THE LOST WORLD: JURASSIC PARK
A film review by Stephen Macy
Copyright 1997 Stephen Macy
Steven Spielberg's latest film is an immense failure. The Lost World disappoints as a thriller, as an action/adventure film, and as a reworking of the equally dissatisfying Jurassic Park. Spielberg, I suppose, is the ideal director to helm these special-effects-dependent films; he's proven himself with both the technically challenging "monster" picture (Jaws) and the F/X extravaganza (Close Encounters of the Third Kind). He's an intelligent director, as well. He's aware of his audience and how they will respond to his films (not unlike Hitchcock). Even the idea---a scientifically initiated rebirth of prehistoric creatures---is an intriguing one, but now, with the release of The Lost World, Spielberg has taken two stabs at it and failed miserably in both instances.
The film's plot is virtually nonexistent. Within twenty minutes, every principal character has arrived on the island, and the remaining 2 hours are devoted to constant carnage, with only the occasional interruption. Along the way, characters are ripped to shreds on-screen and off, unctuous and ultra-sophisticated bad boys alike get their comeuppance, and the prominent heroes (of course) eventually save the day. The script was concocted by David Koepp, who was also partly responsible for Jurassic Park. He's not exactly void of talent (he penned the interesting Brian De Palma film, Carlito's Way), but here his work seems to function as nothing more than a perfunctory background to paste the fancy special effects upon. The script is a drab Colorform. The dialogue is embarrassingly banal, and the action sequences are defiantly unimaginative--- albeit one marvelous Hitchcockian moment involving a cliff and a sheet of glass.
The performances are mostly uninspired. Jeff Goldblum can be genuinely captivating when given the appropriate role, such as the quirky scientist in David Cronenberg's The Fly. Here his character is essentially normal and calculated, and Goldblum's unconventional delivery simply doesn't belong. His love interest is played by Julianne Moore, who is given nothing even remotely engaging to say; bad news for a rather bland actress. Goldblum's daughter is played by a young black actress. Unfortunately, this racial discrepancy is hardly acknowledged; it only lends a certain awkwardness and an opportunity for a half-assed joke about family resemblance. Vince Vaughn and Richard Schiff offer unspectacular supporting performances.
Spielberg, who can usually be depended upon to deliver at the very least interesting, if not brilliant, direction, fails here, as well. His methods become conspicuously tedious midway through the film. The unsubtle portent reduces the suspense and augments the predictability. This is exemplified by the camera techniques Spielberg utilizes when danger approaches. He often places the camera low, observing the subject at hazard from an awkward angle; as the subject realizes she is in jeopardy, the camera will dolly forward. The threat will then appear in the frame behind her, or we are treated to a reverse angle. Spielberg puts to use some of the most hackneyed cinematic conventions known to man. During the scene where a pack of diminutive compsognathuses chase a particularly nasty hunter, the camera assumes the position of one the critters, low and fidgety (I believe this technique was employed extensively in Puppet Master III: Toulon's Revenge, realized by a considerably less talented director). Equally as trite is the hunter's eventual death. His actual demise is obstructed by a large, collapsed tree trunk, but we are offered the sight of blood flowing from the small stream beneath the log. This treatment of death may have been considered masterly suggestive thirty or so years ago; today, it is familiar and an obvious attempt to be "cinematic." The aforementioned Hitchcockian glass sequence is the sole display of Spielberg's skill. And even that is overlong.
The music is yet another disappointment. John Williams's recent scores have been so derivative of his earlier efforts you may be provoked to smack some sense into him with a 50-piece orchestra. The Lost World's arrangement is no exception. Initially it sears beyond feeling, interfering rather than integrating. Then it broods, and it's torpid and unaffecting.
I suppose the true attraction to many moviegoers is this film's special effects. And while they are impressive from a technical standpoint (the dinosaurs never appear computer generated), we've essentially been treated to the same magic once before in Jurassic Park. A magic trick is considerably less spectacular and awe-inspiring the second time around.
One of the strengths of Spielberg's Jaws was his refusal to anthropomorphize the beast; the shark wasn't much more than a machine that could detect the scent of blood. Conversely, the "monsters" in The Lost World are remarkably expressive and motherly. Their moans are laced with pain, and, of course, they must be provoked before the real horrorshow begins. Why these creatures are instilled with pathos is beyond me; what made the shark in Jaws so frightening was its deadly lack of rhyme and reason.
Spielberg has mentioned he's settled to do "one for the studio, one for me," in alternation. With the gross sum he's about to collect from this film, perhaps he can take a hiatus from this plan. His "me" films aren't always artistically successful, but they have given birth to Schindler's List, his best work since Jaws. And, as an additional incentive, you presumably won't be seeing heroic acrobatics or Godzilla parodies in his more personal endeavors.
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