Earbud Monday: Why I can’t watch bad movies alone November 9, 2009

There is a thing I’ve been waiting to see for myself, and I finally saw it over the weekend. About a year ago, Entertainment Weekly did a huge story about a little-known cult film called “The Room,” produced, written and directed by an unknown guy in Hollywood, who, by the way, also plays the main character. Not that exceptional in Southern California, I suppose, but the reason this little movie started getting attention is the unknown director, actor, writer and producer, Tommy Wiseau, put up a couple of pretty cryptic billboards promoting the movie around Los Angeles, complete with his giant, sleepy-looking mug. A few people went to see the movie, and word of mouth spread from there. Now, “The Room” is a huge inside joke among LA’s hipster comedy crowd, according to EW. Wiseau apparently got wind of everyone’s ironic embrace of his unintentionally hilarious melodrama of a film, because the trailers now beg you to “see this new, black comedy.”

“The Room” finally came out on DVD in the last week or so, and I’m always up for a great bad movie. After not one, not two, but FOUR gratuitous sex scenes (two of them prominently featuring Wiseau’s own aerobicized backside), 18 speeches about off-camera events, 85 non-sequiters and a host of continuity issues, I not only wasn’t laughing ironically but I just wanted to pour Clorox in my eyes and ears. I get why it’s funny. I still want that hour and a half of my life back.

At first I thought there was something wrong with me. Had I lost the ability to appreciate a great bad movie? Hadn’t I spent the better part of my 20s watching reruns of the smack talking Mystery Science Theater 3000? Do I not heart Rifftrax with all of my, um, heart?

All these worries were put to rest by a little interview from Friday on Too Beautiful to Live. Grateful for a fresh TBTL to listen to at 3 a.m. instead of the voices in my head, I rested my melon with a good 40 minutes of Luke. On Friday’s show, he interviewed a couple of friends who host a podcast called Stack of Dimes, in which terrible movies get lovingly mocked and shredded. They were talking about something completely different, a ninja movie from 1985. I would never go out of my way to rent a movie like that just for the kitsch value, however I thoroughly enjoyed their skewering of it.

That’s when I realized my problem. I had no one riffing on “The Room” with me. Yeah, the Husband was at home, but not really engaged in the moment. (Can you blame him?) If I watch a bad movie without the benefit of the MST3K guys, I need a couple of really witty friends with whom to banter at the same time. Or at least, I need to talk about it with someone. For now, I’ll be checking out the Stack of Dimes podcast and posting a review sometime soon. It’s the best I can do to fill the smack talk void.

So here’s the deal. Anyone who has watched this turkey of a film, please leave a comment. I need to know you’re out there, and that this is not just a cosmic joke on me, perpetrated by the writers of Entertainment Weekly.

Quickly, before I go get the Clorox.

Where the Wild Things Are, or used to be October 19, 2009

As someone who hopes to be a mother someday, I don’t really have a handle on boys. I’m just not sure what you do with them. Especially the little ones.

I’m not sure how many times you’re supposed to let them run around the sofa with their little friends until it’s time to say stop. I don’t really know how far away from home to let them wander on their bikes. I think it might be OK to let them make mud pies, but exactly how many slices are they allowed to eat? Where is the boundary between play and actual fighting with the siblings? Do I wait until someone gets bitten?

I have gained a little bit of insight on boys, from my mother in law, who raised three of them. The youngest of her boys was very active. In her words, he had a lot of energy. In the words of his teachers, he was hyperactive and needed to be put on medication. My mother-in-law refused any of that nonsense — this was the 1960s, a time before parents were practically expected to dope up their little kids so teachers could handle them — and he turned out fine. He made it through school with great grades, a curious mind and hands that liked to take things apart. I’m so glad his mom didn’t accept the faulty diagnosis, which, in this case, would have only dulled a very strong personality.

With some kids, you just gotta let them work out their wild ya-yas sometimes.

Problem is, there’s not a lot of room in the world anymore for a kid to let out those ya-yas. Or to build forts. Or to construct snowball armory igloos and lie in wait for your prey. Or to climb trees, howl at the moon, dam up streams, make homemade boats to float down the creeks, chase squirrels, or roll like a long down the side of a hill. The wild places are fenced off and divided up among private landowners. Cities and suburbs claim the open spaces for soccer, on fields that must be reserved in advance by an organized sports league. Kids don’t climb trees anymore because it’s too dangerous, and anyway it’s against the covenants of the housing development.

