King Kong

Kong was disappointed by the attitude of his human sacrifice.

To be honest, I thought that Peter Jackson remaking King Kong was a dumb career move.

I simply couldn’t envision contemporary audiences stampeding into cinemas to watch a giant gorilla terrorising New York. Fact is, some ideas date. What works in the ‘30s isn’t necessarily going to work in the noughties. Many stories owe their success to their convergence with a particular sensibility, zeitgeist, and historical moment. And when this moment passes, so does the story’s appeal. King Kong, a bit like Godzilla or the Incredible Hulk, seemed a little too quaint to work today. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Wrong, Hans. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Armed with a gargantuan budget and CGI that endows fantastic creatures and an entire world with a previously unimaginable level of authenticity, Jackson has made a stupendous film. Some viewers have complained about the three-hour running time, but I can honestly say that it felt more like 90 minutes to me. I was that engrossed.

The story opens in New York in the Great Depression. Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) is a down-on-her-luck vaudeville performer. The theatre at which she performs has gone belly up, and with it has gone her last paycheck. Then, quite by chance, she meets Carl Denham (Jack Black), a shifty, not-quite-successful film producer/director. Denham’s being chased by the financers of his latest project and has just learned, on the eve of sailing from New York to film on location, that he’s lost his leading lady. Before you know it, Denham has hastily set sail from New York with Ann as his new leading lady, and an acclaimed writer, Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), as his screenwriter. Despite assuring cast and crew that they’ll be filming in Singapore, Driscoll is actually heading for Skull Island, a “technically undiscovered” island somewhere off Sumatra.

In thematic terms, Jackson’s main departure from the Cooper and Schoedsack’s 1933 film is to erase the racist subtext from his presentation of Kong. This isn’t a film that’s preoccupied with paranoid racist fantasies of the unbridled lust of black men for white women. If Jackson’s King Kong has a unifying theme, it’s that unchecked capitalism is dehumanising. To this end, the film’s opening shot is of woebegone animals caged in a makeshift New York zoo. The camera pans from the caged animals to equally woebegone people. These people are citizens of the wealthiest nation on earth, yet are unemployed, impoverished, and living in squalor. Under this system, the film seems to warn, the worth of everything – man, woman, and critter – is determined solely by its dollar value.

This suits Denham just fine. He’s a PT Barnum-like figure with the morals of a robber baron. He willingly compromises himself and exploits those around him in his madscrabble pursuit of fame and fortune. Englehorn (Thomas Kretschmann), captain of the ship on which Denham sails, is another arch-capitalist. He makes his living from trafficking in rare animals. In pointed contrast, penniless Ann refuses to take part in a nudie show. She’d rather go hungry than sell herself for sleaze.

Jackson uses the voyage to Skull Island, to build a romance between Ann and Driscoll, and to introduce us to the rest of his ensemble. There’s the first mate, Mr Hayes (Evan Parke); a young sailor called Jimmy (Jamie Bell); and the cook, Lumpy (Andy Serkis, who also did the motion-capture work for the CGIing of Kong). We’re also introduced to Denham’s preening leading man, Bruce Baxter (Kyle Chandler), and several members of Denham’s film crew.

A common criticism of Jackson's King Kong is that this part of the film drags on for too long. The naysayers have a point, as some of the secondary storylines are clichéd narrative cul-de-sacs, and a full hour passes before Kong first roars into frame. This delay no doubt arises from the noblest of storytelling intentions. Jackson wants to lavish the first hour with period detail; he also wants to add characterly depth to his ensemble while he can because once the story reaches Skull Island, character gives way to headlong action. While delaying the entrance of the hero might be called “suspense”, delaying it too long might be called “shit-boring”. Jackson treads a fine line here.

Once the ship reaches Skull Island, the story gathers pace. In the blink of an eye, Ann is abducted by “natives” and sacrificed to Kong. A rescue party is despatched from the ship and plunge deep into the jungles in pursuit of Ann. Skull Island is beautifully imagined and depicted. It’s a primeval land, where everything has a dose of giganticism: trees, cockroaches, worms, gorillas, you name it – they’re all massively oversized.

Meanwhile, taken by Kong to one of his lairs, the terrified but resourceful Ann charms her leading man with tricks from her vaudeville act. She cartwheels, juggles, and walks like an Egyptian, captivating Kong, who even adds some of his own humour by continually knocking Ann off her feet, although when she remonstrates with him, he throws a giant-gorilla-sized tantrum and storms off in a huff.

