Screenplay by Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot.
Based on characters by Stuart Beattie and Jay Wolpert.
Suggested by the novel by Tim Powers.
Based on Disney’s “Pirates of the Caribbean.”
There’s no space in there to also cite “Monkey Island,” though you know they intend to.
Way back when, the time came to sequelize Pirates of the Caribbean, two paths diverged in a wood – rollicking, disposable one-offs, or a trilogy. They made a trilogy.
This should preclude the possibility of further sequelization, but…well, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides exists now, doesn’t it? As if conceding that Dead Man’s Chest and At World’s End weren’t the audience-pleasing masterpieces one might’ve hoped for, On Stranger Tides elects for the road untaken, to make a one-off adventure starring Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp’s eyeliner), with little greater context.
It’s a nice enough notion, in theory (ala Communism), but the fact remains that there is a two-part Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, and we cannot ignore it. Even at At World’s End’s end (ugh!), Tides was already swelling: Cemented in place from the start, it must needs be a quest to discover the Fountain of Youth, once again pitting Jack against frienemy Hector Barbossa (Geoffrey “The King’s Speech indicates I’m better than this” Rush). The mere presence of the once-dead Barbossa, resurrected via still-unclear means during the “trilogy,” indicates this isn’t a perfectly clean start. Nor does – and this is a most subtle issue underlying Tides – the fact that Jack has already (as of Part Three) had ample opportunity to study a map leading to the Fountain. In fact, it’s hinted that in the Pirates-mandated extended inter-entry downtime (all the better for the series’ trademark breathless, never-ending exposition), both Jack and Barbossa have already gone to the Fountain…and found nothing. So On Stranger Tides becomes a glorified “fetch quest” beforehand, as assorted new characters randomly, unjustifiably know the Fountain’s new exposition, and the items first needed in order to trigger the Fountain’s unclear version of immortality.
All this material On Stranger Tides is predestined to follow. As a sign of good faith, the story is a good deal simpler than what the other sequels have given us, following not the Star Wars “evil empire” storyline, but rather aping Lucas’ other franchise – Indiana Jones. It’s most distinctly The Last Crusade, complete with life-giving chalice(s), and multiple warring parties each racing towards a single location. (There’s a bit of The Princess Bride to this cups o’ life and death bit, too, only played seriously – inconceivable!) Actually, things are maybe too simple, in contrast to The Curse of the Black Pearl, with little underlying twist on time-honored clichés, like that film’s clever notion of returning pirate booty. Arr!
Simple is good. As dictated by Bob Iger, the latest evil megalomaniac behind the Disney Corporation, On Stranger Tides is restricted by a reduced returning cast – apart from the aforementioned dueling buccaneers, that be solely Gibbs, Jack’s underappreciated first mate, and Lt. Gillette, barely even recognizable as an entity. That means NO Keira Knightley nor Orlando Bloom, and all the saints rejoiced! Also, impeded by a halved budget of a mere $150 million, On Stranger Tides is able to escape CGI-necessitated bloat, as phantasmagoric supernaturalism recedes into the background, stepping aside for a rejuvenated focus upon swashbuckling.
But losing the bad isn’t the same thing as adding the good, and while On Notably Less Than Usual Tides is thus not as immediately reproachable, fundamentally, as its immediate precursor, it doesn’t actually have a point. It’s sort of the very definition of “meh,” proving that – even if you accept this was where an initial Pirates sequel ought to have gone – perhaps the series never really demanded sequels in the first place. At long last Gore Verbinski seems to think so, pulling a mutiny to go do Rango instead, and any path which allows for greater spaghetti western aping is automatically the better path. Stepping in for the Gore hound is Rob Marshall, helmer of musicals (Chicago, Nine), proving perfectly anonymous with action, and utterly worthless with dialogue.
In theory, even then there’s always that Oscar-nominated role of Jack Sparrow, to arguably provide fitful entertainment even on watered-down watery seas. This might’ve been functional in 2006, had On Stranger Tides been the initial sequel…yet recall reactions to Dead Man’s Chest, that Jack was already tiring from repetition. Well nigh a decades’ worth of Johnny Depp recycling that same schtick to lesser results has done much, furthermore, to dilute the character.
So it is. Fighting my own apathy towards the film’s emotional impact, let us play a little intellectual game, and imagine this the first Pirates sequel, just for the bloody hell of it. And assume the choice was made, much sooner, to graduate Jack to main character, inarguably. One now sees why producers were somewhat hesitant to go this route the first time out. Jack is not a rounded character, which is part of his appeal. He is perpetually opposed to growth, arc immune, and amoral to boot. All of which makes for a reasonable degree of fun, but Black Pearl balanced Jack with more traditionally “good” and “evil” characters. Without such archetypes (at least without the “good”), Jack is expected to be the hero himself, a role he isn’t entirely suited for.
Not that the earlier sequels didn’t screw up this equation to begin with. The former good guys took on Jack-like traits come Dead Man’s Chest, creating two whole films of chaotic amorals. Which weaken Jack’s stance. Now, without that option, instead it is Jack who starts taking on uncharacteristic characteristics, demonstrably doing things for lofty notions like good and honor and other such B.S.