For about an hour and a half, though, “Where the Wild Things Are” lets us adults remember when we could run around like little maniacs. Director Spike Jonze gives us awesome visuals of a fantasy world in which the beaches, sand dunes, forests and mountains are there for us all to play in. Along the way we get to see Max and his friends build childhood’s ultimate dream fort, a wonder that defies the laws of gravity and is ten times better than anything we ourselves thought of, even when we had those wild places to ourselves, way back when.

I’m not going to make a stretch and say that “Where the Wild Things Are” is a film about why we shouldn’t be doping kids, and how too many kids are being over-diagnosed as ADHD. That was never the intent of the original book by Maurice Sendak (all ten sentences of it) nor was it the purpose of Dave Eggers’ screenplay.

But the book and the film do share the same spirit. To me, they’re both mood pieces; tender illustrations about a boy named Max who just needs to get out into nature, howl like a wolf, pretend he’s a monster and bash around the trees and caves and rocks. He needs to do this in order to come back and be civilized to his mom. Max is all that childhood wildness, sadness and loneliness amplified.

Which is not to say the film is for young children. The book is for young children, but the film is for adults in their 30s and 40s who remember the book. The film has been criticized for lacking a plot and depending too much on visuals. But that’s exactly what the book is. Of course the story had to be fleshed out, but I feel that if Eggers had made the story more complex than it is, it would have been a mistake. We have the book in our hearts; we don’t need too many plot points mucking it up into some kind of action/adventure film palatable for today’s Disney-hypnotized 7-year-olds.

Leave the mucking up to Robert Zemeckis, who’s gag-worthy trailer I had to sit through yesterday before the film. Oh boy, the holiday season is coming up folks, and where would we be without yet another version of “A Christmas Carol”? Even worse, it’s digital animation, which appears to be used to create hi-larious action sequences with Scrooge bumping down banisters and effectively snowboarding around Dickens’ London.

It’s enough to make me want to climb the nearest tree and howl at the sadness of it all.

The righteous dude: a tenderness that made it easier to bear August 8, 2009

A long time ago, I could be heard quoting John Hughes constantly. Now that he’s gone, I can’t think of a single clever thing to say. The only thing that comes to mind are song lyrics he made stick in my head.

Specifically, the song he quotes at the beginning of his 1985 masterpiece The Breakfast Club: “And these children that you spit on as they try to change their world are immune to your consultation; they’re quite aware of what they’re going through.” I have the suspicion that the children David Bowie was singing about at the time the song “Changes” was popular were those who came of age in the 1960s, i.e. our parents. But Bowie has a true artist’s soul, and I’m sure he’s fine with Hughes having applied it to us who were kids in the 1980s. Because it worked. The Breakfast Club became one of the defining movies of our generation.

I was 12 years old when that movie came out, so I was a little late in the game. I never got to see a Hughes movie in the theater. I also had to be careful about when to watch the Hughes movies — the best being The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Weird Science, Some Kind of Wonderful — when they finally appeared on HBO. In our pre-cable days, Dad had taped a piece of loose-leaf paper to the top of our wood-console television, next to my mom’s ceramic sea captain figurines. The list went a little something like this:

“Shows Jennifer is Not Allowed to Watch:
Dallas
Falcon Crest
Knots Landing
Dynasty
Three’s Company.”

And no, I’m not making that up.

Funny thing, Hughes was my dad’s age. My dad grew up on Chicago’s South Side, while Hughes moved to the North Side as an early teen. Hughes probably grew up as a Cubs fan, and was making movies about teen angst at the same time my dad, lifelong Sox Fan, was working on telephone poles and wondering from year to year whether the IBEW union was going to go on strike.

In the years post-cable, there was a verbal addendum to Dad’s list of television no-nos, which stated that I was not allowed to watch MTV or Rated R movies. But our TV was in the basement, so it was easy enough not to get caught. I could practically hear ants crawling down those creaky steps. And with all the repetition on pay cable channels in those days, it was fairly easy to wear my mom down with “But there’s nothing else ON besides ‘Sixteen Candles.’” And actually, she liked that one as much as I did.

