By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Carolina Del Busto
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Kevin Dilmore
By New Times
By Amy Nicholson
So we return to New Orleans, circa 1918, where the merriment attending the end of World War I is interrupted by the arrival of a baby boy (played, in a manner of speaking, by Brad Pitt), who emerges from the womb looking like a midget Methuselah. His mother having died during his birth and his father terrified by the sight of him, the strange infant is swiftly deposited on the doorstep of an old folks' home. There, the childless, gold-hearted, Negro proprietress (Taraji P. Henson, though it could just as well be Butterfly McQueen) christens the boy "Benjamin," and opts to raise him as her own.
We're already a long way from Fitzgerald, whose Benjamin Button came into the world not only looking like an old man, but with the fully developed body, wizened mind, and ornery temperament of one, too. But it's clear from the start that Roth and Fincher have considerably different aims. Closer in spirit to the Roth-scripted Forrest Gump, Benjamin Button is to the first half of the 20th century what Gump was to the second — a panorama of the American experience as seen from the perspective of a wide-eyed Candide.
Here as there, Roth reduces our complex times to a parade of shockingly straight-faced kitsch: A hellfire-and-brimstone tent revivalist imbues Benjamin with the holy spirit; a pygmy lothario serves as his introduction to the outside world; and a drunken Irish tugboat captain shows him how to be a man. But where Gump actively trivialized history, Benjamin Button effectively ignores it: Although Benjamin briefly exchanges fire with a German submarine during World War II, and Hurricane Katrina makes a cameo toward the end, this movie about a white baby raised by a black adoptive mother during the inglorious years of the Jim Crow South never so much as addresses race once.
The strived-for atmosphere is whimsical and picaresque, the results — save for Benjamin's brief dalliance with the coolly amused wife (Tilda Swinton) of a British spy in Murmansk — mostly tedious. Very little about the first half of the film invites us in or gives inner life to the characters, leaving only the admittedly fascinating spectacle of seeing Pitt's computer-aged face digitally grafted on to the several pint-sized performers who help embody Benjamin over the first two decades of his existence. From a technological standpoint, this is rivaled only by the later "reverse aging" effects that convincingly restore Pitt to his Thelma & Louise-era visage and that should, if nothing else, establish Benjamin Button as a cult film with the Botox crowd.
The movie finally gives off a spark or two at exactly the midpoint, when Benjamin is reunited with ballet dancer Daisy (Blanchett, reverse-aged herself to resemble a 20-something ingenue), whom he loved from afar as a boy, but can now see socially without causing a scandal. The trajectory is obvious, although Pitt and Blanchett surrender themselves to it with reasonable conviction: She's getting older while he's getting younger; eventually, they'll meet in the middle somewhere, but that too can not last. "Will you still love me when I have acne, when I wet the bed, when I'm afraid of what's under the stairs?" he asks her. But it speaks to the treacly nature of the entire film that most of the scenario's potential unpleasantries are carefully elided. Unlike Fitzgerald's Button, whose adolescence and eventual infancy bring with them a series of public and private humiliations, Roth and Fincher's Benjamin enters his second senescence in relative comfort, attended to by the ever-loyal Daisy and the oppressively emotive stirrings of composer Alexandre Desplat's score. No bed-wetting is ever shown.
Perhaps it's no wonder, considering producers Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall are longtime Steven Spielberg associates, that one of Benjamin Button's closest cinematic precursors is "Kick the Can," the Spielberg-directed segment of 1983's Twilight Zone: The Movie, in which the denizens of a retirement home briefly revert to their childhood selves, only to realize that, no matter what age you are, into every life some heartache must fall. There, the folk wisdom took a mere 30 minutes to dispense; here, it takes the better part of three hours, which is odd indeed for a movie so concerned with the preciousness of time. Mamma always said life is like a ticking clock — you never know when it's gonna stop. You dig?
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