With the
making of both Jurassic Park and Schindler’s List, 1993 turned out to be
a pretty good year for Spielberg. Having
poked fun at Nazis in the Indiana Jones
films, (what better expendable henchman than those responsible for the
holocaust?) and 1941, he decided
that the subject required a more serious approach. Adapting Thomas Keneally’s novel Schindler’s Ark, this was clearly as
personal a project as Spielberg had undertaken and a chance to tell a story
close to his Jewish heritage. Schindler’s List is also the first of his
moral man in an immoral time films, a
loose theme he would revisit with Saving
Private Ryan, Amistad, Lincoln and Bridge Of Spies: the world is going to shit, and somebody has to do
the right thing.
For a film
set in an ugly time, it’s a beautiful film to watch. His visual flourishes are nothing short of
beautiful at times and his framing, establishing the shifting power
relationships between Schindler (Liam Neeson) and Stern (Ben Kingsley – the
real hero here) is masterful. The
(mostly) black and while photography adds a certain credibility and a sombre,
serious tone. The few flourishes of
colour (some candles, that girl in
the red coat), while once hugely effective now seem somehow clichéd and
manipulative.
To cover the
bad aspects first, Schindler’s List
is an incredibly manipulative film. An argument levelled at Spielberg
throughout most of his career; that he pretty much tells you how to feel at all
times, is powerfully at play here. And
while you shouldn’t need any encouragement to feel awful that the holocaust
happened, and filled with happiness that somebody saved a lot of lives right
under Nazi noses, Spielberg telegraphs your emotions right the way
through. Indeed, the closing scenes,
including Schindler’s tearful breakdown and the frankly implausible scene where
defeated Nazi guards decide to bugger off from duty on hearing the news that
Germany has surrendered and a speech from Schindler, are both the most
deliberately affecting and least realistic.
And while the film makes clear that Schindler’s intentions were
initially to make money from the war, he is never really condemned as a war
profiteer, adulterer, nor a member of the Nazi party.
What largely
keeps the mammoth running time bearable is the quality of the performances on offer. Liam Neeson, pre-endless wise mentor roles,
pre-pre-endless ageing hard man roles, is imperious and makes Schindler
powerful, commanding, and determined even as his motives shift throughout. Ralph Fiennes’ Amon Geoth is a world class
shit and could easily have been a pantomime villain in the hands of a lesser
actor. Fiennes’ psychotic beleaguered Nazi
commander makes Voldemort look like Hagrid but Fiennes imbues him with a
beleaguered, weary realism to a man who randomly shoots prisoners before
breakfast; a psychopath, but one under orders from bigger psychopaths. Best of all, though, is Ben Kingsley’s Itzhak
Stern, who brings a quiet humanity to balance Neeson’s grandstanding and
Fiennes’ misanthropy.
This is a
fine achievement from Spielberg; bottling one of history’s worst atrocities,
perhaps too great to comprehend, into a story about one man who did what was in
his power about it. That it gets dewy-eyed
is perhaps understandable, given the horrors on display and the director’s
personal connection. The whitewashing of Schindler himself is perhaps also
understandable given the villainy on display elsewhere and Spielberg’s need for
a hero. The question remains whether
such an awful period of history can, or even should, be distilled into a story
about one man’s heroic endeavours. It
also makes one wonder how Stanley Kubrick’s aborted Holocaust film, The Aryan Papers, would have handled the
subject. He is said to have expressed
relief at not having to go through with it after Spielberg got there first.
Probably
needing a rest after such endeavours, Spielberg’s next film would not emerge
until 1997, with The Lost World: Jurassic
Park. Taking another Michael
Crichton novel, which Spielberg convinced him to write, and jettisoning much of
the plot, this ranks among the worst of Spielberg’s films (it’s no 1941, but it’s certainly no Raiders Of The Lost Ark). A massive fan of the first film, I probably
rushed to see this on release. But with
the addition of 20 years’ worth of critical faculties, I can only now see that this
is more turkey than T-Rex.
Taking Jeff Goldblum’s
Ian Malcolm and stripping him of his sardonic wit (and therefore everything
that made him interesting), The Lost
World throws him onto the island InGen used to breed the dinosaurs for the
first Jurassic Park, where he has to
save the child he neglected to mention in the first film, and Julianne Moore’s
kind of dull scientist ex-Mrs Malcolm.
The 2nd island concept is good, throwing in an element of the
unknown and uncontrolled and playing on the audience’s prior knowledge, but
there characters on display are so thinly drawn that we don’t really care what
happens to them. The child, ex-girlfriend
and Vince Vaughn’s pointless Greenpeace-type activist are there to a) add peril
and b) complete Spielberg’s blueprint faux-family unit. There was a game keeper in the first film;
here, we have an entire hunting party led by Pete Postlethwaite’s (admittedly
quite good) Roland Tembo. As with, say,
Ridley Scott’s Prometheus, the
problem is that none of the characters are sketched out well enough to make us
care about them, thus reducing them to raptor food. Even walking hard-on Ian Malcolm feels like
he’s been castrated by concern for his progeny, although Goldblum tries his
best.
Structurally,
the film suffers as well. After a rushed
introduction to the island, shorn of the sense of awe captured so well in the
original, we endure set piece after set piece until just about everyone is
dead. One of these, a literal ciffhanger
with a thin pane of glass between Julianne Moore and a watery grave, is
actually very good, but the rest of them leave your senses dulled by death
after bloody death. The climax, clearly
influenced by King Kong, feels tacked
on, with only a few Spielberg gracenotes (T-Rex in a back yard etc.) to save
it. Spielberg’s visual flair is rarely
on display, with only the ‘raptors in the long grass’ scene really showcasing
his knack for suspense.
The Lost World sorely misses the grounded
charisma of Sam Neill, tenacity of Laura Dern, and even the pantomime villainy
of Wayne Knight’s Nedry or Martin Ferrero’s slimy lawyer Gennaro. The best it can muster is Arliss Howard’s
Peter Ludlow, whose Mayor-from-Jaws
archetype company man isn’t even dislikeable enough for us to care when he’s
eaten. He’s supposed to be Richard Attenborough’s
nephew and heir, and Attenborough’s relegation to brief exposition-vendor is an
insult to both him and the first film.
To try to figure
out why The Lost World fails so
badly, you have to look at the first film.
The park was supposed to be a full of fun and wonder, the characters
themselves full of awe when they first saw a dino, as was the audience. When paradise turns into a nightmare, it’s
surprising and frightening. Here, both
characters and audience are told that the island is going to be a nightmare
from the very start. That is turns out
to be exactly that leaves the whole
endeavour somewhat flat and unsurprising.
Spielberg is
capable of so much better, and on the evidence of this, he knew it from the
start.
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