But Hughes was important in ways far beyond just being entertaining. Even at his most silly and crude — think “Weird Science” — he had something to say about the freaks and the geeks. He had a deep kind of knowledge about what it was like to feel a crippling amount of insecurity, either because he was one of us, or because all of us have it. He had the ability to poke fun of us socially awkward nerds on one hand, and then turn around and show us our strengths, without making it seem contrived or out of place, or changing the tone of the film. That was a gift, and he shared it with us.

Or, as Grace the Secretary in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off would say, “The sportos and motor heads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, d–kheads…they all adore him. They think he’s a righteous dude.”

One of my favorite scenes ever — from ANY film — is in “Pretty in Pink,” when Duckie (John Cryer [oh, John ... why "Two and a Half Men"? Why? Why? WHY?]) performs a lyp-synch serenade for Andie (Molly Ringwald). It’s a totally pointless and unnecessary scene. But it’s also sweet and funny and adorable, and it’s just another reminder to us girls who stare across the computer lab longingly at the over-priveleged preppies why we need to forget about the watery-eyed rich boy Blaine (Andrew McCarthy) who will inevitably lie to us and break our hearts, and learn to appreciate the boy right in front of us, whose heart is completely open. Duckie might not have been totally aware of what he was lip synching at the time: “Oh she may be weary. Young girls, they do get wearied, wearing those same old dress. But when she gets weary, try a little tenderness.” Specifically, the line “the soft word they all spoke so gentle, it makes it easier … easier to bear.” Yeah, OK, when you listen to Otis Redding sing it, especially the live version, it seems pretty clear Otis is trying to tell the guys how to be extra nice to the girl in order to … well you can use your imagination.

But when I listen to it, I can understand why Hughes liked the song enough to not leave the scene on the cutting room floor. One, it’s just a great song. Two, Andie was the most weary of all of us girls who didn’t quite fit in, and Duckie — who I think shares a kind of resemblance to Hughes himself — is the tenderest of all friends, the best friend that every girl wearing homemade clothes needs.

In the same way — and yeah, I’m totally aware of how overly sentimental I’m being — Hughes may have played a part in helping me and a million other insecure American girls decide not to care so much about high school, or about what kind of dirt the people who’ve known you since Kindergarten might have on you.

In Sixteen Candles, Some Kind of Wonderful and Pretty in Pink, he assured us misfits that we all had a niche, even if we were of the argyle-sweater-and-tan-trouser-wearing Asian exchange student category, prone to driving automobiles into “Lake … big lake.” In The Breakfast Club, he showed all of us how everybody — the jock, the prom queen, the nerd, the stoner and the artsy freak — are not all that different from each other. Finally, in Ferris Bueller, Hughes showed us a totally brand new archetype with Matthew Broderick: a guy who transcended labels in pursuit of happiness and garnered the praise and adoration of everyone, and showed us that the real enemy is not somebody who belongs to another clique in our peer group, but the single-minded authoritarian adult, and any one else who might rain on our parade.

Hughes mattered because he took us seriously, but helped us not to take ourselves too seriously. Who knew such a tenderness could come from somebody our dad’s age? And from a Cubs fan. Thanks, Mr. Hughes. You did right by us.

Summer Reading part 3: My Sister’s Keeper August 6, 2009

OK, I lied. This is really a combo book review and movie review. It appeared that last night at the theater was book club night, as I and my fellow members were just six of a crowd comprised ENTIRELY of women. In a way, I’m glad about that. There’s something very special about seeing a tear-jerker in a room like that, especially if the movie is surprising and engaging and satisfying, as this one was. Even in our enlightened society, there’s something totally freeing about a gaggle of just girls, with no men in sight besides the teen-age ushers. Don’t ask me to explain it.

About half way through the viewing of the film “My Sister’s Keeper,” I realized that based on all the liberties the filmmakers took with Jodi Picoult’s story, they could have easily gone a step further and made the entire film center on the love story between leukemia patient and big sister Kate Fitzgerald and her fellow cancer patient/boyfriend Taylor Ambrose. And changed the name of the film altogether. This relationship was one of the things Picoult got right in the book, and it turned out to be the most affecting part of the movie.

And by the way, as pasty-faced cutie-pies go, my vote goes with Taylor Ambrose over Edward Cullen any day. See for yourself:

Maybe that’s because it seemed like the filmmakers took everything that was wrong with the book, and made the story into what I wanted it to be.

