An expensive, over-the-top “adaptation” of a theme park ride, Jerry Bruckheimer’s “Pirates of the Caribbean” seemed all but doomed to fail in 2003. The knives were out, the critics were skeptical, and the idea of story cobbled out of kiddie ride seemed preposterous. Astonishingly, and against all odds, director Gore Verbinski invigorated the often-dismissed pirate genre, with a cavalier spirit and rollicking, cartoonish exuberance. Add the surprisingly inspired performance by Johnny Depp as the almost immediately iconic Jack Sparrow and the result was swashbuckling entertainment with a capital E.
Four films later, however, and the excitement is long gone. The ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’ series is a washed-up acrobat, a bloated whirling dervish awkwardly going through the motions, barely sticking the landing with a half-hearted, “ta da.” Nearly all movie franchises tend to regurgitate the same story, but the best of them manage to keep things relatively fresh (see the heroes journeys in the Marvel and “Star Wars” films, for example). But by now, nothing inventive ever occurs in Disney’s ‘Pirates’ series that feels remotely inspired. Jack Sparrow is spent and needs to be retired, but the gods of movie McFranchises demand he keep up his buffoonish antics. Like the curse that features in nearly every ‘Pirates’ film, Disney, Depp, Bruckheimer and the series seemed destined to buccaneer foolishly for the rest of all time.
The blasé formula remains intact for the fifth installment, “Pirates Of The Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales,” another silly, uninspired bore of a blockbuster leaning hard and clumsily on themes of fatherhood, legacy, and the passing of torches. The film is not unlike a classic rock supergroup reuniting to play all the greatest hits, with the payday at the end as the only true motivation, rather than returning with something new to say about their work.
Beginning with an expository prologue that spells out the entire objective of the movie, ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales’ opens with Henry Turner (Brenton Thwaites), the enterprising son of Will Turner (Orlando Bloom), trying to save his father from his eternal curse of ferrying the souls of those who have died at sea to the next world. The solution might be found in The Trident of Poseidon, which essentially serves as the MacGuffin for the picture. Cut to nine years later, and Henry is all grown up, a budding scholar of supernatural sea legends, and still possessed with the notion of finding the trident, convinced that only the greatest sea pirate of all time, Jack Sparrow, can aid him in his impossible quest. Thus follows a series of rowdy calamities, boisterous blunders and plastered Jack Sparrow-led flukes that ensure Henry and Sparrow will cross paths, team up and strike a mutual accord, all while Corrinne (Kaya Scodelario), an astrologer, comes along for the adventure.
Standing in their way, however, is Captain Salazar (Javier Bardem in a thankless role, but one that allows him to chew scenes, exaggerating his Spanish accent to hilarious effect), who returns as an undead spirit, and seeks revenge on Jack Sparrow for killing him. Meanwhile, the British Navy is also nipping at Sparrow’s heels, but they’re nothing more than a device used to provide an extra obstacle in the middle of this narrative noise. If that’s not enough, the convoluted plot also includes an incoherent tangent with a witch (Golshifteh Farahani, who appears in two scenes and then vanishes), which brings legacy character Hector Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush) back into the picture, and it really takes the cake for a head-scratching, “wait, what was that all about?” confusion. Add to that a lot of hooey about constellations, stars, fate, and the sacrifices that fathers make for their children and vice versa, and it’s all familiarly banal, as the film sleepwalks through a conventionally rumbustious story that is a crushing bore of increasing difficulties, last-second escapes from the jaws of death (cue the ghost sharks), and other nonsense like the tangential romance you can see coming from a mile away.
Penned by Jeff Nathanson (with a story credit for franchise regular Terry Rossio), it must be a sweet paycheck writing something so stock and by-the-numbers. While it must have seemed like a great idea at the time, going from indies like the critically acclaimed “Kon-Tiki” (and lesser acclaimed “Bandidas”) to the franchise heavens (and budgets) of Disney’s ‘Pirates,’ directors Joachim Rønning and Espen Sandberg suffer the indignity of losing their personality in a completely anonymous, big mainstream debut. Other than a big pay day and the ability to show off a blockbuster-capable calling card, it’s difficult to understand a meaningful motivation behind wanting to direct this movie. In the midst of all the galloping, carousing and general crazy hysteria of the movie, the score by Geoff Zanelli acts as a metaphor for the movie itself, working so hard to inspire feeling, but sounding like clanging desperation instead.
While some moviegoers may be amped with ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’ taking another run through the hits, most everyone else will be dismayed at what has become a rudderless, deadening moviegoing experience. [D+]