(There is some attempt to instill Tides with some non-Jack moral grounding, in the form of a pseudo-Bloom missionary, and his eventual romance with a mermaid – cough hack wheeze choke shudder! With this guy – Philip he’s called, and I am bored – come ideas of faith and salvation, the impression of a theme, but never the weight of one. Philip is a lesser shadow of Will Turner, who could’ve been wholly excised from the picture, but he’s in it little enough it barely matters in the first place.)
An example of Jack’s inexplicable newfound do-goodery: When many of his fellow salty seamen face imminent blubbery death, Jack (who is perfectly safe) goes out of his way to save them. Odd, no? It’s remarkably unclear, especially in light of Jack’s habitual motives, what he’s getting at in the rush to reach – totally uncontested – a lighthouse. That this is presented like an action sequence is most curious. One simply understands, from an understanding of action cinema, that a great big mess of whale oil has been established, so it must explode, Q.E.D. Jack’s mad rush to do so (to what end?!) is thus comprehensible solely in genre terms.
Also, it seems about time the filmmakers start desperately insisting upon Jack’s heterosexuality – this in a film which otherwise goes out of its way to have Jack assert “I’m as bent as ever.” Because all blockbusters must parade trite romance (to appeal to another quadrant). This is baggage Will and Elizabeth would’ve once carried. Sans those ciphers, Jack gains a love interest, Angelica (Penélope Cruz, yet another Oscar-nominated performer appearing to no end). Lacking new characterization, she’s basically a female Jack Sparrow – her introduction is literally so, as someone realized Jack basically resembles a mustachioed Miss Cruz to begin with. (Just like Orlando Bloom is but a mustachioed teenybopper girl.) The two, Jack and Angelica, share a never-once-seen past, complete with hilarious implied non-consensual nunnery rape (Disney!). This relationship drives Jack’s vague motives late in the film, as yet another summer blockbuster reduces its female lead to damsel come the climax.
So Jack is somewhat compromised, the movie not knowing quite what to do with him in a greater capacity. No such problem exists for Barbossa, even though it’s still hard to credit the same “Arr!”ing Black Pearl maniac is now arguably a bosom dear chum of children everywhere…or at any rate, a nominal good guy. Rush makes this work simply by being a ham, and – logic be damned – it’s just too amusing to see a newly-peg legged ex-pirate psychotic inhabit a new set of British privateer stereotypes. It’s not AAR-tistic, but it’s ent-AAR-taining, which is good enough.
Otherwise, the rest of Tides pools its resources to explore whatever maritime tropes haven’t already been taken out to sea – one reason a Part Four is not the time to replace Part Two, especially without enough time to build up nostalgia or inspiration. Regardless of how they fit together as a singular whole, here are the latest random pieces in the Pirates gumbo: zombies, mermaids, Blackbeard, the Spanish Armada, and Florida (significantly less dangerous in is early days than it is now, overrun with Cuban maniacs and mis-voting retirees).
Blackbeard (Al Swearengen – ‘scuze me, Ian McShane) is the chief baddie, much in the way that Davy Jones was an unauthorized lift of preexisting nautical lore. Blackbeard, as seen here, is the hoariest possibly pirate captain – in other words, he is exactly as Barbossa once was, making it somewhat confusing when the two appear at once…except that visually Barbossa now resembles Cap’n Crunch. Surely there’s little of the historical Blackbeard in here – not unless Edward Teach had a sentient, snake-like ship, or zombified first mates, or real ships trapped in bottles.
All those details are just that – details – with little narrative impact. At least fantasy never overwhelms, because it prevents the screenwriters from relying too heavily upon their favored arbitrary metaphysics. Things are, relatively speaking, decently grounded – getting ever so slightly back to Black Pearl’s swashbuckler pastiche. The best moments of On Unfamiliar Person Tides have zero ghosties about them – I’m thinking of an early, mostly contextless sequence wherein Jack escapes directly from the Jabba-esque clutches of that vilest of gangsters, King George II. It’s all chandelier-swinging, rope-cutting, carriage-jumping braggadocio, nothing you couldn’t’ve found in the cheaper B-pictures of the 1930s, yet that simple throwback pleasure remains potent. There’s little imaginative updating of old heroics, like the waterwheel – director Marshall’s big weakness – but the fundamentals are sound.
All in all, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides is founded upon a sound notion, only one seven years too late. Would that something like this approach (only done with Dead Man’s Chest’s gusto, over Tides’ exhaustion) had occurred in 2006. In that case, Pirates movies might’ve continued on with a better framework for perpetuation – in the style of James Bond. In that sense, Jack’s immutability mightn’t have even been a problem, for how rarely people have cared for Bond’s dramatic evolution.
But even as it is, there is talk from drooling producers about a second trilogy of Pirateses to come – one can only pray they don’t bog things down in unsustainable continuity as before. How does Tides tide? It’s something of a series orphan, freed of the sequels’ baggage, but without the novelty or energy of the first. It feels like so many belated Parts Four – patently unnecessary, without enough audience interest to fuel more, all in contrast to the producers’ wish to do just that. In this way, quite unintentionally the Pirates films do effectively mirror Indiana Jones, long has it been their wish. Too bad it’s Crystal Skull their duplicating, complete with CGI death. Should this be the end for the series, so be it, for surely Tides goes out with many things dangling – Penélope Cruz in particular (though sadly not her pirate booty). It isn’t a Tide-y conclusion. Whether they mean to or not, further one-offs would be hard to sustain from this. What Pirates wants to be is rarely what it is.
Arr!
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