Earlier this summer, I was reading parts of Picoult’s novel out loud in the car to my husband during our trip South. My out loud readings were mostly the result of me having little outbursts over the author’s choices. I snorted at the “coincidence” of the court’s guardian at litem also happening to be the long lost love of Anna Fitzgerald’s attorney, Campbell Alexander, whom Anna — a test tube baby designed specifically to be a donor to big sister Kate — employs to help her sue her parents for medical emancipation. I wondered what was the point of having that awkward love story between these two adults in the book. Clearly the filmmakers also viewed it as unnecessary, and by leaving that part out of the story, it gave Alec Baldwin the opportunity to really shine as the flashy, secretly epileptic, hammy lawyer.

When that epilepsy secret comes home to roost in the final courtroom scene, the author had me shaking my head as Alexander collapsed into a grand mal seizure, with his service dog, Judge, helping out by opening the briefcase and getting a rubber tongue depressor for the attending humans to use. Anyone who has ever taken a first aid course in the last ten years knows that you are NOT supposed to put anything in the mouth of a seizure victim. In the film, the dog’s job, thankfully, was limited to incessant barking and whining as he detected his master’s impending episode. Not to mention the fact that, post seizure, Alexander recovers and, doused in sweat and hair disheveled, tells the judge he’d like to finish out the day’s proceedings. This part the filmmakers didn’t change, and the result is an unintentional sight gag, with Alec Baldwin covered in what could be construed as flop sweat. And maybe it’s just me and my personal obsession over all things hygienic, and my never-ending curiosity about the restroom situations in TV, books and movies, on behalf of characters, but from what I know about grand mal seizures, at the very least? Baldwin/Alexander probably would have needed a change of trousers. Just saying.

While reading the book, I scoffed at the contrived little irony about the father, a firefighter captain, being woefully oblivious to his son Jesse’s pyromania — and how convenient it was that Jesse’s little firestarting habit was limited to vacant buildings in the slums, so we didn’t have to deal with the messiness of him being charged with manslaughter. The author then had me seething in the epilogue, with her use of Daddy’s status as fire captain to help his pyro son get into the Police Academy — even AFTER finding out his son has been setting fires all over town. But I wasn’t seething because that bit of boys club nepotistic nonsense is so contrived, but because that part? She pretty much got that right on the money. In the film, Jesse isn’t so much into starting slum fires as he is into taking drugs, staying out late in downtown L.A. and staring at transvestites. So in the film’s epilogue … he goes to art school? Shrug. Whatev.

The final and most egregious contrivance of the book was its infamous ending, which, on our car trip last month, had me banging the spine of the mass market paperback on the dashboard of my poor unsuspecting Honda Element. It all has to do with Anna and Kate’s dad being a firefighter, and it seemed like Picoult had been setting us up for this moment throughout the entire book. After the judge rightly granted Anna Fitzgerald the right to make medical decisions about her own body — after everyone finds out that it was Kate, the sick girl, who has put Anna up to all of this because she just wants to have permission to die already — Anna implies that she’s going to give Kate her kidney after all. This comes after Alexander, now her medical power of attorney, asks her where she sees herself in ten years. Fine. Lovely. If Picoult had ended it with that line, “In ten years, I’d like to be Kate’s sister,” I would have forgiven all the other little niggling problems with the book, and walked away pretty happy. I might have even tried picking up another of Picoult’s books from time to time, because, as much as I criticize her story machinations, she is a wonderful writer on the technical side, with a great talent for an interesting turn of phrase and vivid descriptions that put you right in the thick of all these hairy ethical dilemmas. Her courtroom scenes in the book are worth reading on the face of them, and comprised about 80 percent of what I read out loud to my husband as we closed in on southern Kentucky.

By the time we hit Tennessee, though, Anna had died in a horrible car crash, and in a melodramatic moment I saw coming a mile away, her father, the firefighter, is called to the scene and has to cut his own daughter out of the wreckage. Then, she’s rushed to the hospital, where Alexander signs off on Anna’s kidney donation, along with a bunch of other organs for a bunch of other nameless people. Then for some reason, even though her organs have been harvested, the hospital staff sees fit to hook her up to a ventilator and heart monitor, only so we can have the dramatic scene where Mom and Dad say goodbye and literally pull the plug. BOO! BOO! BOO! (I’m visualizing that crazy hag shouting curses at Buttercup in The Princess Bride at the moment).

