Five stars. Rated PG, for fantasy peril and some scary scenes
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.1.16
Roald Dahl’s children’s books are
cherished for all sorts of reasons, including his ability to concoct astounding
creatures and astonishing realms that require a reader’s imagination, because
such wonders couldn’t possibly be replicated on the big screen.
At least, not until quite
recently.
Dahl has done quite well by
Hollywood over the years, with fabulous adaptations of The Witches, James and the
Giant Peach and Fantastic Mr. Fox,
not to mention a couple of quite popular renditions of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
The many talented individuals
behind those films notwithstanding, nothing approaches the pure magic — the
jaw-dropping sense of wonder — delivered by director Steven Spielberg and an
amazing team of collaborators, in The BFG.
Back in the day, the producers of
Christopher Reeve’s first Superman film promised that we’d believe a man can
fly. Well, Spielberg and his crew make us believe that giants stride the earth.
The verisimilitude is so natural, so persuasive, that we often disregard the
boring technicalities of special effects, choosing instead to accept the
fantastic at face value: no small thing, in these jaded times.
Everything is orchestrated to
perfection: the late Melissa Mathison’s poignant, deftly sculpted screenplay
(her final completed assignment); Janusz Kaminski’s lavish cinematography, rich
with warm color tones that enhance the film’s cozy atmosphere; the ingenious
production design and set decoration by Rick Carter and Elizabeth Wilcox; and —
most particularly — John Williams’ delicately intricate score.
Williams, recently the first
composer to be honored with the American Film Institute’s Life Achievement
Award, is no stranger to ornately layered soundtracks and iconic character
themes. But even in a lengthy career distinguished by scores of memorable
scores, this one is one of his finest.
Williams’ music for The BFG is all-encompassing; it feels as
if every scene, every character, has its own theme. His score plays like a
continuous, massive symphony that brings Spielberg’s handling of this gentle
parable to even greater emotional heights.
Dahl published his book in 1982,
and Spielberg’s film is set in the same decade. It opens with a slow pan of
late-night London, Kaminski employing some sort of cinematographic trick that
makes the streets, vehicles and buildings seem somehow smaller than usual:
almost like an immense, three-quarter-size fairy tale village. We glide into an
orphanage, where the matron’s final rounds are watched, surreptitiously, by
10-year-old Sophie (Ruby Barnhill).
The precocious, bespectacled
Sophie suffers from insomnia and an active imagination: She has heard that it’s
not safe to wander the streets after midnight, and that it’s equally unwise to
step out onto exposed balconies. We already know the reason, having glimpsed a
huge shambling something with an
uncanny ability to blend into shadows when passing adults glance in its
direction.
Ah, but the inquisitive Sophie
ignores her own guidance, parting the curtains and opening the window of the
upper-story orphanage dormitory. The result: She is snatched by an immense
hand, folded into a cloth carryall, and transported — literally by leaps and
bounds — to her huge captor’s equally imposing home.
This creature’s intimidating size
notwithstanding, Sophie discovers that he’s a gentle, oddly charming soul; she
dubs him the Big Friendly Giant, usually shortened to BFG. He’s played to
fussy, aw-shucks perfection by Mark Rylance, who recently won an Oscar for his supporting
role in Spielberg’s Bridge of Spies.
Rylance’s work here is many, many times better — as unlikely as that seems —
and he’s the final, utterly perfect ingredient in this tasty recipe.
The BFG isn’t terribly well
educated, his “learning” having been confined to what he gleans from the tiny
human books that he attempts to read via a huge magnifying glass. He mangles
the English language with oblivious charm, which prompts frequent eye-rolling
by Sophie, all too eager to correct him. Between the BFG’s malapropisms and
jargon specific to “Giant Country,” pretty much everything that escapes
Rylance’s mouth is hilarious, particularly when punctuated by the BFG’s
enormous, expressive ears.
