Winter Perk

This is a time of year traditionally burdened by gift frenzy, catalogue overfill and Christmas music overkill. My one refuge this season is indulging in the spate of Oscar-contending movies, which I generally can screen gratis because of my Writers' Guild membership. Yesterday, as I drove toward the Writers Guild theater, with the midday sun shining intensely through my windshield, it felt exactly like a summer day, especially as I was headed to see a "summer movie," in this case Peter Jackson's renditon of "King Kong."

This was more than just a screening; it was an event, since the film had yet to open citywide. This meant the modest WGA theater was the Los Angeles nexus of "Kong" mania, which had sprung from enthusiastic early reviews. Unlike a normal WGA presentation, which involves staid, bitter overaged writers staring disapprovingly at the screen and waiting for dialogue howlers to hoot down, the mood of this crowd was like that of giddy teens anticipating the next "Star Wars" segment. The line extended way down Doheny Drive, and there were, for goodness sake, security people making sure that nobody entered with recording instruments. Those bearing cellphones with digital photo capacity were asked to return them to their autos. Fortunately for me I've yet to upgrade in that area, so I could enter unscathed, waving my hopelessly archaic Nokia like a press pass.

As for the movie, I'm happy to report that it lived up pretty closely to the hype and was not the letdown one might have expected from a self-involved director with a megahit in his recent past and nothing to prove. I normally have an easy technique for rating a movie. Every time I look at my watch the film loses one grade; one look, it becomes a B movie; two looks, a C, etc. Well I looked at my watch twice during "King Kong," though I'd still grade it an A; the peeks were out of curiosity to see when Jackson's cast would finally reach Skull Island, and when Kong would make his first appearance (answers: 63 minutes and 72 minutes, give or take). One has to go far to justify a three-hour plus film, expecially one that is retelling a story rendered powerfully in 90 minutes back in 1933. Jackson's screenplay allowed for slow development in the pre-Island prologue as we follow the travails of Naomi Watts and the machinations of Jack Black, as the heroine and the megalomaniac anti-hero. The renderings of New York were impressive however, and the sea voyage at least as interesting as that of the Titanic before it sunk (without the lame James Cameron dialogue; no hoary voice-over narrations with transitions like "Little did I know then..."). And it was iterate; one character was reading Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness," which was nice, if a bit on-the-nose.

Once the crew reached Skull Island, I did not have an urge to look at my watch again for a good two hours. Skull Island is a really nasty place; even its boulders have fangs. The Natives are not only restless, they're rabid--in the bad way. The action sequences are simply terrific, and this from someone who customarily zones out as soon as they cut to any chase. There is a long stampede of apatasauruses (they were called brontosauruses, I guess, in 1933) that is not only breathtaking but also darkly slapstick, a sort of "Jurassic Park" meets "Dance of the Hours" from "Fantasia." The spider/insect/leech pit sequence, snipped out of the original, is played out in full glory, and though scary, is not as gory as one might have feared. On the whole, Jackson outdoes Spielberg, not only subsuming his "Jurassic" scenes but also outdoing Spielberg's excellent special effects in his own remake this year, "The War of the Worlds."

One could argue that "Kong" could well have pared a half hour, though its efforts at building characterizations are mostly justified. The love relationship between Kong and Ann is conveyed pictorially through the reflected beauty of sunset, which they learn to appreciate in a spiritual sharing. Watts does a nice job converting Ann Darrow from the screaming ingenue of Fay Wray to a game, gutsy heroine, though I found it hard for her to show such bravado when Kong is dangling her from the 85th floor of the Empire State Building. Jack Black works within his own persona but doesn't seem authentic delivering the film's famous final line. Adrian Brody was a functional "juvenile" hero, a sort of Clifford Odets-turned-Rambo. His role, not nearly so well fleshed-out as the other protagonists, is roughly equivalent to Raoul, the alternative lover in "The Phantom of the Opera." His transition from passive idealist to action superstar is not very convincing. The other minor characters, played by Thomas Kretchmer, Kyle Chandler, Jamie Bell and Colin Hanks were more effective than similar supporters in "Titanic." And Andy Serkis's facial expressions for Kong seemed persuasive enough. Someday we may actually see the real Serkis on screen; by now I think he's earned it.

I did feel a sense of cinematic satiety when the movie ended; I'd have gotten my money's worth even if I'd had to pay Arclight prices. Though not a work of original genius it certainly is a feast for cinema buffs, who'd enjoy its self-aware references; and a corncucopia of familiar but spectacular effects (especially in the authentic 1933 Manhattan aerial sequence). I did not cry upon Kong's demise; I had to remind myself that he did kill a number of people, even more than Tookie Williams. I also missed the elevated train destruction scene from the original, its scariest moment linked to Max Steiner's foreboding score. Kong does get to bust up the borough a bit, but also gets to glide through Central Park with Ann literally in hand. The whimsical touches represent Jackson at his most playful, and it's his light touch that ultimately gives the film its ballast and justifies its garagantuan ambitions.