By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
There were several reasons I had not anticipated reviewing The Island of Dr. Moreau. Not the least of these was that early word on the film wasn't exactly brimming with enthusiasm. Val Kilmer reportedly was so difficult to work with that he had the first director fired, and Marlon Brando, himself known to pitch a few fits while filming in exotic locales, in recent years has cultivated an unparalleled reputation for eccentric tastes--his decision to take the job is suspicious in itself. (Brando has long since ceased being a mere actor and entered a plateau he alone occupies, a shadowy realm where greatness and perversity crisscross and interact like strands of a DNA molecule.) Despite my own curiosity about the film, I simply couldn't imagine taking pen to paper for what promised to be the capstone to a summer of tedious blockbusters.
Then I saw the movie. As expected, it is a splashy, make-up-intensive sci-fi spectacle with little or no structure. What was unexpected is how compelling the film is, even as it fails on almost every level. I would never recommend that someone slap down six bucks to see it, but I certainly would be willing to talk about it with them if they did. The Island of Dr. Moreau may be a chaotic muddle, and not a very good one, but its ravenous, deliciously frantic energy grabs you and only loses its grip when it runs out of sick little corners of your mind to take you to.
The story, based on the book by H.G. Wells, hasn't changed much from its two earlier cinematic incarnations--once in the '30s with Charles Laughton, and then about 20 years ago with Burt Lancaster. It concerns a reclusive scientific genius named Moreau (Brando), who isolates himself on a South Pacific island where he dedicates his life to creating a private utopia. In addition to surrounding himself with the trappings of fine culture (a classical library, a conservatory), he genetically re-engineers the animal inhabitants of the island in order to create a race of docile, innocent humanimals--citizens for his private colony of freaks.
If one thing sets apart the character of Dr. Moreau from other literary scientists, it is that he isn't a madman in the tradition of bug-eyed cackling villains. He's much closer in spirit to a misguided philanthropist, one with so tenuous an understanding of the true nature of mankind that the world it creates has the startling arbitrariness of life in a madhouse. What's alluring about his story also makes it frightening--the rabid unpredictability of the fruits of his experimentation.
It seems fitting, then, that the first big scene in The Island of Dr. Moreau should be as Edward Douglas (David Thewlis), the lone survivor of a plane crash, struggles with dehydration and dementia, grasping to hold on to reality. The movie kick-starts itself with the same abrupt seizures in mood; it keeps the audience off-balance by approximating the disorienting craziness of a fever dream. Even the opening credit sequence scores as the best tone-setting device in any movie since Seven. With the murky photography, suggestive noises, and cryptic situations of classic Gothic mystery, The Island of Dr. Moreau passes muster as a mere entertainment during its first hour, if only by signaling that the audience drops its guard at its own peril.
Toward that end, director John Frankenheimer pours all of his energies into conceiving of the island as a carnival of Darwinism set on its head, where the pitchfork-wielding devils and satyrs from Hieronymus Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights" are lorded over by a benevolently foolish scientist they all call--with no lack of irony--"Father." Unfortunately, unlike some low-budget independents (Brain Dead springs to mind), The Island of Dr. Moreau can't commit to its state of utter confused lunacy, and the bargain that could have been struck between filmmaker and audience falls apart. By insistently adhering to an identifiable but goofy plot, The Island of Dr. Moreau takes its only truly valuable attribute--its horrific madness--and sacrifices it on the altar of complacency.
Such a result might have been inevitable. The movie simply can't maintain, as it must, a constant parade of interesting side show freaks, because eventually none of the latex and computer-generated mutants can come close to competing with the spectacle of Brando himself. Brando is undeniably one of the most gifted film actors who ever lived, and in his youth he set his own standards playing the original bad boy--the rebel we knew was trouble but couldn't resist anyway. At the height of his command of the medium, in A Streetcar Named Desire, Brando's musky, carnal sexuality was blisteringly intense--enough, I admit, to make a man want to switch. Remembering that image of him makes this lampoon of a performance both shocking and fun. With his batik headbands and pasty white make-up, he's doing an impersonation of a prissy English dowager who's equal parts Emperor Nero and Colonel Kurtz. His performance is merely the most obvious example of the primal kookiness that gives The Island of Dr. Moreau its singular jolt of immediacy--in fact, his tongue-in-cheek parody is one of the film's few redeeming elements.
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