The perfect examples
of the most polar of children’s films. The best. The worst.
The Francis Ford Coppola-produced “The
Black Stallion” is one of my absolute favorite films to watch, it’s
cinematography unparalleled, and I knew that awe
even as a child, although I had no idea about cameras or light or imagery. It
was instinct. I knew I was watching
something special.
This is an emotionally-charged and assured film so confident
in its story, human and animal actors, and visuals that an entire 30 minute
section plays with do dialogue, only music (by Carmine, Francis’ father) and
sound effects as a young boy (Kelly Reno) lost on an island befriends a
rampaging horse, the Black, after the two are thrown from a sinking ship.
No movie would do that now. The trust in children to *get* emotion and relationship, no explanation needed, is gone. (Just wait a few paragraphs to see.)
No movie would do that now. The trust in children to *get* emotion and relationship, no explanation needed, is gone. (Just wait a few paragraphs to see.)
Also gone: The nerve to have a child onscreen
breakdown, as Reno’s boy tells his mother (Teri Garr) months after the fact of
his father’s death on that sinking ship, and that he did not save the horse’s life,
but it saved his life. That scene wrecks me still, and I’m 40.
Reno, by the
way, gives one of the great child performances of any film, much of his
performance relying on eyes or body language, his interaction with the horse. A
long, wide shot – uncut – of Reno offering the horse seaweed to eat is
stunning, visually and through acting and framing.
And patience. That’s a
compliment. We watch the relationship between the boy and horse birth and grow.
A lesser film would have cut, moved on.
Yes, the story goes to the races,
literally, with Mickey Rooney (God, he’s so grand here) as a trainer, but so
what? This is pure adventure, beautifully told by director Carroll Ballard and
photographed by Caleb Deschanel. (They later made the equally smart, deeply
emotional “Fly Away Home.”)
Now, the recent BBC-made “Walking with the
Dinosaurs” is the full opposite, poison to a child’s mind as “Black” is a gift.
In short, I hated this film like no other that I have since 2004’s “Phantom of
the Opera” or 1997’s “Batman and Robin,” films that have nothing but visuals
fireworks and effects endlessly vomited on screen as painfully inept dialogue
and pop-music music hammer constantly and ceaselessly at any sensible person’s
ears and soul.
(It doesn’t help that I watch these films back-to-back.)
We open
in present day as a sullen teenager –- we know he’s awful because he wears a
hoodie, instant fashion accessory for human scum I suppose –- talks in movie
character exposition to his best pal via cell phone about being stuck with his
uncle and sister on a dinosaur dig. Yes, really. Stuck.
No worries, though, as
a talking bird – voiced John Leguizamo – soon lands and tells teen boy about
the winders of the dinosaurs. Here we flash back millions of years to a dino
family of father, mother, and new hatchlings, including runt of litter Patchi
(Justin Long) as their dino heard makes eats, travels in season, and avoids
hunting beasts. So, nothing happens. “Land Before Time” was better.
The story is abysmal and simple-minded,
jumping to jokes about poop showers after another dinosaur defecates on baby
Patchi. More pop and shit jokes follow. Really, if you want your child to
repeat “poop shower” on end, this is your bag. Of shit. That Patchi is a moronic
child is of no help.
Leguizamo narrates in a cringing, whining voice every
pierce of action as if we cannot see it, and throws out witty sayings such as,
“Don’t get too attached, this place will be an oil field one day.” He says,
“whatever!” a lot. He makes pop culture jokes that fall flat.
The voice actors
talking for the dinosaurs re-explain everything going on, for the really stupid
audience. When the father dies on screen, we are told he is dying on screen. “Stallion” uses silence to tell its
story. “Dinosaurs” won’t shut up.
The talking is ceaseless and grating, and
when it pauses, light FM music that could lead to elevator suicides, pops in.
There is always noise. Constant noise. Every time a new beast appears, the film
stops dead so a random girl can repeat the name of the beast and spell it out. I cringed every time. None of the character’s mouth’s move, so we’re led to
believe all the talk to telepathic or the animators could not swing mouthing.
At one point this movie was to be a near-silent film, only a small
bit of narration. The studio -– 20th Century Fox -–
got scared, and brought in the voice “talent” and the poop jokes because
they think children are stupid or trusted to pick
up on story beats. Every
frame is a condescending slap to any girl or boy who enjoys learning.
“See
and feel what it was like when dinosaurs ruled the earth,” the tagline
promises. No. Dinosaurs didn’t laugh. Dinosaurs didn’t make movie references,
or jump in rivers to save their girlfriend. Dinosaurs didn’t make poop shower jokes.
Nor did any dinosaur ever bet money on another set of dinosaurs fighting. Nor
did ninjas exist back then.
I’ve read suggestions to watch the movie with the sound
off. That won’t help.
Black: A+
Dinosaurs: F- (I have not given a film this grade
in a decade. A regular F will not do.)