Ann takes the opportunity to flee, but is brought up short by various nasty dinosaur types, all of whom want to snack on her blond New Yorkness. In the nick of time, Kong comes to the rescue. What follows is an epic fight between Kong and no less than three T-Rexes. It’s completely, absolutely, utterly ludicrous, and for its entire duration I don’t think I blinked, breathed, or scratched myself. (I haven’t been so transfixed by a rumble since I punched that wanker Rodney Malick in Year 10.) I was so caught up in it all that I was sitting in the cinema ducking, weaving, and wincing with each punch, chomp, and suplex. Even when the rumble improbably continues while the combatants and the morsel they’re fighting over are suspended, swinging in vines, from a cliff, it’s still exhilaratingly good. Of course, despite their formidable dentistry, the T-Rexes are no match for Kong (whose fighting style is winningly reminiscent of Stone Cold Steve Austin).

There’s nothing quite like large lizardy types with hunger pangs to make a girl appreciate her gorilla, so Ann quickly realises which side her bread is buttered on and makes nice with Kong. She juggles for him again, they watch a sunset together, and he lets her sleep in the palm of his hand. A marriage proposal seems imminent. Alas, cruel fate intervenes in the form of Jack Driscoll. Demonstrating improbable heroism, or perhaps just incensed by the prospect of being cuckolded by an adversary with back hair, Driscoll tracks down Ann and together they flee Kong.

Understandably, Kong isn’t happy. So good is the CGI, and so expressive are his eyes and his body language, that I’ve taken the liberty below of translating all his roaring and chestbeating for those who don’t speak Giant Gorilla:

Kong: You fucking hussy! You’re sleeping with him too? OK, he’s more your type and he has soulful eyes, but have you seen the size of his nose? Ann? Ann? Give me another chance. I’ll wax! I promise.

When Kong catches up with Ann and Driscoll, he’s ambushed by Denham and Englehorn, who have conceived a scheme to capture Kong and take him back to New York. Given Kong’s size, strength, and testy personality, not to mention the trail of death and devastation that he’s already left in his wake, this struck me as an ambitious plan. Still, against the odds, Denham and Englehorn get the better of Kong and take him to the Big Apple. I won’t labour the point – there are that many holes in the plot why dwell on just one? – but the logistics of transporting a 25-foot gorilla with anger-management issues on a lengthy voyage must have been perplexing. Anyway, Denham and Englehorn are cunning operators and manage to do just that.

As anyone who’s seen Jackson’s LOTR trilogy would expect, the technical aspects of King Kong are exemplary. The cinematography is ravishingly beautiful, the editing, especially of Kong’s fight scenes, is first rate, and Jackson continues to lead the CGI pack. One of my few gripes is that the music, particularly in the first hour, is a little too obtrusive and Danny Elfman-esque – though it's otherwise fine.

The acting honours, quite frankly, go to Kong. CGI’s come a long way in recent years. Kong may be a 25-foot computer-generated gorilla, but he’s also the film’s most charismatic, expressive, and likeable character. What’s more, he can beat the crap out of three T-Rexes. I’d like to see Adrien Brody do that. Nah, Brody makes a good fist of a thankless role, but he must have mixed feelings... On the one hand, he’s in the summer’s biggest blockbuster. On the other, his love interest overlooks him for an ape. Hmm... Of the other characters, Jack Black is less annoying than I expected, and Naomi Watts is excellent, though the open-lipped look she employs throughout the film creates the constant and unnerving impression that she’s about to fellate Kong, her fellow ensemblers, and random members of the audience. (Pun intended.)

Everyone knows how King Kong ends, but it thwacks you upside the head anyway. It’s hard not to be saddened by the sight of him, abject and chained, a freakshow attraction, on a stage in Broadway. Despite the fact that Kong has by this time amassed a sizable bodycount, you don’t hold it against him, because he’s done so with a gorilla-ly charm, and without calculation or profit motive. Which is more than can be said for Denham and his cohorts, who exhibit Kong with blithe cruelty, as if he were the world’s largest tomato and not a sentient being.

The ending on the Empire State is a three-hankie job. I haven’t cried that much since I last contemplated my own abject lack of achievement and employment prospects. (But enough about me.) The climax is beautifully filmed and entirely expected. It’s still sad, though. I may have taken the piss a little in this review, but the truth is that you’d have to be one cold-hearted bastard not to weep, gnash your teeth, and fall on your knees – arms spread supplicatingly to the heavens – wailing No-oooo-oooooo-ooooooooooo! just a little bit during this film. I know I did.*

King Kong registers 8.5 out of 10 on the Fruck-O-meter™

* The woman in the row behind who “shushed” me can suck my big one. I would’ve said as much to her at the time, except I was still saving myself for that tease Naomi.

-- Hans Fruck