The devil's in the details of Peter Weir's latest film, but angels are in there, too. Weir's Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World takes place almost entirely aboard a British warship in the early 1800s, and the film is awash in authenticity. Yes, the movie's every bit the rousing, testosterone-infused adventure you're probably expecting, but it's also something of a surprise: an above-average character study, and a finely drawn portrait of bygone sea-faring days.
Russell Crowe is the big sell here, of course (and he's very much up to the task, thank you very much), but the movie's considerably more than just a star's pretty face. For all its mainstream appeal, Master and Commander in many ways harks back to its director's earlier efforts — quiet, delicately textured films like Picnic at Hanging Rock that relied as much on atmosphere as on plot.
Weir's a good enough filmmaker that he's able to give us the best of both worlds, without one world canceling out the other. Specifically, he's able infuse this big-budget, big-name production with artistry and nuance, without alienating the affections of audiences primarily craving exhilarating action scenes. And make no mistake: there are plenty of exhilarating action scenes in Master and Commander.
Based on Patrick O'Brian's popular novels about Captain Jack Aubrey, Master and Commander follows Aubrey (Crowe) and the crew of HMS Surprise as they travel the seven seas (well, two or three of them), playing cat and mouse with the bigger, faster, better-armed French vessel Acheron. The crew gets to stretch their legs for a couple of scenes on the Galapagos Islands, but then it's back on the boat for the remainder of the movie. You can practically feel the damp and smell the scurvy in the air.
The movie puts us in the mood from its opening moments, an extended sequence that takes place in near-total darkness, and without so much as a single word of dialogue. The camera tracks through the ship, drawing our attention to small details along the way: the manner in which an hourglass is turned over; the names that have been etched on all the cannons; the men sleeping or silently tending to the business of keeping the vessel afloat. It's a subtle but effective introduction to daily life at sea 200 years ago, and there's more to come.
Master and Commander goes from a whisper to a scream with shocking suddenness, though, with a raging battle lurking just beyond every serene, beautifully lit long shot of ships gliding through the mist. The movie's battles burst forth out of nowhere, as nerve-wracking and as intense, in their early 19th-century way, as the combat sequences in Saving Private Ryan. They're just about as gory, too, what with all the footage of young boys having their arms amputated without the benefit of anesthetic and wounded crew members with their brains peeking out of their heads. In one particularly harrowing scene, the ship's doctor digs a bullet out of his own abdomen with no more than a mirror and a grimace.
Crowe's character is introduced a bit late in the game and with surprisingly little fanfare, but he immediately takes charge of the picture and provides Weir's interesting details with a powerful focal point. Crowe's "Lucky" Jack Aubrey has all the qualities of a born leader, but with just enough flaws to make him human. He's courageous, compassionate and a brilliant strategist, but not above getting sloshed at officers' dinners and making a bit of a fool of himself. He makes a stirring figure precariously perched like some noble statue atop the ship's bowsprit, but one can't help wonder if maybe he's just a little too much the drama queen.
The beauty of Weir's and John Collee's screenplay is that Aubrey's whole raison d'être — chasing that enemy ship across the world, from Brazil to the South Seas — is depicted as an undeniably heroic act, even as it begins to smack of a half-mad Ahab obsessing on his Great White Whale. The movie works on both levels, with Aubrey making a more-than satisfying hero to those who like their heroes unblemished, and something a bit more (or less), for those inclined to look twice.
In any event, the movie manages to avoid feeling compromised while offering something for just about everybody. There are battles aplenty for action fans, credible performances and a wealth of beautifully realized, historically authentic details for "serious" movie lovers. And for the half dozen or so who just can't get enough of Russell Crowe the musician, there's even a dopey jam session or two.
The King is Alive, Sort Of
Cruising into town on a jet-stream of attitude and a buzz of nearly Blair Witch proportions, Bubba Ho-Tep is one of those movies that winds up sounding way better than it actually is. After all, how can you not love a film about Elvis and JFK teaming up to take on a reanimated Egyptian mummy?
As it turns out, the premise is the best thing about Bubba Ho-Tep, a self-styled Cult Movie in search of a cult. The film never quite manages to live up to its outrageously high concept, or rise above the urge to wink at itself (and us) a little too obviously and too often.
Not that there isn't some heart and soul here. Hidden under a ton of makeup, mutton chops, shades and a big, greasy pompadour, an all-but unrecognizable Bruce Campbell (Evil Dead) makes a surprisingly effective old Elvis. Campbell's King — who didn't really die back in '77, as it happens, and is alive and more-or-less well, living in cranky anonymity at an East Texas nursing home — spends most of the movie musing on his own mortality. His closest pal in the home is an elderly African-American gent (Ossie Davis) who insists he's really John F. Kennedy, inexplicably "dyed" by the same doctors who removed his brain that day at Dallas and replaced it with a bag of sand. As for that ancient mummy, it's a nasty sort, given to wearing Stetson hats, cowboy boots, and sucking the souls right out of people's poop-chutes.
As wonderfully insane as all this may sound, the movie doesn't do much with it. In between the obvious hooks, there's a lot of padding and dead air. Bubba Ho-Tep is talky, awkward and often more than a little boring, with way too much time spent setting up so-so punch lines or dutifully delivering unnecessary exposition. The horror bits aren't particularly scary, and the humor, which is almost exclusively of the bathroom variety, seems to just lie there. A typical running gag involves Elvis' obsession with a growth on his pecker, as if the very thought of Elvis lying in bed musing about his infected organ should be enough to elicit howls of laughter. It's all pretty much downhill from there.
Lance Goldenberg can be reached at lgoldenb@tampabay.rr.com or 813-248-8888, ext. 157.
This article appears in Nov 13-19, 2003.