Shellfish buffet

Noel Vera

My dear Mr. Verbinski;

Greetings from the captain of the "Black Pearl," and congratulations
on your commercial success. It has been made known to me through
various tabloids that yours has earned the most receipts of any
theatrical production yet made, and that you apparently "rule the
box-office," much as my own crew once ruled the Caribbean.

All the more unfortunate, then, that fate should assign me the task
of reprimanding you for what I feel is a task half-done. "Half-
done?" you may ask; "but the box-office! The tremendous popularity
of the picture (Odd term that--most "pictures" I know are painted
and hang on walls)!" True, but given the success of your earlier
effort ("The Curse of the Black Pearl," if I recall correctly) I
would have imagined that you and your illustrious collaborators
would have both the financial means and freedom to do something
better, to improve on what simply was a fortuitous bit of casting on
your part--namely, assigning thespian John Depp the task of
portraying yours truly on the large screen (and it really is a large
screen, apparently; I had taken the liberty of poking at it a few
times with my cutlass until told I must seat myself if the show was
to start).

I have taken quite a liking to Mr. Depp; he is, as I can see, an
intelligent and inventive actor and unlike most serious actors
nowadays he seems unafraid to play a role, in every sense of the
word. Faced with what apparently was a thin and puerile script
(which, really, does no justice to my real, far more robust self),
he has taken it on himself to line his eyes with heavy mascara and
base his concept of my character on some famed musician (a "rock
star," I am told). The result, while far from accurate, is at least
quite appealing--a drunken buccaneer tottering on high heels, hands
fluttering like a faded Southern belle while his brain races to
finagle himself out of the latest hopeless situation.

I would have thought you knew this secret to your previous success
and, capitalizing on that, simply given your audiences more of the
same (of me, in effect) only better (wittier lines, more screen
time). But--what's this? Giant sea monsters? Rolling water wheels?
Hundreds of faux savages of no identifiable tribe or race, mouthing
gibberish at each other? Pirates encrusted with crustaceans so
varied in form and color one wants to apply a hammer and chisel to
their cheeks? Chases and swordfights so frenetically yet clumsily
presented we cannot follow them for all the confusion? Wouldn't it
have been enough--nay, wouldn't it have been better--to simply allow
Mr. Depp to run through his paces? As is, the picture tells its
story at a bloated hundred and fifty-three minutes where, as I
understand it, the normal "summer flick" runs a mere ninety--a
hundred, if they are feeling particularly generous.

As for Captain Sparrow developing a conscience, and--worse--a
romantic heart: stuff and nonsense, sir. The lass playing love
interest in the picture is much too banal and far too bony for my
taste (I prefer the cushiony, buxom type). Actually, I had a better
response towards Ms. Naomie Harris, who plays a gypsy complete with
Jamaican patois and dreadlocks; she manages to suggest a sensuality
capable of wild abandon, if she so chooses--if, I imagine, she meets
the right man (Would you know how I might write to her, by any
chance?).

The film (another odd term--the only kind I am familiar with I find
on my tongue when recovering from a hangover) just runs on and on;
after the first hour, even Mr. Depp's routine becomes wearying, to
the point that I felt like running up to the screen, slashing it
wide open, pouring the contents of the bottle I held in my hand on
the tatters and setting it all on fire (I was prevented from doing
so by my two lovely companions for the evening and a fair number of
ushers). Certainly a tale with so much potential for amusement
shouldn't fritter away that potential on silly tricks and plot
twists!

By the final forty minutes, duly bound to my seat and with two
bottles of the finest rum in me, I was reduced to counting what
little virtue was left on the large screen, namely: Depp, weaving
and wavering; yet another much-too-brief appearance by Ms. Harris
(More! More! And with less clothing!); and the motley collection of
marine life on display. I am no small fan of fresh shellfish, sir;
in fact, I have a more fearsome reputation with sharp knife and
lemon wedge than I have with cutlass and pistol. I must admit that
the tremendous collection of guises with which you dressed your crew-
-particularly the illustrious Bill Nighy, unrecognizable with his
tentacular nostrils--is nothing short of impressive, gastronomically
speaking. I drooled over the various claws and suckered members; I
slobbered at all the pulsing, gleaming flesh on display. The kraken
that repeatedly surfaced inspired not fear or awe in me, but a
ravening hunger (are you aware that in Korea the octopus (the
kraken's distant relation) eaten alive and squirming is considered--
and I share their tastes--a great delicacy?). I almost had to be
forcibly restrained (again) from attacking the screen.

But that I believe is a largely unintentional effect on your part,
and one largely unsatisfied until I could leave the theatre with due
dispatch and seek out the nearest "all-you-can-eat" shellfish
buffet. There is something wrong, I think, with an entertainment
where the most entertaining element is the seafood, sir; I hope the
third installment, which you have threatened to unleash upon us next
year, will show marked improvement.

Until then--I am your humble servant,

Captain Jack Sparrow

(First published in Businessworld, 7/14/06)

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