Reduced-Salt Dogs
To prepare for reviewing Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, I did the obvious research: I watched Yellowbeard again. Yes, indeed — can’t do without Fairbanks as The Black Pirate and Flynn as Captain Blood. But when appraising a new comedic pirate adventure, it’s important to consider how far we’ve come in the twenty years since Graham Chapman and company put their snarling, anarchic watermark on the genre. In short, that’d be not far enough, matey.
Vaguely based on the wonderful theme park attraction beneath which Walt Disney has been rumored to be cryogenically frozen, this Pirates is jaunty, exquisitely designed, gorgeously lensed and too routine by half. Like Mel Damski’s Yellowbeard, it features a Polish-named director (The Ring‘s golden Gore Verbinski), a pirate-father, good-son conflict, a chaste girl, snooty British men in wigs and tricorns, and the inevitable tall ships zipping across tropical seas in search of treasure. Yet here the similarities end, for the crusty, clunky, Pythonesque Yellowbeard took more risks and no prisoners, thus pulsing with more life.
This isn’t to say that Pirates — a fine successor to Polanski, Geena Davis and the Muppets — is without charm. Its serviceable plot involves sweet pirate Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp as Keith Richards with Dudley Moore’s slur), who sails into the tropical colony of Port Royal aboard a delightful visual gag. Tumult ensues as he saves prim Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightley), only to be harassed by her benevolent blacksmith suitor Will Turner (Orlando Bloom) and stern governor father (Jonathan Pryce).
Naturally, there’s some blithe swashbuckling prepackaged for live reenactments at Disney theme parks. Then diabolical horror arrives in the form of Geoffrey Rush. As Captain Barbossa, Rush commandeers his multi-culti louts on the pirate galleon Black Pearl toward a wicked-looking doubloon, held by Elizabeth since a childhood misadventure in the prologue. Rather like a fart in the tub, the diabolical coin sends out a rippling energy wave, which summons Barbossa and his scalawags to slaughter assorted extras but gently klonk Will unconscious. They then sail away with both the doubloon and hostage Elizabeth, whom they believe can assist them in a long-awaited collusion that will look like ritual sacrifice at a Limp Bizkit show.
The rest of the movie is a chase, and a long one at that, wherein cunning Jack and earnest Will begrudgingly team up and hijack Norrington’s sleek Interceptor (the real ship Lady Washington and her real crew) to pursue the conspicuous Black Pearl. The bad pirates are afflicted by a slightly inconsistent Aztec curse that gives genius effects supervisor John Knoll (the Star Wars prequels) plenty of latitude for splendidly spooky images.
And now a paragraph for the girls. Orlando Bloom is the greatest actor ever. He sure is hot. His buttocks are amazing. To caress them would be to visit heaven.
Ditto Keira Knightley, boys.
The mortal cast members are also enjoyable. Rush’s trademark overacting nicely matches the material, Pryce smartly delivers his stuffy English patriarch again, and the assorted pirates grunt and growl with aplomb.
But this movie, like many others, belongs to Depp. At the tender age of forty, the wunderkind Kentuckian has already packed in more iconic roles — rocker, gypsy, cowboy, monster, romantic, cop — than most actors manage in a lifetime. His wry, dreadlocked, ‘do-rag-sportin’ rogue is a constant pleasure; indeed, Captain Jack will get you high tonight.
The movie in sum is another story. I love it, but much in the way I managed to love The Phantom Menace — in spite of its bloat, swaggering self-importance and largely neutered characters. If you’re up for rich atmosphere and decorative talent, Pirates won’t disappoint you.
