Movie Review: Jack the Giant Slayer

The latest in Hollywood's trend of "re-vamping" classic fairy tales, Jack the Giant Slayer was probably the most ambiguous in terms of both reception and plot line. According to IMDB, the 200 million dollar film made just in the vicinity of 30 million dollars in its opening weekend, a low gross by any standard. From my perspective, the storyline also fell somewhat flat. The typical fairy tale ingredients were all there: the reluctant hero, the captured princess, the scheming adviser, all that good stuff, but they weren't always utilized very effectively. Overall, I'd say about about 40-50% of the movie followed the typical fairy tale (for lack of a better term) cliche.

On the other hand, there were several elements of the film that were not only original (as far as they have never been used in any version of the story I know of), but they added a degree of sophistication and subtlety to the plot line that was completely unexpected. During the introductory portion of the film, for example, the legend of the giants and their conflict with the human realm was recounted (simultaneously via alternating shots and dialogue) to farm boy Jack and Princess Isabelle in remarkably poetic verse. Accompanied by 3-D graphics and a well-crafted back story,  this eloquent prose gave the opening sequence a degree of class and intrigue not usually seen in fairy-tale stories, especially ones intended for younger audiences.

Moving onto the beanstalk itself (in some ways the real star of the show), the initial climb by Jack and the King's men to rescue the princess, and the travails they encountered while doing so, could easily be compared to climbing Mt. Everest: the physical exhaustion, violent weather and constant danger of falling to your death (the last of which happened to several unfortunates) were all laid out with a gritty realism that made the journey seem all the more epic.

 

With regard to the human characters, both Jack and Princess Isabelle displayed some unique traits. Aside from both of them being very clever and resourceful (sometimes in completely unexpected and bizarre ways), Jack was portrayed more realistically than I had ever seen before. Although enthralled with fantasy and adventure stories, he was certainly not ignorant of the world around him. For example, when Princess Isabelle ran away from home and happened to show up on Jack's doorstep on a stormy night, he was in no way fooled by her disguise and had a bit of fun at her expense before revealing that fact. Princess Isabelle, as well, displayed traits atypical of the usual fairy-tale princess. Aside from an independent and "call-no-man-master" personality (not exactly new in this day and age but still refreshing to see, nonetheless), she was no pushover when it came to combat, either. Although not directly involved in the melee, she donned armor, was entrusted with a critical task at the height of the battle and, with Jack's help, managed to take down a giant without even drawing a weapon.

All of this aside, the most intriguing aspect of the film for me was something I could never have imagined. One of the centerpieces of the film was an ancient crown that could give whoever wore it complete control over the giants. After Jack used it to defeat them in battle (and eventually became king himself), the crown was altered over successive generations. There was a whole sequence towards the end of the film where the crown was shown being polished, re-sized and expanded upon with jewels, fine cloth, precious metals and other additions over a period of hundreds of years, eventually becoming the centerpiece if the modern British Crown Jewels (fitting, since this story originated in the British Isles). This was accompanied by a multitude of voices, each one reciting a different segment of the "Jack and the Beanstalk/Jack the Giant Killer" story, some of which would be  immediately recognizable to any child today. This sequence reminded me of an important fact about myths and folk-tales. Historically speaking, most prominent and enduring stories (including Greek myths, tales of King Arthur and even Robin Hood) rarely spring from a single source. Regardless their origins, they tend grow and evolve over hundreds and sometimes thousands of years, acquiring new characters and plot lines depending on the time and place in which they are told, as well as who is telling the story. The sequence with the crown at the end of Jack the Giant Slayer was an absolutely perfect metaphor to demonstrate this concept; I doubt even Joseph Campbell could have done it better.

Although several elements of this film did adhere (sometimes irritatingly so) to the typical cliches of fairy-tale stories, the multiple attempts to bring in fresh takes and understandings to a beloved story definitely paid off in the end, and made desirous to the see the film again (unfortunately, that never happened, so I wait with patience for the DVD- available two days after my birthday!)

Sword, Pearl and Rose

The full moon hung low in the starless sky,

its pale light gleaming off a steel halberd

as the sentry kept watch atop the lofty tower.

He drew his cloak fast around his shoulders.

Mid-winter was scarce a fortnight away,

yet the chill that grazed him now was not the work of nature.

His eyes swept across the barren landscape.

Trees and fields lay dead and fallow,

their once bright hues now dull and lifeless.

A sudden sound engaged his failing senses.

Steel and leather clinked like dripping rain

as a mounted figure approached the gate.

The sentry sighted upon the rider’s shield.

His halberd clanged upon the rough-hewn stones

as he blew his horn both loud and long.

The drawbridge lowered with a crash of thunder.

As a circle of torchlight enveloped the darkness,

the stranger drew near and removed his shabby cowl.

Chestnut hair hung ragged beneath a battered helm .

Eyes of piercing emerald shone in the darkness.

The left one bore a slender scar, running down from brow to cheek.

Two pages came running, their eyes ablaze with relief.

One grasped the reins as his master alighted.

The other bore hot mulled wine, steaming in a silver flagon.

The lord plodded wearily across the bridge,

born down by the weight of arms and armor,

and by sheer exhaustion of both body and soul.

The vaulted roof glowed in the light of the torches.

The lord was relieved of dagger and sword,

and so were the burdens of his helm, shield, and bow.

The clink of mail and clang of steel resounded in the hall.

As his armor was removed, piece by bloodstained piece,

the lord felt new life grow beneath his breast.

A page led the lord down a broad stone corridor,

into a room alight with many candles,

and bathed in the scent of fragrant herbs and oils.

A tub of water lay with its white steam curling into the air.

