Terry Gilliam's THE FISHER KING is a great story, a great vision but a disappointing film that comes close to greatness just before it meanders off into near mediocrity. It is both a startling pleasure to watch, especially for the first hour or so, and an irritation to endure. For the most part, the film's script is brilliant, its ambience appropriately and compellingly disorienting, its cinematography stunningly beautiful and its acting (with a few exceptions) superb.
Some of the blame for the film's failure goes to editing, but it is the director who inexplicably allows the narrative to stray and fails to notice that allowing Bridges' character to incessantly state the obvious, i.e., that which has already been wonderfully conveyed by the narrative and the cinematography, is irritating as hell. But what is most exasperating about this film is not that it fails to live up to the high standard it sets for itself, but that it needlessly fails to do so. The fixes are readily obvious and quite simple. Less is more; stick to the essentials.
It is not necessary, e.g., for Williams' character (Henry Sagan) to be nearly beaten to death in order to once again lapse into a catatonic state for six months while Bridges' character (Jack Lucas) deserts his girlfriend, goes back into radio, has a second epiphany (Eureka!) and rushes to Henry's bedside. One epiphany per film is enough, and life itself is enough to drive Henry's fragile mind back into its hole. Before the narrative strays, Jack has already discovered and involved himself in the needs of others. He's finally free to love himself and others. All that remains is his struggle with commitment and his inevitable confrontation with the bloody Red Knight. Faced with Henry's tragic relapse on one side and his girlfriend's love-sick anguish on the other, Jack has all the motivation he needs to emerge from his psychic stupor and be convincing. This film is about twenty minutes too long.
Further, cut Jack's maudlin speech at Henry's bedside; silent anguish and good camera work is all that's needed here. Why must Jack babble as he climbs the castle wall? Silence! Why must he suddenly and inexplicably have flashes of Henry's hallucinations?; the shot of the bloody Red Knight in the stain-glass window conveys everything.
Why must Jack utter the F-word in the scene where he learns about the murder-suicide? Like much of Bridges' dialogue, it's redundant! The expression on his face, in his eyes, is enough.
Less is more! Less is more! Less is more!
Still, this is a good film that simply fails to live up to its tremendous potential. It's well worth one's time. Give it a look and see why it just misses getting an Oscar nomination for best picture and going down in history as one the greats. I give it about a 6 ½ to 7 out of 10.
Some of the blame for the film's failure goes to editing, but it is the director who inexplicably allows the narrative to stray and fails to notice that allowing Bridges' character to incessantly state the obvious, i.e., that which has already been wonderfully conveyed by the narrative and the cinematography, is irritating as hell. But what is most exasperating about this film is not that it fails to live up to the high standard it sets for itself, but that it needlessly fails to do so. The fixes are readily obvious and quite simple. Less is more; stick to the essentials.
It is not necessary, e.g., for Williams' character (Henry Sagan) to be nearly beaten to death in order to once again lapse into a catatonic state for six months while Bridges' character (Jack Lucas) deserts his girlfriend, goes back into radio, has a second epiphany (Eureka!) and rushes to Henry's bedside. One epiphany per film is enough, and life itself is enough to drive Henry's fragile mind back into its hole. Before the narrative strays, Jack has already discovered and involved himself in the needs of others. He's finally free to love himself and others. All that remains is his struggle with commitment and his inevitable confrontation with the bloody Red Knight. Faced with Henry's tragic relapse on one side and his girlfriend's love-sick anguish on the other, Jack has all the motivation he needs to emerge from his psychic stupor and be convincing. This film is about twenty minutes too long.
Further, cut Jack's maudlin speech at Henry's bedside; silent anguish and good camera work is all that's needed here. Why must Jack babble as he climbs the castle wall? Silence! Why must he suddenly and inexplicably have flashes of Henry's hallucinations?; the shot of the bloody Red Knight in the stain-glass window conveys everything.
Why must Jack utter the F-word in the scene where he learns about the murder-suicide? Like much of Bridges' dialogue, it's redundant! The expression on his face, in his eyes, is enough.
Less is more! Less is more! Less is more!
Still, this is a good film that simply fails to live up to its tremendous potential. It's well worth one's time. Give it a look and see why it just misses getting an Oscar nomination for best picture and going down in history as one the greats. I give it about a 6 ½ to 7 out of 10.