[8.7/10] We live in the age of the late sequel. Any property with the slightest bit of name recognition has to be revivified and dredged back up to please the masses once more. Reboots and remakes are not enough anymore. We want continuations of our childhood heroes and long-loved tales, updated for our modern sensibilities and grow-up attitudes.
The catch is that despite the glut of these projects, few have been especially good at satisfying these needs or justifying the resurrections. Maybe they should look all the way back to the veritable dark ages of 1991, when Steven Spielberg and his team added another act to J.M. Barrie’s famed 1904 play and the slew of adaptations it spawned. Perhaps it’s the distance in time, or performers involved, or just Spielberg at the height of his powers. Whatever the reason, Hook succeeds as an extension of the Barrie original in a way so few latter day updates do.
That comes, in large part, because it has something to say. Peter Pan is famously about not wanting to grow up and the threshold between childhood and adulthood that so many are both so eager and so reluctant to cross. Hook doesn't just rehash that idea with new window-dressing; it turns it on its head.
Spielberg’s take on the Neverland mythos is, like so many family films in the nineties, about a stuffy, business-focused parent learning that their loved ones are more important than their work. But it’s not just about Peter rediscovering his zest for life and the mischievous spark of youth; it’s about him needing to rediscover it because he’s a dad.
More than anything, Hook is about the joys and satisfaction of parenthood, rendered all the more precious and sacred to those parents who were once orphans. While the 1904 original is about children running away from their mother and father to revel in their youth, the 1991 sequel is about a father returning to Neverland letting that same spirit of youth reconnect him to his children.
That tack gives the film ballast, adding an emotional undercurrent to the fantasy land adventure of pirates and lost boys and flying knaves tossing insults and paint bombs at one another. For all its family-friendly adventurism, Hook isn’t afraid to lay into the waterworks, in moments when a crowd full of orphans stands up to honor the woman who loved them, or Peter realizes that his happy thought is becoming a father. This is no mere soulless redo; it’s a movie wrought from the children who grew up loving the story of The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up and looked upon it with different eyes when they were Mr. and Mrs. Darling than when they were Wendy, John, and Michael.
It’s also just damn fun. You can skate by for more than two breezy, colorful hours without ever having to dig deeply into the film’s themes and instead just enjoying the tale of a timid, beamer-driving lawyer remembering that he’s Peter frickin’ Pan. One of the best things about Hook is that it’s accessible at several different levels: as a simple story of good versus evil, as a deeper story of self-discovery and being a good parent, or even as a meditation on orphanhood and mortality. For all that’s going under the hood (or in the ship’s hold, given the circumstances), the movie rarely, if ever, forgets to just be fun as hell.
Much of that comes from the performers. There has never been a better casting choice to play a spirited young boy in a grown man’s body than Robin Williams. He sells the irony of Peter Pan having become a modern day pirate, one scared of heights and flying, worried about every eventuality rather than apt to throw caution for the wind. But he also sells that nebbish’s re-transformation into a flying, fighting, crowing sprite who can lob barbs of the verbal and literal variety like nobody’s business. Hook doesn't work without Williams as its anchor, plying his usual motor-mouthed quips, but also communicating the heart and deeper ideas of the picture, at the same time he’s called upon to play a Neverland neophyte.
But he meets his equal and opposite in Dustin Hoffman’s take on James Hook, Captain. This is Hoffman at his scene-chewing best. He lays into the role with relish, bringing a theatrical bent to the foppish old brute, whose devotion to good or poor form, his desire for vengeance and the catharsis of war with a worthy adversary, and his propagandizing plots makes him a brilliant realization of the classic character.
That’s before you get to Bob Hoskins finding his jittery glory as Smee. And Maggie Smith delivering all the wistful gravitas she is capable of. And Charlie Korsmo displaying a surprisingly layered performance as Peter’s disgruntled son. And all of the whimsical lost boys and rowdy pirates and other supporting characters who wow in parts big and small. Sure, Julia Roberts is off in this despite some big scenes, but the casting directors went all out in this one, populating both Neverland and London with fantastic faces.
