Photo: Frank Masi
TM & © Dreamworks LLC
Photo courtesy United International Pictures (Netherlands)
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Shirley, don't ask! Director Jan de Bont has made some
excellent cinema; then there is "The Haunting". An excellent
example to show why is a questionable quest to attempt the "re-
make" of an already brilliantly delivered piece of cinema (1963) has
resulted in a horrifying catastrophe. The original, directed by no
less than Robert Wise, sported most noticeably the talents of
Julie Harris and Claire Bloom. As I recall, the reviews at the
time were not united in praise of the film, but Life magazine ran
a photo article focusing especially on the transformation of the
little girl into an old woman within a matter of seconds. This
feat, achieved through cross-fades, would not impress an
audience anno 1999, but was sufficient to awaken the interest
of myself as well as, undoubtedly, numerous others. What
awaited the first lucky viewers of this magnificent and tense
drama of the dark side was an unexpected treat on the giant
screen of the Radio City Music Hall. One of those moments
one never forgets. As opposed to the version now on show
which will undoubtedly one day be relegated to the dusty
shelves or, at most, serve as a case study in contrast. (For
more on this, please refer to both the Green Emerald list as well
as my analysis of the Wise version of "The Haunting".
Before embarking on a discussion of the new version, however,
it is necessary to pay homage to Mrs. Jackson, the writer of the
original novel as well as many other classic tales of horror. This
amiable suburbanite, housewife and mother (she wrote books
about children too, including "Raising Demons") had a mind that
developed some of the most curious, inventive, and thrilling
tales. Her appearance on the literary scene was announced by
that memorable short story "The Lottery" which was destined
not only to become a selection for many anthologies and an
item on teaching lists, but also recently a second-rate television
movie. And here we encounter an immense problem with the
adaptation of Ms. Jackson's works in the recent past. The
essence is gone. Not only has it disappeared, but what might
remain of it is smothered either by nonsensical visitors and love
interests (as in "The Lottery") or beaten out of shape by
extraneous special effects and twisted into a tale which bears
little resemblance to the original and manages to miss the point
completely. We should also take note, that, in the past two
decades, at least two renowned writers have seen fit to "lend"
Ms. Jackson's original concept in "The Lottery" to their own
novels which became, as a result, realized cinematically at a
much earlier date than her piece. It seems that "sampling" is
nothing new. Let us, rather, all pause a second in the corridors
of terror for the brilliant name of Shirley Jackson.
Without spending time comparing the two movie versions,
which would take too much time and space for the present
purpose, let us wander through the 1999 maze laid out before
us and see how it leads us into oblivion.
Dr. David Marrow (Liam Neeson) meets up with three
volunteers for an experimental psychiatric study. Neither the
highly-sensitive and very lonely Nell (Lili Taylor), the outgoing
bisexual Theo (Catherine Zeta-Jones) or the sometimes
nervous, always cynical Luke (Owen Wilson) know the actual
objective of the study, but each one believes that the object is
to analyze sleep disorder. (Please try to stay awake until things
get rolling.) Whereas, in both the original novel and movie, the
two female characters are indisputably "outsiders" who possess
special gifts (ESP and mind-reading) while the visiting young
man is a playboy and sole inheritor of the house, this version
seems content to throw all three of them into a situation where
each suffers from bad sleep, keeps telling us about their
problems, but always manages to maintain a "you-know-I'm-
really-just-a-normal-kind-of-guy-or-gal" attitude (which one
assumes is supposed to make them capable of relating to) and
ultimately succeeds in showing us how boring they all are.
Even Neeson moves around through this house of ghosts like a
wet sheet. Lili Taylor is the only one who manages to act her
way through the dialogue, but has unfortunately been typecast
once again in the kind of role we now recognize her in. She
seems capable of much more and hopefully will get the chance
to prove it in the future.
A crane shot reminiscent of the opening (and closing) of
"Rosemary's Baby" introduces us to the majestic domain of
Hugh Crain (rather suitable, don't you think?). Hitchcock-like
zooms and in-riders create visual suspense throughout, often
when there is no other suspense available. Much of the first
half hour is spent travelling through a household maze: mincing
memories of the garden and hotel in "The Shining," the
corridors of "In The Name of the Rose" and passageways with
chambers that combines the best of "Stangers on a Train" with
"Lady from Shanghai".
A portrait of Mr. Crain dominates the main stairway, from which
position he frowns upon all in ascendance, like an apparition
drawn somewhere between an enraged Henrik Ibsen (regarding
the portrait of Strindberg) and a half dissolute Hurd Hatfield
captured on canvas for "The Picture of Dorian Gray." This
house is obviously filled with ghosts because they seem to be
woven into the curtains that continuously waft back and forth
like something from a scene in "The Cat and the Canary".
Whilst the angelic heads expressions vary between renditions
of the four winds and little gold Sambos, the bedroom ghost
appears more like a cross between Casper and a dwarf-sized
Golem a la Paul Wegener. Most of the sculptures and reliefs
that line the house's stairways, alcoves, and walls appear to
have been drawn out of a Ray Harryhausen dream where
ducking doesn't help. Not to worry: all will finally resolve itself in
the climactic-swirling-ghost-carnival where Dante meets the
Raider of the Lost Fireplace and Nel gets her chance to give
Hugh his cum-uppins. She turns out, unexpectedly, to be a
representative for the Save the Children Fund. None of this
may seem to make much sense or to have very much of
anything to do with anything, and therefore it all fits perfectly
into the story structure. It would appear that the scriptwriter
might have done a far better job by being somewhat less
involved with his Self.
As we are introduced to hop-scotch stones in flooded hallways
and carrousels in spacious quarters, we are also introduced to
the world of an eccentric murderer with a thirst for children.
What on earth, or in the world of the occult, this has to do with
the original novel, I have no intention of wasting my valuable
time contemplating. Whereas some filmed versions attempt to
improve (whether it be well- or ill-advised) upon the original
work, this movie has succeeded in both becoming probably the
worst remake in cinema history as well as disgracing the
memory of the original novel. This is one of those rare
moments where we can find solace in the thought that a
magnificent author is dead. On the other hand, she is probably
turning in her grave.
Astounding moments abound throughout the course of the
movie, such as the occasion when the group of three decides
that Eleanor must, come what may, due to their concern about
her deteriorating mind, anxiety-ridden state of being and
obviously impending nervous breakdown, not be left alone for
one minute that night. They then proceed to adjourn to the
drawing room in order to discuss matters further and leave
Eleanor alone in her room. Whoops! All hell breaks loose and
stays on the rampage throughout the rest of the film. The most
embarrassing moment, however, is reserved for Lili Taylor as
Little Nell when she shouts the unforgettable phrase, "It was
always about family". Excuse me while I puke blood, but will
someone please let me know how the focus on family
happened to get through these haunted doors? (Must be the
work of the special FX department.)
Some might mistakenly think that there was still some hope
when they notice that Colin Wilson has been listed as one of
the producers on the project. Mistake. It's not the same Colin
Wilson. The other Colin Wilson might have made some useful
suggestions.
Vile? If you listen closely behind the bonk and bang of all the
oversized and detracting ghosties and ghoulies in this version,
perhaps you can hear the quivering voice of someone like Julie
Harris, or perhaps even Eleanor Vance herself, shivering and
thinking, the words coming freely into her mind, "this movie is
vile, it is diseased, get away from here at once".
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under
conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are
supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by
itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for
eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls
continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors
were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and
stone of Hill House and whatever walked there, walked alone.
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- Shirley Jackson, from The Haunting of Hill House
© 1959 by Shirley Jackson
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© 1994-2006 The Green Hartnett
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