A Christmas Carol is a whiz-bang 3D thrill ride with all the emotional satisfaction squeezed out of it. For what it's worth, the movie's performance-capture digital tricks all but abolish the boundary between live action and animation. That gives Jim Carrey, sunken into a great beak of a nose and a never-ending chin, a chance to show off the full range of his rubbery body language as he morphs from bent old Scrooge to fresh young Scrooge and back again to the money-grubbing grinch who's so cheap that he stoops to filch the coins placed over the eyes of his dead partner, Jacob Marley (Gary Oldman).
But we're not permitted to dwell on the old miser's past life, or his tyranny over poor Bob Cratchit (Oldman again), or anything you might connect to with feeling rather than sensation. Zemeckis keeps pulling us away to where the action is: Scrooge in his nightdress, hurtling over the rooftops of a beautifully rendered London winter whose falling snowflakes threaten to drift right up your nostrils, or skiing down icy streets, or tumbling down black holes into the abyss that was, is, and might be.
While he's there, he's beaten and bruised, dangled and verbally abused for the good of his bitter old soul by Marley, who flings chains in our faces and does Freddie Krueger things with his jaw that you wouldn't want to see in a PG movie. To say nothing of the ghosts of Scrooge's life passages, all flagellating the crap out of him, all played by Carrey, and none remotely like Dickens' vision of Scrooge's own conscience: For reasons unknown, Christmas Past is whimsically realized as a cunning little critter with a severed head on fire, while Christmas Present pitches up as a red-headed, manically ho-ho-hoing giant — at which point the effects team appears to have lost interest, for the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is a drug-store Halloween grim reaper in black sheet and clawed fingers, while all the good-guy characters save one (Scrooge's kindly former employer Fezziwig, an enchantingly tubby eggcup presence, is delightfully rendered by Bob Hoskins) have to make do with grimy replicas of the cabbage-patch-doll faces worn by the travelers on Zemeckis' Polar Express.
When A Christmas Carol isn't carried away by its own frenzied motion, it's a ruinously stiff tableau vivant of good folk (Colin Firth, wearing a squashed ColinFirth-face, phones it in as Scrooge's honest-to-God nephew) valiantly toasting the éminence grise in his absence and wringing their hands over the possible demise of Tiny Tim. Granted, the priggish tyke is one of Dickens' more cloying creations.
Many of Dickens' characters begin as caricatures, but the best are so deeply felt, so fleshed out and bred in the bone of their creator's horrible childhood, that they become universalized expressions of our own fears and our need to be forgiven.
On the plus side, Zemeckis avoids screaming parallels to recessionary villains we love to hate. Scrooge is no Bernie Madoff — he's an early-capitalist accumulator who would have thrown a visiting venture capitalist out on his ear. More to the point, though, he's a mensch in hiding, deformed by an abusive father and by a terror of poverty so profound that it blinds him to the insight that you can't take it with you, that wealth should be shared, and that life is best lived with others. That's the message that will make A Christmas Carol live forever as a novel. In Zemeckis' new and far-from-improved version, it comes buried in software.