Pirates of the Caribbean – Dead Man’s Chest
A Review of Sorts with Commentary… of Sorts
I had every intention of only writing a review for the above film; however, as I am now incensed my motivations have altered. Thereby, you are also thusly honoured to read about my misanthropy.
I hate the cinema. I hate queues. What I hate most is waiting in queue for three and a half hours at a cinema. As luck would have it, I’ve discovered something to add to my reasons for hating the cinema - pre-film announcements.
A seven stone (ninety-eight pounds for the Americans and forty-five kilos for everyone else) teen stands at the bottom of the theatre to announce that the ushers love their jobs and relish eradicating miscreants. Miscreants, we were told, include those who peak, whisper or alight their mobiles to which I pose the following: At which point did these become some of life’s vagaries?
The entire reason for subjecting oneself to the cinematic experience (queues notwithstanding) is for escapism. It is the only place where one can be entertained en masse without the requirement of social interaction. To be entertained (or disappointed, as is the risk) by persons who prefer to pretend they are some other being for a living. No portion of this time should be open to the realities of one’s life with, perhaps, the exception of emotion. One can only speculate why on earth anyone would wish to defile this practice by not only bringing those devices of aural torture to the theatre, but utilizing them.
The humiliation of having to pay a king’s ransom for a bag of grain and a cup of coloured fizzy water should be enough. I need not be chastised, or threatened, by a spotty adolescent before the lights dim and I’m permitted to lose myself to the whims of someone else’s imagination.
Having endured the rebuke for a technologic object I do not possess, I popped in a set of ear plugs and endeavoured to at least enjoy a bit of comedic wit.
It was clear from the outset that Dead Man’s Chest director, Gore Verbinski’s, direction would be bleaker than the first offering; however, the story itself was not all that different. We are quickly whisked away from Port Royal vicariously through Will Turner (Orlando Bloom) and then Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightely) to locate the ne’er do well, Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) and return him to Lord Beckett. The rum deprived Captain, however, has bigger Krakens to fry when he discovers his blood debt to Davey Jones is past due.
While trying to weave their way through the story, the writers not only had to create a workable plot, but had to include tips of the hat to the first film and secure a foundation for next Pirates installation, At World’s End, which has left the critics scratching their heads. The Curse of the Black Pearl is the Pirates of the Caribbean’s The Hobbit. It introduced us to the characters and important props; however, it has nothing to do with the story lines of the next films. Classifying the three affiliated Pirates of the Caribbean films as a trilogy is erroneous in my opinion, as the first has naught to do with the other two films in terms of storyline. This lack of segregation is why I believe pundits are undecided and creating havoc with their sentiments. Dead Man’s Chest and its follow-up together must be seen as separate entities in order to capture their full value. Had the intent of the first film originally been to be part of a trilogy, there would have been a “to be continued” type scene at its end; much as this current installment did. Viewed in this light, I believe the film was well executed. Though, I must admit I could have done with fewer comedic recalls to the first film, with the exception of the bastardized French reference to eunuchs.
As expected, Industrial Light & Magic deserve kudos for their CGI work and Hans Zimmer has captured the film’s emotion with his music score. The make-up department again has treated us well; however, in one scene I wondered if Ms. Swann was meant to have a festering wound to match Captain Jack’s before I realized it was dirt.
As a last point, do try and remember to stay for the post-credit clip; though I’m at a loss to understand its implication.
To the woman who was kicking my seat: Avast! (or face a lifetime of torture listening to teen angst regarding mobile phones at the cinema.)
Ta,
Lolita Barrister
by
Lolita Barrister
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drs@deadrebelsociety.com
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What is this, 1967?
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