There’s been a lot of shocked disappointment coming from some of Picoult’s devoted readers regarding the ending of the film. Up on the silver screen the adorable Abigail Breslin (and if you haven’t seen her in Little Miss Sunshine, shame on you. Now go forth and rent it), as Anna, is granted her medical emancipation, but AFTER Kate dies from renal failure. It might seem pointless at first, now that Kate’s gone. And she’s gone because everyone comes to the realization that this is what Kate wants. And because her mother finally realizes she needs to let go, to stop struggling, and just say goodbye. So really, I found the medical emancipation decision to be a moment full of grace. The point was not whether Anna SHOULD give up her kidney, but whether she should be able to have a choice. After all, that’s what Kate would have wanted.

Movie Review Badge Project #2: I “Doubt” I inherited mom’s movie sleuthing skills … May 13, 2009

There’s this thing about nuns. I’ve always had a weird fascination with them. I don’t know why, but perhaps it is the same reason that some Christian novelists have a fascination with the Amish.

The first time I ever met a nun, I was in Wichita with a group of my fellow college newspaper writers, attending a Christian writers conference. During the keynote and luncheon, I was seated at a table with about seven nuns. I realized then that I’d only ever seen nuns depicted by Julie Andrews and Audrey Hepburn and Sally Field. While I attended Highland Christian School, there was a Catholic School just across the main square from us, and it was a mysterious place where we thought kids had to worship statues while nuns floated around, watching. Because in my imagination, they floated (thank you, Gidget). The nuns at the writers conference were not floating, or wearing wimples or brandishing rulers at naughty little children, or displaying any of the stereotypes you might imagine about nuns. And, they were kind of hilarious. I was a little disappointed that they weren’t more critical of my table manners, but nun criticism would come soon enough.

A few years later I was working at a newspaper in the small town in Iowa, where there happened to be a Catholic church and school, St. Patrick’s. At least once a week, Sister Virginia would call me up to discuss all the typos and misspellings in the paper. Well, I have to say, this was a much more satisfying nun experience for me. And, after telling me about all my mistakes, she would once again remind me that our newspaper should switch our style of referring to sources on second reference from just last name to title and last name. For example, when quoting John Smith, it is traditional for newspapers to refer to him on second references as just “Smith.” Sister Virginia thought this was disrespectful. She informed me that even the NEW YORK TIMES was now referring to people by their titles on second reference, as in “Mr. Smith.” I happened to agree with her, and I would sometimes bring up the idea to editors throughout my career, but what Sister Virginia didn’t know was that reporters, as soon as they are promoted to editor, get their listening chip removed. Or maybe she did know that, which is why she always asked to speak to me.

Anyway, after all THAT, Sister Virginia would THEN go on to ask us to come to her school to do a story about something wonderful the little children were doing for the community, or for other wonderful little children in Africa. Someday, I myself hope to have the huevos to precede a request with criticism and nagging. I think that comes with age. Sister Virginia had age and a wimple on her side. She saw me coming a mile away; she knew I couldn’t say no to a nun, no matter how much I swing Protestant.

So, what was I writing about today? Oh yeah, “Doubt.” I have been wanting to see this ever since I saw the trailers last year. Weirdly, every time I tried to find a showing at a theater in my area, it turned up no results. Based on the trailers alone, I was pulling for Meryl Streep to win the Oscar for best actress. Unfortunately Kate Winslet won because she got naked and played a horrible Nazi. Or something. I’m not sure. I didn’t see The Reader because, I don’t know, I’m not really interested in watching a love story involving a NAZI.

Thanks to the miracle of Netflix, the movie finally popped into my mailbox last week, and I insisted on a mid-week movie night. I was not disappointed, despite all that build up. I put it right up there next to Slumdog as best picture of the year.

First of all, let me just say how much I appreciate a film, play, TV show or any kind of drama that has a singular story line. Don’t get me wrong, I love all the side stories and flashbacks of LOST as much as anybody else, but there is something to be said for simplicity. “Doubt” is as simple and and singular as it gets.

