Three stars. Rated PG, and quite generously, despite sorcery, rude humor, occasional profanity and lots of scary stuff
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.21.18
At its best — thanks mostly to wildly imaginative production designer Jon Hutman — this film feels like a giddy visit to Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion, filtered through the snarky sensibilities of Lemony Snicket.
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| Having just determined the nature of the malevolent spell ticking down within the walls of their home, young Lewis (Owen Vaccaro), his Uncle Jonathan (Jack Black) and their friend Florence (Cate Blanchett) ponder their next move. |
There’s a kid-level sense of atmospheric dread on par with Poltergeist, which is no surprise; Steven Spielberg produced and co-wrote that 1982 classic, and his Amblin Entertainment had a hand in this new fantasy.
But scripter Eric Kripke has taken serious liberties with the 1973 John Bellairs juvenile mystery on which this adaptation is based, and — more damningly — Kripke’s storyline is a clumsy mess: a series of disconnected sequences in desperate need of better transitions and linking material. The film succeeds mostly due to momentum, as opposed to any sense of stability or plot logic.
On top of which, the result is helmed by Eli Roth, a director/writer/producer best known for savagely gory horror films such as Cabin Fever, Hostel and The Green Inferno. He’s the last person in Hollywood I’d choose to orchestrate a family-friendly fright flick. And while — in fairness — he does tone down his torture-porn sensibilities, glimpses of his vulgar, nastier side nonetheless emerge in this PG-stretching rollercoaster ride.
I’m sure he can’t help it. And such tendencies do this film no favors.
The setting is 1955, in small-town New Zebedee, Michigan. Orphaned 10-year-old Lewis Barnavelt (Owen Vaccaro) has been sent to live with his extremely eccentric Uncle Jonathan (a perfectly cast Jack Black) in a creaky old mansion laden with everything guaranteed to scare the wits out of an impressionable little boy:
A front garden with an uncomfortably lifelike topiary winged lion. Scores of clocks in every room. A comfortably padded armchair with a tendency to follow one around. A stained-glass window that changes its image. Strange sounds in the night. And — worst of all — a chamber filled with sinister dolls, puppets, marionettes, dummies and other prop figures, many only half-assembled or in need of repair.
On top of which, the house seems possessed by some sort of larger, more malevolent clock, its muffled, almost subliminal ticking emanating from the very walls and foundation.
What kid could ever spend a night in such a place?
Poor Lewis isn’t merely frightened; he also misses his parents terribly, both victims of a tragic accident. He has barricaded himself behind a protective façade of Captain Midnight-style goggles and a fondness for big words; the large suitcase that Uncle Jonathan huffs to his nephew’s upstairs bedroom contains an equal measure of clothes and dictionaries.
