If you've been wondering what could have prompted that recent declaration from Liam Neeson that he's ready to give up movies altogether, the answer is now playing at a cineplex near you. It's called "The Haunting," and it's so thoroughly misguided and muddled Dreamworks, the studio foisting this bomb on the public, ought to hire a special corps of ushers to hand out sympathy cards to patrons as they exit the theater.
This is the second time Hollywood has tackled Shirley Jackson's book "The Haunting of Hill House." It was previously filmed by director Robert Wise in 1963 -- that version was also titled "The Haunting" -- with Julie Harris, Claire Bloom and Richard Johnson. The 1963 "Haunting" remains one of the eeriest ghost stories ever filmed; though Wise never showed a single spirit, he and his cast created such an overpowering atmosphere of menace the movie is still potent today.
The current "Haunting" comes from director Jan de Bont ("Twister," "Speed"), who is better known as a master of disaster and an orchestrator of special effects than as a craftsman capable of creating a mood piece. Thus, this version is chock-full of computer-generated ghouls and bone-shaking digital stereo cacophony, none of which makes the movie in any way frightening or even particularly interesting.
The difference between the two "Haunting"s is literally spelled out. In the Wise film, a creepy message is found scrawled across a wall in chalk. In de Bont's film, a similiar sentiment is painted in blood. Everything in this "Haunting" is louder, more elaborate and far sillier than anything in the original.
David Self's choppy screenplay introduces Dr. Marrow (Neeson) who has recruited a trio of subjects for a little experiment in terror, scheduled to take place in Hill House, a cavernous estate full of dark secrets. Eleanor (Lili Taylor) has spent a large portion of her life waiting on her invalid mother; Theo (Catherine Zeta Jones) is a free-loving jet-setter; Luke (Owen Wilson) is basically just horny. The only thing these three have in common is insomnia, and they've been lured to Dr. Marrow by the promise of big bucks for participating in a research study.
But Dr. Marrow is more concerned with observing the mechanics of fear than in finding a cure for sleeplessness, and certainly no one gets much shut-eye when the unseen inhabitants of Hill House begin treating their guests to a series of bizarre visions and increasingly violent bursts of mayhem.
The story's original subtext -- that most of the calamity was springing from the virginal Eleanor's long-repressed libido -- vanishes under Self's heavy hand. In the 1963 film, Harris' Eleanor was torn between returning the affections of Bloom's Theo, who was openly lesbian, and Johnson's Dr. Markway. Here, Self introduces Theo as a bisexual, only to promptly drop the matter altogether; hard to believe filmmakers could be more frank about sexuality 36 years ago than they can be today.
But this "Haunting" isn't about people anyway. It's about technology. But despite the millions that must have been spent on the various creations the fact remains that they simply aren't scary. In some cases, they're even ludicrous: When a chorus of carved cherubs comes screamingly to life, it's hard not to think of the Pop N Fresh doughboy being threatened with a trip to the oven.
What's more disturbing is the amateurishness of the performances, given the reputations of those involved. Neeson and Jones seem completely uninspired, Wilson is just plain awful and the ordinarily wonderful Taylor proves here that she can't scream convincingly to save her life. While she barely manages to retain her dignity in scenes that call for her to have conversations with curtains, even Taylor can't rise above a ridiculous climactic speech full of pop psychology and jibberish about family values.
Yes, Mr. Neeson, you're right. "The Haunting" is awful enough to make anyone reconsider their career choice. Especially film critics.
James Sanford
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