That is not to say it is simplistic. It is a single story that can be taken many different ways. Much like watching classic Hitchcock, my opinion and suspicions wavered from minute to minute about what all the characters were really up to. Less than ten minutes in, when the young miscreant named London first shirked away from the hand of Father Flynn, played utterly close to the chest by Philip Seymour-Hoffman, I was 100 percent convinced that this priest had sinister intentions with the young boys at St. Nicholas School. By the end of the movie, I believed he had only become aware of an unmentionable nature in himself, leaving us to guess at whether or not he ever DID anything.

Meanwhile, I could go on an on about how Meryl Streep was born to play the withering, severe, No-B.S. school principal Sister Aloycius. And about how Amy Adams was the perfect young nun, with a Julie Andrews optimism but not enough life experience to charm a group of rowdy eighth-graders into behaving properly. Or about how despite her satisfaction at being terrifying to the students of St. Nicholas, Sister Aloycius had a good heart, and did what she did to protect the students of the school, whether it be from imaginary child predators or real ones; and to keep the children from growing up into disrespectful hooligans. One of the more powerful moments of the film for me was how Sister Aloycius watched over one of her aging, blind-as-a-bat sisters: at the dinner table, the poor old nun was grasping around for her fork. Sister Aloycius reached over and guided the old woman’s hand to her fork, and gave her a tiny little pat. That was all of the affection we got to see from Sister Aloycius, but it told me that it was real.

On Saturday night, we watched the film again, this time with my parents. It is really intriguing how watching a film with someone who has not seen it before can make you see things differently. Maybe it’s because I’m one of those annoying people who are constantly looking over at you to see if you caught the same joke or expression, to gauge if you are sharing my same level of appreciation for a movie. Whatever it was, this time, I wasn’t so sure of anything. By the end, I was not so ready to hang Father Flynn out to twist in the wind.

SPOILER ALERT

My mom has always had this scary ability to suss out the subtext of movies. Mystery movies and books and TV shows are a total no-brainer for Herbie. She’s got the killer, the weapon, the room and the motivation in the palm of her hand about 15 minutes in. I don’t know how she does it. She is also very good at math, so maybe that has something to do with it. As the credits rolled, Dad commented that Meryl Streep’s character had no proof at all that anything had happened. Mom piped up, “Father Flynn left to protect the boy.”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “He decided to leave instead of causing a scandal that would make the boy the center of attention.”

Me: “Oh, because the boy might be gay?”

Mom: “Yes. Remember, the mother said the boy’s father didn’t like him?”

Me: “And that’s why his father beat him?”

Mom (getting an extreme “duh” tone to her voice at my denseness): “YES.”

Me: “Oh, so if he fought Meryl Streep it would be even worse for the boy.”

Mom: “Exactly.”

Me: “So … he probably didn’t even do anything wrong.”

Mom: “Probably not.”

Me: “So, it was more likely he’d been singling out the boy for counseling.”

Mom: “Probably.”

WHOA. I could have watched that movie ten more times and not have come up with that theory. But she’s totally right.

Perhaps I was too distracted by all the nuns.

Movie Badge Project #1: Prince Caspian. (As a former Calvinette, I suppose I am supposed to like this.) April 11, 2009

My people love C.S. Lewis. Of all the people in the world who conveniently overlook Lewis’s own caveat that the books were not intended to be specifically allegorical, my people are the most guilty of that.

The cartoon version of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the Bill Melendez version from 1979, was an honored tradition at Highland Christian School. Every year on the day before the start of Christmas break, Mr. Bouma would assemble us all into the gymnasium for the complete viewing of it. Picture 200 elementary age kids forced to sit on a gym floor for approximately two hours and pay attention to a story when they were already antsy to bolt out the door for the winter holiday. You’d think we’d all be climbing the Huskies’ basketball nets. But you’d be wrong. Rapt attention would be an understatement. To my recollection you could hear the drop of an icicle off the frozen tush of the White Witch in that gym. As for me, I was utterly charmed. To this day, that old version can still choke me up. Not because it’s amazing animation, but because it really conveyed the emotion and angst of a little misunderstood girl, and the frustration and struggles of a little boy who just wants attention.

As far as I’m concerned, the 2005 live action version of TLTW&TW got it right. It’s a story that is begging for a big, bombastic Hollywood treatment. You’ve got all the iconic images that are totally theatrical: a mysterious wardrobe, the lamppost, the faun and his parcels, the frightening White Witch, and an appearance by none other than the classical version of Father Christmas, who, for whatever reason, makes me well up every single time.

