Kong has always been more than a monster to me. Not implacable, mechanical, heartless, like those in ALIEN, JAWS, or THE TERMINATOR. He is warmer than FRANKENSTEIN who also had a tragic aura about him - but he whined a bit too much for my taste.
Okay, Frankie suffered from PTSD and all those electro-shock treatments --- and his HMO must have been one of the worst. What’s the co-pay for Dr. F, the mad scientist?
Serial killers in the movies are our modern urban monsters of the implacable sort. Their stories rarely give them redeeming qualities meant to touch us. Ralph Fiennes in RED DRAGON had a bit of it. PHANTOM OF THE OPERA grasps for this sentiment.
But KONG is not really a beast. He is more like me — misunderstood, unloved, a lonely guy in a scary jungle, apparently the only one of his kind - a mammal stranded among stupid dinosaurs who can’t take a joke. Like me, he craves some warm-blooded company, some companion, preferably someone in a slip.
Of course, Kong’s story involves an inter specie love story - truly the love that dares not (and cannot) speak its name. Sure, its a mismatch, but no worse than Ashton and Demi, Tom and Katie ... or any on The Bachelorette.
The story has always been a kin of the road film, where a woman is captured by an apparent brute who she tames and ultimately destroys or redeems with her femininity.
It takes a little from many fables, “Jack And The Beanstalk,” IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT, THE LOST WORLD, even the ending from TITANIC.
I won't mention "Beauty And The Beast" because ... well, you know, "T'was beauty killed the beast" is as familiar a bit of corny movie poetry as "Here's looking at you, kid."
If you want to see the story with poetry, watch Cocteau's BELLE ET LA BÊTE.
The original KK had some nasty implications as a racist / sexist cautionary tale - the dark eyed male beast abducting the white woman in order to peel her lingerie like a banana. The latest Kong seems to have the same hang-up about blondes, but that's where his humanity ends.
The 1933 Kong was big, but somehow, when I first saw him on TV in black and white on that small screen, he seemed to be almost human. True, he swatted men, pteradactyls and biplanes like wasps and wrestled a T Rex to the death, but he was no superduperhero like the CG cartoon of the latest incarnation. This one is more a stuntman than a hero, more a circus performer than an ape in trouble.
One thing that I wondered about was whether Kong killed all the previous offerings and what made Ann Darrow such a delight that he was willing to risk all. I must admit that every actress who played the part - Fay Wray, Jessica Lange, and now Naomi Watts - has been a dish. But none have been what I would call femmes fatales, intentionally drawing the powerful male to his doom.
I suspect that what makes this story so cool for boys and girls is that it means something visceral to each sex - and the meaning is different to each sex.
To boys it simply is a fantasy of masculine power - KK is the essence of “Awesome.”
And to girls, there is something irresistible about a guy who can slay dragons while you’re safe in the palm of his hand. A post-feminist hero defined. Respectful, tender, and strong. Because Ann is innocent of her allure, she is an eye-opener for girls who can be sexually empowered with little effort.
And please, hold the jokes about bad breath, banana peels all over the house, and who’s gonna clean the bathroom?
It is a nice, little love story, perfect for an independent movie about misfits trying to mesh.
Unfortunately, as Oscar Wilde observed, “Nothing succeeds like excess.”
Peter Jackson’s movie is like taking a 747 to go to the grocery store.
He has more in common with Cecil B. DeMille who magnified Bible parables into super colossal, stupendous behemoths with casts of thousands. Jackson identifies more with Carl Denham than with any other character and he is fully aware of his folly and his tragedy.
Loving the magic (of Hollywood), he has mastered it and all but destroyed it with his excessiveness. He shows the same callous contempt for the audience of his movie that Denham shows in his exhibition. He tries too hard to impress us with his computer tricks, when in reality, he had a pretty good little tale to tell.
Tell the truth. Did you ever once forget that blue and green screens were behind the curtain?
What Jackson and the other techno-thrill ride creators forget is that roller coasters, no matter how fast they are, lose their wallop with each trip. We're hip to all the video game illusions - and they no longer move us very much, no matter how much we admire the technical wizardry behind them.
Naomi Watts saves the movie because of her expressive innocent sensuality, her close-ups the only acting that goes on in a human scale in this gargantuan monstrosity of computer design gone berserk.
Her relationship with the big guy arcs like that of a pet for its benefactor. She is like a toy poodle, first terrified by her enormous owner, then winning him with amusing tricks and her cuteness. She cowers, seeks his protection. Eventually, she bonds with him and now yaps at his enemies. Ultimately, she mourns him.
And so do I. Jackson and his minions have taken my Kong away from me.
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