Thank heavens for the squid

Given my contempt for the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, a triumph of turgid theme-park hackery over the art of cinema, it was assumed that I would have nothing positive to say about this sequel.

On the contrary: the digitally enhanced squid-face of villain Davy Jones (he of the locker) is very well rendered, demonstrating the wonders of CGI and motion-capture technology. Reliable British actor Bill Nighy performs the human duties behind the high-tech make-up, lending an air of rancid fun to this slimy sea beast, who yo-ho-hos around the ocean accompanied by a crew of rum-sodden crustaceans.
There are a few moments of zany slapstick too, such as a fruit-throwing chase scene in which a skewered Captain Jack Sparrow becomes a human kebab, harking back to the days when the film’s director, Gore Verbinski, made such innocuous fare as the slapstick farce MouseHunt. And I did laugh at one verbal gag about “making the pleasure of your carbuncle”. So that’s a thumbs up for the squid, the kebab and the carbuncle. Which is three more things than I liked about the last one.
Other than that, it’s boring business as usual for this second instalment in what is now a trilogy in the manner of all things post-Lord of the Rings. The plot (and I use the word loosely) is episodic to the point of incoherence, constantly reminding us that this is a film franchise based upon a fairground ride. Every five minutes a new quest is announced, sending us rattling off on another tack, each more fatuously inconsequential than the last. Go get Jack Sparrow’s magic compass! Go seek out this magic key! Go track down the Flying Dutchman! Go dig up Davy Jones’s locker! Go and harvest 99 souls in three days! An early line about “setting sail without knowing his own heading” seems to apply to the screenwriters as much as the pirates, and it’s a full 40 minutes before any sense of direction is established at all.
The romping tone may aspire to the nostalgic swashbuckle of Steven Spielberg’s Raiders of the Lost Ark series (replete with John Williams-lite ‘ta-ran-ta-raaa’ score by Hans Zimmer), but it is the rambling blather of Lucas’s Star Wars prequels which is most pungently evoked. So muddled is the narrative that the characters have to keep stopping and explaining the story to each other (“You mean, if I find the chest, I will find Will Turner...”). By the time the closing credits roll the story hasn’t actually gone anywhere, and there’s still a whole other movie to come.
In the absence of narrative we are left with a string of ‘spectacular’ set pieces to hold our attention. Verbinski may be a witless hack, but he understands the laws of supply and demand and doesn’t skimp on the money-shots.
The fact that Johnny Depp received an Oscar nomination for his boggle-eyed, drawl-mouthed Keith Richards’ impression doesn’t change my opinion that the role of Jack Sparrow has produced some of the actor’s very worst work to date.
Lumpen direction, lousy writing and pouting performances aside, the worst thing about Dead Man’s Chest is its interminable length. At a bum-numbing two-and-a-half hours, this is what weak-bladdered studio boss Jack Warner used to refer to as “a three-piss picture” – in every sense. Thank heavens for the squid.