Lackluster Spirit

Frank Miller’s comic-based film is a comic disaster

By Lilly Lampe
Published: December 28th, 2008 | 10:35am

After watching The Spirit, Frank Miller’s directorial debut, I can only hope no one is so fool-hardy as to give him unchecked control of a film again. I left with the sense that Miller, in his eagerness, took elements of all his favorite movies without regard for continuity and relation, and blended them like a child who thinks a milkshake made of Phish Food, gummy worms, pixie sticks, and Pop Tarts is a good idea. The end result is an overwhelming sludge with underwhelming appeal.

Inevitably this film will be compared to Sin City and to be sure, the chiaroscuro lighting and select use of color are pages from the same book. However, Miller’s inclusion of color is not nearly as selective as in Sin City, and so lacks the thematic poignancy of the latter. The contrast of dark frames to highlighted white areas is diluted by the beige and brown space created by Commissioner Dolan, played by Dan Lauria in a performance that feels like Danny DeVito as Bogart’s Sam Spade. The Maltese Falcon’s classic film noir styling is prevalent in The Spirit, but ‘40s appeal and attire is confusing when paired with props like laptops and what looks suspiciously like an older version of Samsung’s Rant phone. Samuel L. Jackson plays the Octopus, an arch-villain with a penchant for eggs and the unfortunate dialogue of the pre-Nolan Batman villains (I am most strongly reminded of Mr. Freeze in Batman and Robin, whose extreme campiness was almost the dirge of the Batman series). Fortunately, Jackson is well-versed in playing true to Samuel L. in all films and thrives in camp (Snakes on a Plane anyone?). He is one of the few watchable actors in this debacle, though in any given scene I half-expected him to exclaim “Get these mutha-fucking eggs off my mutha-fucking face!”

The Octopus’s cloned henchmen are a punch-drunk crew of unbearable banter that references the vaudeville of The Three Stooges, with none of the charm and likability. Scarlett Johansson as Silken Floss, the Octopus’s accomplice, proves once more that her Hollywood function is purely as eye candy. The film would have been better if she had no speaking part. Eva Mendes does femme fatale well-enough within the constraints of The Spirit but is handicapped by the shallowness of her character (little girl loses her daddy and turns into a distrusting villain obsessed with diamonds) and Sarah Paulson as the commissioner’s daughter is perhaps the sole likable character in the film. Lest I forget to mention, Gabriel Macht as The Spirit is compiled of the insecurities of Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker, the impassioned performance of Alec Baldwin as The Shadow, and loses himself in aimless soliloquy, the likes of which I hope to never see again.

I could continue my rant, touching on the Japanese samurai and spaghetti western elements that work so well in Tarantino’s dark comedies and in Miller’s hands are distracting and misplaced, but at this point its like kicking a dead dog. I came away from The Spirit feeling cheated of my nine dollars but with added respect for Robert Rodriguez and his restrained style in Sin City, which is so markedly absent in The Spirit. Miller butchers the mastery, influence and depth out of Will Eisner’s comic, and leaves the gristle of a comic disaster.