The same goes for the production designers. There’s a certain stage-y, unreal quality to Neverland that helps give it the larger than life sense of wonder it needs to carry. The sets are colorful, with several up and down levels and inviting cul de sacs that give it scope and scale despite fairly enclosed environs. So much of the movie depends on Neverland feeling right, and that’s never a problem thanks to the playhouse feel of the Lost Boys’ colony, Captain Hook’s lagoon, and even the storied bedroom that’s the gateway to it all.
Of course, Spielberg’s camera also adds to the spirit of the film. There is, appropriately for a Peter Pan, a great use of shadows, hinting at the differences between who Peter Banning was and who he used to be. In the same vein, Spielberg deploys any number of match cuts, most notably placing Williams in the same fists-on-hips preen to signify connection and return to the youthful posture. And he fills the frame with reflections, whether it’s Hook gazing into his own image, or Jack seeing his face on the clocks he smashes, or Peter finding his old self in the water after a bump on the noggin. The cinematography, iconography, and aesthetic of the film is to die for.
Or to live for. That is, secretly, what Hook centers itself around. At one point in the movie, during a stretch that is, frankly, somewhat overexplain-y, Peter admits that he never wanted to grow up because he never wanted to die. Hook himself seems to have his own sense of fatalism, welcoming death as “the ultimate adventure” and pretending to want it himself only to change the game at the last minute. With that, the movie hints at Neverland as its own sort of living death, a place of stasis where life stagnates. Peter Pan doesn't want that anymore, not because he’s tired of games or adventures or the swashbuckling action that the film does to such thrilling effect. But because he wants to see his children grow up, to grow old and have a full life, as a man, a husband, and a father.
That’s the secret sauce that so many modern updates are missing. Hook does more than just play the old favorites for a new generation. It reflects on them, remixes them, reconsiders them in light of the central themes of the original and how much has changed, in the world and in us, since then. It is a touch treacly and indulgent in places, but like its hero, its heart is in the right place. At a time when so many of our childhood favorites have been brought back to life in one form or another, more works would do well to borrow from this 1991 classic, and know when to hold onto the joys of youth, but also when to grow up.
[7.6/10] I’ve said before that I generally believe there’s one scene or two that more or less cements the theme for a given episode of The Americans. It’s an old trick the patron saint of T.V. reviewers, Alan Sepinwall, taught about The Wire, that there was usually a moment or two that was meant to work as a metonym for an episode or a season or a show as a whole, and that if you paid attention, you might just catch it.
But “New Car” seems like an episode where I thought I knew what it was about, where I figured I had the message the show was trying to send nailed down, until the very end, where everything seemed a lot murkier.
The essential question of whether or not you’re a good person, whether or not you can do a bad thing and still be good, is a thorny but interesting one. And I suppose I should have picked up on it sooner, what with Philip reckoning with the fact that the propellor info they pilfered turned out to be a ruse by the Americans that led to the deaths of 160 or so Russian soldiers, and Elizabeth trying to cope with having to let Lucia die in order for their Nicaragua-focused mission to move forward, but it didn’t really hit me until the final scene.
That scene sees Philip and Elizabeth come into Henry’s room to punish him and give him a stern talking to after he’s caught breaking into a neighbor’s home to play video games. But when they do so, he pleads with them. He says that he knows the difference between right and wrong, that he didn’t take anything, that he doesn't want his parents to see him differently or judge him harshly for something he didn’t imagine would hurt anybody. It’s a microcosm of the same thing his parents and, unbeknownst to him or them, his colleagues are going through.
It seems like the key to this episode, one where both Philip and Elizabeth have their choices kicked back at them, in ways that make them wonder about the same thing. For Philip in particular, it’s the news that the propellor info they pilfered earlier in the season was likely a dummy planted by U.S. intelligence, not the real deal. It resulted in 160 “boys” dying on a Russian submarine when the propellor made to those specifications malfunctioned and sunk it.
