Bastian Balthazar Bux

I was looking forward to this movie most of anybody. I'd followed it from pre-production. All of my favorite critics loved it, and I was told by matineed friends that I would love it. And by God I wanted to love it.

I struggled. Every time something happened that struck me the wrong way, I pretended I didn't really notice. But unfortunately, those things added up quickly.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I couldn't make a stand on whether or not I thought Charlie was a good movie. I feel like I can't say it's a bad movie, because there are too many wonderful pieces and moments to save it from that judgment. But I can't say it's a good movie either, because it fails on so many levels.

Take the inclusion of Willy Wonka's father, for instance. A character not in the book, Burton's decision to make Wonka a man troubled by his estranged paternal relationship only added a level of cheesiness that seriously hindered the film's capacity to intrigue us. Wonka is a character of mystery, he is the great recluse of our time--a character who revels in childish inanity but is also gifted with extraordinary genius (he has made the impossible possible). To explain his character so simply and Hallmarky (he just needed Daddy to love him!) completely betrays what he is supposed to represent. Wonka doesn't have these Freudian issues--he is the embodiment of creative glee.

Secondly, take the EXclusion of the fizzy-lifting drink theft. Besides reducing the chocolate factory to essentially four explored rooms (one for each naughty child), it robs the humanity from Charlie and his grandfather. They are fallible! The point is that they are well-intentioned. Their mistake serves to show us both that there is no perfection and that intentions make the man.

As I just said, the chocolate factory itself was seriously dampened. It seems that here Burton and Co. spent endless time designing the four disaster rooms, and merely created weak filler for the rest.

And last but certainly not least is the CGI. Not just cartoonish, the CGI in this film was completely distracting. Maybe it's just me, but I can't stand the look of the stuff. In Star Wars it bothers me too, but I'm willing to accept it because the entire world is computer-generated. However, to have a room filled with fantastic tangible gadgets and then insert a PlayStation 2 quality blueberry girl is distracting and lazy. Burton used to be a wizard with visual effects. Take the makeup in Edward Scissorhands, the monsters in Beetlejuice, the villains and gadgets in Batman, even the gore effects in his last great movie, Sleepy Hollow. Willy Wonka's factory should appear cartoonish and bizarre, yes, but not impossible. By using CGI instead of creative effects, we are being told that it is in fact IMPOSSIBLE for these things to exist in real life. They have to be fabricated, drawn in.

Of course, the film has its great moments. The adaptation of the book is faithful, right down to the Oompa Loompa lyrics. Charlie's house is slanted, and I was happy to see the story of the Sultan come to the screen. Depp's Wonka is seriously flawed (I just think it's not an appropriate incarnation of Dahl's character), but he does pull off the occasional moment of maniacal genius. The children are much more realistic in this day and age, children I recognized from my life. And Burton's exaggerated color schemes are brilliant, his characters properly caricatured, his comedic timing perfected. Freddie Highmore is an amazing little boy actor.

I really wanted to LOVE this movie. And I will see it again. But right now I must maintain it was neither good nor bad, it just wasn't Dahl. It opted to replace his black satirical warmth with an obvious warmth. It too often went for the obvious joke when the opportunity arose. And between its magnificent pieces it did something no Dahl adaptation should ever do--it got boring.

Just to clarify, I didn't hate it. I just didn't like it very much. I'm sure a lot of people are going to love this movie, but I for one couldn't lie to myself. I'd love to pretend that it was dark, that it was diabolically ingenious, that it was smart, that it was amazing. And you know what? If little kids go see this and are completely awed then Tim Burton has done his job. It just wasn't for me. And I couldn't convince myself it was, no matter how much I wanted to.

B- A creative, colorful, and very fun letdown.

If one was to turn on David Lynch's The Elephant Man midway through, without knowing what it was, one might be startled at the appearance of the main character. One might even be tempted to make fun of the character. But if one was to watch the film from the beginning, one's sympathy with John Merrick (John Hurt), 'The Elephant Man,' would be strong enough to deny that the former situation was ever a possibility. Lynch does not allow his audience to glimpse Merrick sans mask until his appearance has been built up substantially. When we the audience are at our zenith of anticipation, we see him-no dramatic music, no slow motion; a simple cut and he's there. There he is. And it's no big deal.

This is the beauty of Lynch's direction. We are led through our morbid curiosity at the same rate the characters in the film are. We develop alongside them. More specifically, we develop alongside Frederick Treeves, played with an astounding sublimity of emotion by Anthony Hopkins. Next to Treeves we pity Merrick, respect him, pity him again, and then ask ourselves with him, 'is he just a spectacle to me? Am I a bad person?'

Lynch certainly doesn't let us bypass this question easily. Are we bad people for being intrigued or are we good people for pitying? Certainly there is a mix of intrigue and pity with every character who first meets John, and we are not excluded. However, as with almost every character who truly comes to know John and confer with him, we learn to respect him as a human being and not as a spectacle. Nonetheless, this issue never finds close in the film, nor do I feel it ever can be closed in actual life. Hopkin's Treeves is never fully sated in how he feels about this dilemma, and so, neither can we be.

Technically, The Elephant Man is a beautifully shot film. In crisp black and white, the film recalls the cinematic technique of American cinema circa the 1930's. The scenes dissolve into one another; there is no brisk editing. The lighting is kept low-key during dark scenes, balanced during daytime scenes-this is standard film-making of the era. The one digression from this form are the distinctly Lynchian surrealities-pseudo-dream-sequences of commendably original imagery that break up the film and serve as distinct mood-setters for the audience. These are, for the most part, fairly intimidating sidenotes. We as an audience are caught off-guard because in these tangents we are not identifying with Treeves, we are put instead into Merrick's shoes. It is unsettling.

But Lynch has never been a director to flinch at unsettling prospects. We must watch Merrick beaten, abused, harassed, humiliated, and tormented. We may feel a surge of happiness when he finally stands up for himself, but by that point we still have to cope with what we've already, what he's already, experienced. I suppose that is the greatest and most devastating aspect of the film-empathy. Every moment is heartbreaking. Yet no matter how hard it gets, and how much better it then turns, there is always the threat of another jab. And those jabs only get more and more painful.

The Elephant Man is a perfect film. It is sorrowful but it apologizes not at all for it. It is a film about where our empathy stems from, a film that asks you to feel sorry but rebukes you for your blind pity. It asks you to respect Merrick, not cry for him. But you can't help crying. The Elephant Man is a film that treks you through despair and asks for your hope in the end. It asks you to hate humanity but to love the humane. It asks you to look at a man who appears sad and know that inside, he's okay.