A sight of paradise as the lord had not seen for many a moon,

he disrobed and allowed the water to ease his weary form.

With his body pitted by ragged scars of battle,

and strands of liquid silver running through his hair,

the servants saw that their master had aged in more than years.

The lord was garbed in a robe of fine silk,

and seated down before a glowing fire.

Its merry light cast dancing shadows over his newly weathered face.

Servants came bearing trays and salvers.

Bread and meats were placed before him,

along with cheese, fruit, and the clearest ale.

Sated in body but not in spirit,

the lord bade his servants to retire,

and moved alone down a torch-lit passageway.

He stopped before doors of oak and iron.

With the strength of a lion but the temperance of a lamb,

he eased them open with nary a sound.

The light of a thousand candles met his eyes,

and the air he breathed was thick with incense.

On the cold, stone floor knelt his wife, beads clasped in her hand. 

Softly at first, but growing in tone,

he spoke aloud the sacred vows

they had exchanged so long ago.

The lady froze and rose to her feet.

Turning slowly with precision and care, she gasped aloud,

her round mouth obscured by her outspread hand.

With widespread eyes, she watched him approach.

As gentle as a breeze and blossom,

he brought her hand up to his lips.

His touch sent shivers through her very being.

His strong arms caught her as she nearly fell

and led her slowly from the room.

To their own chamber he led her now.

Silk brocades and woven rugs, as well as a shelf filled all with books

gleamed in the light of the roaring fire.

In the soft-glowing light of the bedside candle,

the lord examined his wife’s fine features.

The most beautiful sight he’d beheld in years.

Her blue-grey eyes like the steel of a sword,

with skin brightly pale as the finest pearl

and lips deep red as spring’s first rose.

Gazing into her sparkling eyes,

The lord stroked his wife’s smooth cheek

and with a gentle touch removed her veil.

Her long raven locks tumbled down,

like a new-made waterfall splitting the rocks

and gleaming wit the slightest silver.

The lord led his wife to bed,

and as his lips at last touched hers,

he deftly shed her every garment.

In the light of the slowly darkening fire,

her body shone like a pearl set in ivory,

and with one swift motion she cast off his robe.

They slipped into the fur-lined bed,

each one feeling the body of the other.

For a time, they lay silent, green and blue forever entwining.

As the fire grew dark and the candle burned low,

the lord looked toward the chamber door,

his keen ears straining for the slightest sound.

Hearing none, he turned back to his wife.

She wore a smile that could undo the heavens,

and he returned the gesture in kind.

Taking a hold of the silken cord,

he gently closed the velvet curtains,

just as the candle spent its last light.

Odin's Theater

The red sunrise sheds it’s crimson light upon the land. A haunting prelude to the scarlet tide that would soon paint the grass with a blanket of death.

Eyes open, muscles stretch, joints crack, and voices whisper across the silent valley, in prayer of Odin’s wisdom and the strength of Thor.

Food and drink circle about on both ends. Weak mead and ale down the anticipation in every warrior’s heart, and stale bread and meat fuel their blood with lust.

Steel and iron glint everywhere under the new sun’s fingers. Swords, spears, and axes keen for life, and the links of every brynie, newly polished, shine like silver.

Ranks begin to form like the marching of ants. Shields lock, spears extend, and bow strings tighten, ready to seek the blood of foes and snatch the life from their breath.

The lull before battle is like the calm before Thor’s rage splits the heavens. Men are silent, deep in contemplation, awaiting the glorious reward every warrior desires.

Without warning, the eastern sky darkens as an arrow storm pierces the calm and falls like deadly rain upon the western ranks. First blood sprays the ground in streams of steel and scarlet.

The western ranks respond in kind, loosing their steel-tipped hail toward the sun. Soon the whisper of death entices the crows, anticipating the feast that is sure to follow.

The rain of death ceases and the sky grows clear and empty. Then, like the fury of the sea battering the wooden hull of a longship, the warriors merge and reap a bloody harvest inside the chaos.

Like fire consuming a forest of oak, iron keens for space and life. Slash of sword, crush of axe, thrust of spear, and pierce of arrow ravage mail, flesh and bone alike.

The sun passes it’s midday course, and lust for blood only increases. Fathers lose sons, sons lose fathers, and Odin watches all from his eye of wisdom.

As the sun begins it’s descent beyond the sea, bodies of hundreds lay upon the ground. The rivers now run with crimson streaks, and the dying sun casts the same shade across the land.

Now, not one living soul marches upon the grass. Discarded weapons and scraps of clothing litter the field as schools of fish, immobile in the sea.

Yet, through the now ringing silence, a noise of a different sort is heard. The singing of a thousand maidens fills the air, and the sun’s last rays become as white as new snow upon the mountaintops.

Sent by Father Odin from the halls of Valhalla, the Valkyries descend upon the land. With hair and mail as gold as the sun, their swords and spears flash like lightning as their silver steeds land silently among the carnage.

Moving among the fallen, the maidens awaken the spirits of the worthy, saddle them astride their horses and ascend into the sky as the moon sheds the light of death upon the blood-leaden field.

Rainbow Bifrost quivers as the horse’s hooves streak across the bridge, through the great plains of Asgard, to the doors of Vahalla itself.

The doors fly open with a mighty crash, and a cheer of equal magnitude welcomes the warriors to join the revelry.

Tables by the thousands are laden with oaten loaves, roasted joints, and mead flowing endlessly from silver flagons.

When the feasting and music draws to a close, the warriors take to their beds, each warmed by maidens both beautiful and willing.

The battles for land, power, and honor have come to an end on Midgard, but the true battles, the battles purely for pleasure, have yet to begin.