The BFG may be huge to Sophie,
but he’s actually the local runt, his genteel manner and human affectations —
such as clothing — making him the frequent target of bullying by larger,
nastier neighbors such as Fleshlumpeater (Jemaine Clement), Bloodbottler (Bill
Hader) and half a dozen others. Worse yet, all these other giants regard
children as tasty delicacies, whereas the BFG is a confirmed vegetarian,
subsisting on a disgusting bulbous green known as a snozzcumber.
Sophie and her new companion
become friends, despite the dangers inherent in her hanging about; all giants
have a keen sense of smell, and she must hide whenever Fleshlumpeater charges
into BFG’s home. As the girl’s bond with BFG strengthens, he shares his other
big secret: Each evening he visits “Dream Country,” where he catches and
bottles dreams, later taking them to London and using a huge, trumpet-like
device to blow them into the minds of sleeping children and their parents.
Dream Country, like everything else
in this film, is visualized ingeniously: all sparkly radiance and pixie dust,
with free-flowing happy dreams in soft pastels, distinguished from the angry,
agitated red of nightmares.
But after observing the dynamic
between BFG and his scarier peers, Sophie realizes that this uneasy “truce” is
unlikely to last; somehow, the other giants must be dealt with. Permanently.
Cue an even more improbable third
act, and the involvement of The Queen (Penelope Wilton); her handmaid Mary
(Rebecca Hall) and butler Mr. Tibbes (Rafe Spall), along with various generals
in the British Army and Royal Air Force. In a film laden with often quiet
comedy, nothing is more droll than the typically unflappable British sangfroid
on display, as The Queen takes command of the situation.
This film’s delights are too
numerous to tabulate. Most crucially, it’s a poignant, well-developed study of
friendship between two quite distinct individuals: a relationship that gives
the story its emotional heft. It’s also possible to simply sit back and marvel
at the endlessly clever visuals: the ways in which Sophie navigates the vast
environment of BFG’s home, and — alternatively — the care BFG must exercise,
while maneuvering through London’s correspondingly minuscule streets and
dwellings.
Then, too, we can be in awe of
the care with which Spielberg has assembled every single thread of this remarkable
tapestry, with every stitch just so.
Rylance is thoroughly believable,
moving with the slow, lumbering gait of an immense creature. At first, the BFG
never quite knows what to do with Sophie, and it’s fun to watch suggestions and
decisions slowly work their way across Rylance’s expressive features. At times,
he’s like a naïve, sheltered uncle who never quite figured out modern society; then
again, he’s quick-witted and resourceful when it matters (mostly each time
Fleshlumpeater crashes through the door).
Barnhill is adorable, her wide
eyes and impulsive behavior utterly perfect. She revels in Sophie’s youthfully
condescending superiority, each time she gets to correct BFG’s grammar; then,
at the blink of an eye, she becomes a lonely, frightened and vulnerable little
girl, relying on her new friend for protection. Spielberg has a long and
successful track record, when it comes to spotting and working with impressive
young talent — think of little Drew Barrymore, in E.T. — and Barnhill is another winner.
Wilton is a hoot as The Queen,
and the various giants — aside from Freshlumpeater and Bloodbottler, we have
Manhugger, Gizzardgulper, Bonecruncher, Meatdripper, Maidmasher, Childchewer
and Butcher Boy — are delightfully, appallingly gross. And, yes, more than a
little scary.
Spielberg and editor Michael Kahn
carefully pace this fantasy, blending lighthearted sequences — Sophie’s efforts
to stroll amid massive mugs, plates and other household items that we take for
granted — with bursts of potential peril, hiccups of high comedy (thanks to a
fizzy drink known as frobscottle), and all-important dollops of aching
tenderness.
Pay attention, as the story
reaches its conclusion, to the way Williams hushes the lush orchestral
underscore, in favor of a solo piano theme: Rarely will you find a better, more
striking example of the power of music, to enhance a scene.
The perfect end to a perfect
film.
The BFG won’t merely be a strong presence during
this summer movie season; it’s guaranteed to become a prized part of every
child’s home library, and destined to be shared with generations to come.
Impeccably mounted children’s fantasies are a rare and precious thing — Martin
Scorsese’s handling of Brian Selznick’s Hugo
also comes to mind — and they deserve to be cherished.
Forever.
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