That weighs on Philip, makes him feel guilty about the spoils of war that he’s enjoying in his American posting. We learn later in the episode (from Oleg, of all people) that the Russian military skipped over the proper testing phase, condensing what should have been five months of testing into three weeks. That is as much responsible for those 160 souls perishing as any bad intel the Jennings were deceived by. But Philip doesn't know that, and I’m not sure it would make a different to him anyway.
After he buys a hot new car, and Elizabeth is understandably incredulous about it, the two of them get into one of their old arguments, about whether it’s okay to enjoy the American perks of their job, or whether Philip likes living here too much. Philip tries to bring Elizabeth onto his side, telling her it’s okay to like these things, things she considers capitalist excesses, and even brings up her shoe collection. (Oh yeah, good strategy there, Phil. That’ll never backfire.) But Elizabeth, as expected, demurs, telling him that they have to live this way, for their cover, not for their pleasure, with an implicit challenge that he should remember the difference.
Initially, he’s skeptical of Elizabeth’s rebuke, of her reminder that they both started from humble circumstances and that things in Falls Church are “nicer, not better.” When he goes to meet their new handler, he runs his hand along the car, reveling in his roadster. Then he learns about the sunken submarine, of the lives lost that were once like his, and suddenly the car becomes an albatross, a symbol of the luxury he gets to enjoy while his countrymen are dying due to something he did (even if it’s not exactly his fault). It’s enough to leave the question of whether or not he’s a good person weighing on Philip’s mind.
But Elizabeth gets a much starker reminder when Lucia goes rogue on Larek. It turns out that Larek trained the men responsible for torturing her family, and she wants revenge on him before he absconds to Nicaragua out of her reach. So she shows up at his house, tranqs him, and means to tie him up, torture and kill him, except that before he conks out, he turns the tranquilizer gun on her and gets the upper hand.
He calls Elizabeth to clean things up, making a deal for his exit from their service in exchange for Lucia’s life, but even that isn’t enough. When Lucia’s untied, she still goes after Larek, who gets her in a choke hold, and forces Elizabeth, who has a gun trained on him, to decide whether to save Lucia’s life and shoot him or let him die to save the mission.
It is, understandably, a hard choice. Lucia has quickly become a protege and surrogate daughter to Elizabeth. In the same way that the news of the “boys” on the submarine in Russia reminds Philip where he started, Lucia’s devotion and hotheadedness reminds Elizabeth of herself at that stage. She’s clearly taken a shine to the young woman, and is willing to give up an asset to save her life if he gives them what they want.
But they also need the password and hand signals to get into the base where the Contras are being trained. They need the intel Larek has, and can’t get by without it. So Elizabeth does what she always does -- she puts the mission first, knowing that it means a death sentence for Lucia. And Elizabeth has to watch the life drain out of Lucia’s eyes, knowing she could stop all of this, but choosing not to. That (again, quite understandably) weighs on Elizabeth even more. It’s hard to feel like what you do is good when you have to make those moral sacrifices in the name of your job.
Stan’s choices aren’t quite so Stark. Rather than dealing with the realization that he’s responsible, or at least culpable, in a death, he’s straining to get approval in order to kill. He wants to take out Oleg, in order to protect Nina, and starts working up the chain at the Department of Defense in order to make it possible. It feels more like setup or quietly advancing this part of the story than the rest of the episode, but it’s fine for what it is, in an episode where everyone from Stan to the Jennings to Martha to a briefly returning Vasili(!) is considering what the right thing to do is.
It’s a theme that’s been quietly threaded through this season. Much of The Americans thus far has dealt with issues of trust, whether you can believe your feelings or even have them given the line of work that the show’s main characters are in. But there’s also a question of how to hang onto one’s soul, how to hang onto the belief that you’re doing something right and good, when you have a hand in good people perishing, that makes your new car, your video game escapade, and even the simple fact that you’re here while they’re gone, feel like a injustice.
