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Hook Reviews
It is as clear an example of American cinematic know-how, lush extravagance, culture and cultural imperialism as you're ever likely to see.
It's not fair to kids. With all his technical flair, Spielberg has created the equivalent of the 70-year-old with dyed hair, troweled makeup, in tie-dyes and high tops. And in doing that, messed with Neverland. Spielberg is old enough to know better.
Spielberg does to us precisely what he does to Peter Banning -- he engineers a return to our childhoods, to experiences both pleasurable and painful.
The result is his most sentimental film, because unlike E.T. it refuses to take up residence within a child's mind, preferring to stay outside and fantasise about it. Condescension is no way to treat a fable.
It's got everything but a heart. It's got emotion, sure. It entertains, but it isn't moving, and Spielberg wants very badly to move us.
Spielberg, once king of the hill when it came to fantasy-adventures, is making a strong bid to reclaim the crown. He'll get no argument here. When he turns his attentions to this genre, he's in a league all his own.
Mostly, it's benign spectacle in which the actors keep yielding the camera to some expensive playground or other. Hook is neither wistful nor primal. It's film's most expensive wind-up toy.
The best parts of Hook have the awestruck exuberance to demonstrate why this film maker, so often patronized for his boyishness, has also sparked such widespread imitation.
Hook is a blessing, overall, in some crucial departments. We have here a smashing major-studio debut for Jim Hart's heartfelt writing; the savvy casting of name-brand stars... and the restoration of Steven Spielberg as a formidable picture-maker.
It is too calculated, too sprawling and emotionally bare when characters interact. Hook has dozens of sterling cameos, but only a few wondrous shared moments.
Somewhere, the gay, innocent and heartless spirit of the real Peter Pan is laughing aloud at this massively produced paean to make-believe. And wondering if the children of the '90s will ever make it to his island.
Neither Spielberg nor his writers can be accused of exploiting the idea without caring about it: they do care about it, up to a point. But that's the point at which they simply don't know what to do with it.
It's all very Spielbergian. This most maligned of Hollywood's big names probably couldn't have made a bad movie about Peter Pan if he tried. Hook looks wonderful.
For all of its subversive wit and sentimental poignancy, it's clear evidence that Spielberg's Fantasy Fountain of Youth is beginning to run a wee bit dry.
The Academy may as well send Oscars to the production designers right now and get it out of the way.
Spielberg appears to have lost his sense of timing. Hook has physical movement without physical excitement. At times I thought I was stuck in Disneyland's Jungle Cruise, complete with rubber apes and wraparound vines.
Steven Spielberg's glorification of childhood lost and found is a daunting dish concocted for people who like their desserts ladled up hot and thick.
It's a nice try, and there are some enchanting moments. But Hook winds up straining under the weight of Spielberg's grand vision. It's a fairy tale that's been shot like a battle epic, and it's lost much its magic in the making.
A sprawling mess that ultimately fails to engage our emotions. It's Lord of the Flies as screwball silliness, the Errol Flynn swashbucklers as giggling comedy.
The perfect movie for everyone who grew up and, secretly, regretted it.