including Hudson’s retched “Cinema Italiano” (sample lyrics: “Those scenes I love to see / From Guido’s POV / There’s no one else with his unique director’s vision”).

Forget Guido—those responsible for Nine were apparently the ones afflicted with a bad case of writer’s block. In their case, the cure is worse than the disease.

Neil Morris

Elegy

Beauty and the Sexy Beast

Grade: B

Director: Isabel Coixet

Starring: Ben Kingsley, Penélope Cruz, Patricia Clarkson, Dennis Hopper, Deborah Harry, and Peter Sarsgaard

MPAA Rating: R

Running Time: 1 hour, 48 minutes

Stoutly acting and lushly photographed, Elegy is also a bit of a tweener – too slick for the arthouse yet too highbrow for the Oxygen channel. It is deliberate yet never boring, comfortable yet imbued with a healthy dose of cynicism. As far as films about growing old go, it is not as witty and melancholy as Alexander Payne’s underrated About Schmidt; in the realm of May-December romances, it is not as provocative as Last Tango in Paris nor as nuanced as Lost in Translation. However, it is a dynamic character study highlighted by interesting performances from two actors who, like the persons they portray, occupy opposite ends of the personal and professional spectrum.

Ben Kingsley plays author, professor, and cultural critic David Kepesh, a divorcee estranged from his only son (Peter Sarsgaard) and cognizant of the fact that he is quickly approaching the twilight of his life. His only semi-meaningful relationships are with a poet friend (Dennis Hooper) and a friend-with-benefits (Patricia Clarkson).

Enter Consuela (Penélope Cruz), the latest in a long line of female undergrads Kepesh has plucked from the student body to satisfy his own. Kepesh (and, by extension, the audience) has an acute skepticism over Consuela’s motives for bedding him and the surely finite time their tryst will last. Indeed, the more outward indices point toward a genuine attraction on Consuela’s part, the more Kepesh recoils and retreats into his solitary existence, sometimes exercising cruel and insensitive means to do so.

Adapting Philip Roth’s novella, “The Dying Animal,” Spanish director Isabel Coixet conveys an often achingly earnest portrayal of regret, loss, and personal dysfunction. Both Kingsley (last seen conoodling yet another young actress, Mary-Kate Olsen, in The Wackness) and Hopper are pleasingly restrained. Cruz is especially terrific, but the problem is that her performance takes off only after Consuela reenters to Kepesh’s orbit once she is diagnosed with breast cancer, an emotionally cheap plot turn that undermines the carefully constructed character development preceding it. That Kepesh’s neurosis is so acute he would drive away a young, beautiful woman who unconditionally loves him is a narrative worth exploring. However, who but the most hard-hearted would not exude a keener appreciation of life when the woman you loved and lost returns asking for your help as she faces possible death? Kepesh’s supposed redemption not a sign of delayed maturation; it’s a matter of elemental humanity.

Neil Morris