A creditable "Chronicle"

Noel Vera

C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," first of seven
tales about the land of Narnia, finally gets the digitally enhanced
big-screen adaptation, and I've got mixed feelings about the
results, not the least because the slim little novel--and the six
that follow--carry so much emotional baggage. I read it way back
when, not long after reading contemporary J.R.R. Tolkien's "Lord of
the Rings" trilogy; I was so much more impressed with Tolkien's
monumental fiction, what with its detailed world complete with
several languages and a complex history; more, Tolkien's epic was
clearly aimed at adults, while the Narnia books were as clearly
written for children--I felt more of a sense of achievement
finishing off the former than the latter.

A strange thing happened through the years; my regard for Tolkien's
three-volume tome (in some editions combined into a single ten-pound
block) shrank, while that for Lewis' grew. Tolkien, I thought,
created a world and thrust us into it with little preparation or
apology; Lewis was careful to keep one foot constantly in our world,
or at least the world of the Pevensie children (his putative
heroes), and kept returning to that world as a constant reference, a
way of reminding us just how fantastic (and yet relevant) the
children's adventures are. Tolkien's narrative is relatively
straightforward, the telling of a war in Middle Earth and the coming
of the Age of Men; Lewis' stories (I thought) sprouted interesting
branches, including a trip to the very edge of Narnia (unlike
Tolkien's, which you can believe is a close parallel to our own,
Lewis' is demonstrably flat), a telling of how Narnia began, and
(most unsettling of all) how it would all end (Tolkien did write of
the genesis of Middle Earth--not in "Lord of the Rings," but in "The
Silmarillion," basically a lengthy story outline that he was never
able to properly dramatize).

Then there's the Christian subtext, which Tolkien hated--he felt it
straitjacketed Lewis' imagination. Which some dislike for being too
didactic and allegorical (the real hero of the stories, the lion
Aslan, is a thinly veiled Christ symbol), while others praise for
promoting the right values (or their idea of 'right' values,
anyway). Lewis' intentions, apparently, were a bit more complex: he
denies that the books are allegories (an allegorical Aslan, as
essayist Adam Gopnik points out, would be a humble lamb or donkey,
not a proud lion). The books themselves aren't merely Christian
parables but, as Lewis biographer Alan Jones notes, a distillation
of Lewis' considerable knowledge of Medieval and Renaissance
literature; Greek, Roman and Celtic mythology; and personal
experience.

Personally, I like the Christian subtext. Not because it reaffirms
any values I happen to hold (as if I only go to movies or read books
to reaffirm my values!), but because it's a strong element, one that
Lewis passionately believed in (despite some doubts late in life),
giving the books a unique flavor that in this more religiously
conservative world feels, well, dangerous (I'd write more on that,
but it's a whole other article). I also think he works in some of
his best--and worst--ideas in the service of said element: morality
and evil are a constant concern in the Narnia adventures, and some
of the most dramatic moments-- a brother's betrayal, a faun's deceit-
-arise from this concern; unfortunately, Aslan himself is about as
ham handed a noble character as any I can think of in contemporary
fantasy (Lucy Pevensie's childlike goodness is much more winning),
and his victory over the forces of evil is about as surprising as
sunrise. Lewis may deny that Aslan is allegorical, but you'd have a
hard time arguing that to evangelists eager to exploit his books.

Not reassuring was the fact that the production was partly financed
by conservative billionaire (and Dubya supporter) Philip Anschutz,
ostensibly in an effort to promote wholesome Christian
entertainment; produced by a Disney trying to brown-nose the
Christian right (the film is being hypocritically sold as
secular 'family entertainment' and as an 'evangelical tool'); and
directed by Andrew Adamson, whose filmography consists of two CGI
animated features and a music video. All three probably have the
noblest of intents but little or questionable storytelling talent,
and the film's first few minutes bear me out; it opens with a
terrifying glimpse of the wartime Blitz over London and the Pevensie
children running for shelter--or at least it would have been
terrifying if Adamson hadn't cut up the footage so much you could
barely understand what's going on. The Blitz is a neat excuse to
send the children into the countryside, to the professor's mansion
and the magic wardrobe hidden inside one room (Lewis himself had
helped shelter child refugees during the war), but Adamson's botched
editing reveals a filmmaker with little confidence in the material
or in his ability to hold the audience's interest (he seems to
believe that more cuts=faster pacing, which is ridiculous). He
further tarts it all up with anachronistically wisecracking dialogue
("Numbers do not win a battle" "No, but I bet it helps"), plenty of
talking CGI animals, a near-death escape or action sequence every
fifteen minutes, and for a climax your standard-issue battle between
the forces of good and evil (Lewis spent at most a few pages on the
final battle, preferring to focus on more important things). It's
all, of course, been done before, nine hours' worth of adventuring
hobbits for the past few years, and it's a desperate bid to cover up
for the director's lack of a distinctive sensibility, a visual style
good enough to bring Lewis' fantasy to vivid life.

And yet, somehow, Adamson gets some things right--the initial sight
of the lamppost topped with a gas flame, flickering in the middle of
a snowy wood; the faun carrying an umbrella and parcels, a scarf
wrapped round his neck; the final sequence, which on print I found
bizarrely overextended (turns out Lewis had yet one last twist up
his sleeve), onscreen is admirably and economically told.

Best of all are the actors: Georgie Henley's beautifully unaffected
performance as Lucy (the first Pevensie to enter Narnia); James
McAvoy's equally simple performance as Tumnus, the faun that meets
Lucy (their scenes together are a pas-de-deux of innocence and
amiable duplicity); Skandar Keynes' Edmund Pevensie, which requires
him to be monstrously, unflinchingly self-absorbed without being
entirely repulsive; and Tilda Swinton, channeling Queen Elizabeth as
a full-blown sociopath, playing perhaps the iciest queen in recent
memory. It's with these performances--in between the tiresome action
sequences and second-rate digital effects--that Lewis' classic
fantasy comes to life; when at one point tragedy strikes, the actors
with (presumably) the help of Adamson are able to evoke the
heartfelt directness of Lewis' prose, speaking in the spare tones of
children's literature (a directness the ostensibly more adult "Lord
of the Rings" never manages to achieve). Not a great fantasy film,
not the equal of Tim Burton's "Corpse Bride" or Hayao
Miyazaki's "Howl's Moving Castle," but better I think than Jackson's
8,000 pound monkey movie.

(First published in Businessworld, 1/6/06)

(Comments? Email me at noelbotevera@...)