Which brings me to last night’s viewing of Prince Caspian, the most recent installment in the Walden Media productions of The Chronicles of Narnia. This is a very different story. You don’t have the same recognizable icons, and there is no Mr. Tumnus to lull us into the fantasy with a nice cup of tea. In the book, there is a lot of action, a lot of strategizing, a lot of walking, and a lot of doubt about the existence of Aslan. This film version is fairly consistent with the book, but that might be part of the problem. We C.S. Lewis fans can allow our dear author to plod along at times, because he’s really good at developing the characters, making you feel how hungry everybody is, and rewarding you with delicious little descriptions of a satisfying meal by the side of the road after a very long, hard day. (these stories leave no doubt in my mind that Lewis was a foodie before there was such a thing).

The movie doesn’t take the time during its slow moments, however, to really let us become attached to the characters. Prince Caspian’s beloved professor seems tacked on only to serve as an agent to send his charge away to safety in the dark of night. And when the King Miraz confronts the professor about his treachery, all we see is a book with a picture of the “legend” of the four Children of Adam, but as viewers we don’t really have enough emotion invested in the professor to care. In fact, during most scenes set among the Telmarines, I kept staring at the king’s preposterously pointy beard and making fun of everyone’s ridiculous Spanish accents. I was half-hoping for Inigo Montoya to show up and demonstrate to everyone how to have a proper sword fight on film.

One of the most interesting characters in the book is the mighty Reepicheep, the fiercely loyal mouse who turns out to be invaluable as a battle strategist. Most of the time during the film, Reepicheep’s lines serve to hit us over the head with the irony of him being a mouse. Yes. We get it. You’re a mouse. Yet you’re mighty. Now shut up. The character himself seems to sum up my feelings about his portrayal when he encounters a Telmarine soldier who says, “You’re a mouse!” and Reepicheep says, “You people have no imagination.” Um, there’s your irony right there.

I suppose it’s not very nice of me to keep badgering the creative minds behind this mess, but then I’m not a very nice person. My last point regards the casting. Of course they had to cast the same four actors to play Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. As these four actors age, especially those playing Peter and Susan, we’re finding out that when they’re not surrounded by the mind-blowing imagery of the first movie, they are not really great at the whole acting thing. Edmund and Lucy hold their own, I suppose, but Peter comes off as a complete git and Susan — from the very opening scene where she acts unnecessarily bitchy to a sweet, unassuming and may I say suitable-for-her young man by telling him her name is Phyllis — acts like a boring little snob.

But not as boring as the most important character of the film. That would be Prince Caspian himself, who I would have expected to be a larger-than-life swashbuckler who steals every scene. Instead, his acting is flat, and his hair looks like M’Lynn from Steel Magnolias got hung out to dry in a tornado.

The real crime of miscasting lies with this story’s Big Bad, King Miraz. Aside from his aforementioned beard and accent, there wasn’t much about him that upset me on any visceral level. He is more like an obnoxious twit usurper than an imposing villian and evil king. Annoying? Yes. Scary? Not at all. The only time I ever got a chill (pardon the pun) was when they brought back the amazing Tilda Swinton for about three minutes as The White Witch. Now SHE’S a villian. Evil plan? Check. Motivation? Check. Something to lose? Check. Insane wardrobe? Check. Crazy eyes? check. Strangely and spookily likeable in some way? Definitely check.

I could not wait for the movie to end, if for nothing else than to see if Susan had somehow grown and changed, and if she might decide to give the nice nerdy boy the time of day back in London. But, as if to put just one more unsatisfying punctuation mark on the end of this film, the nice nerdy boy shouts to her from the train, “Are you coming, Phyllis?” Without even a hint of sarcasm, or even a recollection that he KNOWS her real name is Susan because he HEARD Lucy call her name at the beginning of the movie, when he’d first realized that Susan is a rude little snot. And he doesn’t even call her on it! He’s not even a little bit put out! He’s a dog that’s been kicked and he’s coming back for more! And then we see Susan, still ignoring the nice nerdy boy, laughing it off in her own self-centered way, sharing some kind of an inside joke with Lucy. Ugh. Whatever. I give up. Susan and nice nerdy boy deserve each other.