THE LOVELY BONES
**
Ostensibly a B-horror filmmaker, with such gory cult hits as Bad Taste, Meet the Feebles, and Braindead under his belt, director Peter Jackson turned heads in 1994 with Heavenly Creatures, a mesmerizing, expertly crafted film that recounts the true story of a brutal murder in a small New Zealand town. Nominated for an Academy Award and winner of over a dozen international prizes, the film paved the way for Jackson’s introduction to, and speedy success in, America: his ghost horror-comedy The Frighteners was well received; his highly successful Lord of the Rings trilogy made him an Academy Award winner and a star, seemingly cementing him as a director who could do no wrong; but then his highly ambitious remake of King Kong, while visually marvelous, was criticized for being overblown at over a three hour running time, and for performances that were stiff and wooden at best. Still, when it was announced that Jackson’s next film would be the adaptation of Alice Sebold’s hit 2002 novel The Lovely Bones, this reviewer was optimistic - for a story that alternates between small-town murder mystery and grand surreal visual interludes, who better to direct?
Sadly - and shockingly - The Lovely Bones emerges as a bona fide entry into a list of Where did he go wrong? follies like Spielberg’s 1941 and Polanski’s Pirates - movies made by filmmakers who’d proven their capable talents, and yet seem to have, for whatever reason, completely dropped the ball on what were otherwise seemingly ambitious period projects. The Lovely Bones isn’t a terrible film, but it is considerably flawed; and to use the term again, shockingly so for a Peter Jackson film. Jarringly disjointed, emotionally detached, and ultimately soulless and sterile, one struggles to hear Jackson’s voice in the proceedings, or to feel his control over the story and performances, but those moments very rarely come - the visuals are all there, but they hang and spin like baubles, desperate to be noticed despite having little more to offer but their luster.
In a better film, one might criticize the curiously over-emotive performances of Mark Wahlberg and Rachel Weisz as Jack and Abigail Salmon, a young couple whose daughter Susie is murdered by a neighborhood pedophile in 1973. Or, in a better film one might criticize Stanley Tucci’s performance as said neighborhood pedophile, as obvious a predator as is possible to identify with his lewd chuckles and bespectacled hands-in-pockets demeanor. In this film, it’s hard not to blame Jackson - everyone, and everything, present themselves as cardboard representations of what they are supposed to be. From almost the opening frame, it borders on ridiculous. You want 1960’s? Let’s stack a pile of books next to our young couple’s bed that read like a who’s-who of beatnik faves (Hesse, Kerouac - you get the idea). Oh, they’re parents now? Let’s replace that pile with another pile of books, but on child rearing. Can these people not afford a book shelf? You want more obviousness? Do you suppose if the camera follows that piece of paper long enough, eventually it’s going to hit a foot? And what are the odds that foot will belong to the neighborhood creep? What about all these ships-in-bottles - do you suppose, at some point, someone will get angry and smash them? There are so many scenes where a grieving Jack holds one of his bottled ships that, by the time he actually smashes one, you just don’t care. You saw it - just like everything else - coming. It is truly stunning how so many moments in this film suggest the sloppy mishandling of an amateur.
As murdered Susie Salmon, young actress Saoirse Ronan proves - as she did in 2007’s Atonement - that she can hold her own with the grown-ups. Narrating the film from the Afterlife as she observes the aftermath of her murder - her father’s relentless pursuit of her killer, her killer’s relentless pursuit of her sister, and (sigh…) her grandmother’s relentless pursuit to provide comic relief to the audience - Susie would have made for a far more interesting protagonist, if only we’d gotten to know more about her than the fact that she had a crush on a cute boy before she died; still, Ronan gives it her all and is able to make her character engaging enough for us to follow along curiously. Still, in a better film, we’d do more than appreciate her perspective - we’d mourn her, alongside her grieving parents, and strictly on account of that loss - and not just because he’s a killer - we’d want to see her murderer come to justice. By all accounts, The Lovely Bones should be a devastating piece of work, and it never comes close. About the only emotional response one gets in this film is slackjawed awe at the breathtaking visuals of Susie’s afterlife, and in a film with such a grave premise, that is a major misfortune.
The list of Lifetime Television-esque moments and motifs is endless: slow-entry kisses where the lips take 12 seconds to connect; obviously dramatic camera angles; Christ, a montage… It’d be a mess of an adaptation enough, but having explored similar themes of homicide and obsession before in Heavenly Creatures, one really wonders where Jackson went wrong; upon seeing the film this reviewer gave the director the benefit of the doubt and looked up the screenwriters, but sure enough they were Jackson’s familiar team of himself, Fran Walsh, and Phillipa Boyens. Did the fact that Heavenly Creatures’ tale took place in their native New Zealand help the writers to connect? Or is this a case of a filmmaker’s innocence lost? If the latter, there’s hope yet - for every George Lucas (R.I.P.), there’s a…well, Roman Polanski, who was able to rebound from duds like Pirates and Frantic with Oscar-winner The Pianist. Perhaps it takes some re-grounding, an introspective turn to one’s roots. Whatever the case, Peter Jackson’s The Lovely Bones does not feel like a Peter Jackson film, and it’s a shame - I truly believe, as we’ve seen before, he had this one in him.
- Logan Crow
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