I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie with a smile on my face almost the entire time, but that’s what Charlie and the Chocolate Factory did for me. (The relatively benign audience in the theater helped, although I was put off by the strong smell of urine around my first seat choice.) Johnny Depp is terrific, kooky and hilarious, way better than Gene Wilder (I wasn’t a big fan of the previous film incarnation, although the songs in the first movie were probably better; none of the songs here is especially memorable, aside from the first one, an infernally catchy number). The movie is visually stunning – not just the fantastic factory, but every detail, even down to the faces (director Tim Burton has a marvelous eye for the Dickensian physiognomies of old age, poverty, and villainy).
This chocolate factory is way
better than the Ethel M. chocolate factory Grant and I visited
in Las Vegas (actually, the factory reminded me of Vegas in another way
– we
rode in an elevator that went “slantways,” too, in the Luxor
hotel. Someday I’ll get around to writing
up my
travelogue). It’s amazingly inventive
and delectable (if they sold chocolate inside the theater during the
show, they
would make a fortune – the opening credits alone, with smoothly
rippling
chocolate, made me weak with craving).
Like in Pirates of the Caribbean, Depp is dreamily, blissfully in his own world. This time, fortunately, the movie comes along for the ride. The humor reminded me often of The Simpsons; there’s a nice 2001: A Space Odyssey homage, and just about every time Depp opens his mouth, something funny comes out (he has great facial expressions, too). The supporting cast is great; I especially liked Violet Beauregard’s steel-magnolia mother, a determinedly perky, frighteningly competitive Georgia peach preening in McMansion hell.
The movie is just a pure delight to watch,
and I’m so
pleased to not offer any qualifiers to that statement.
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