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Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man’s Chest
(2.5 of 5 stars)

“Dead Man’s Chest” is not unlike a hundred other summer blockbuster sequels. The story goes something like this: the director and producer sit down and say “gee, we had so much fun making the last film, that maybe we should make another!” (Or was it “Gee, we made so much freakin’ money on the last film…?” — I can’t keep track.) As is too often the case, however, these “well, why not make another?” sequels only stretch out the life of the first film, without adding anything new. Such is the case with “Dead Man’s Chest.”

The film opens with our beloved William Turner and Elizabeth Swann arrested for crimes against the crown–aiding in the escape of an enemy of the crown– by a power-hungry East India Company usurper. In order to gain their freedom, William must locate the infamous “Captain” Jack Sparrow and return his broken compass to the usurper. Thinking only of his “true love,” William sets off in search of Sparrow.

Sparrow, meanwhile, is off on a search of his own, guided by his broken compass and a drawing of a key. Oblique references are made to curse and a debt– it seems, somehow, that our beloved Captain has become indebted to the old man of the sea– Davy Jones.

Every element that made “Curse of the Black Pearl” the smash hit it was is present in “Dead Man’s Chest”– the improbable, disorientated and dreadlocked captain, the attractive if sometimes petulant Commodore’s daughter, the over-the-top swashbuckling swordfights, etc. Everything– except for the freshness and originality.

Before the negative stuff, let me not that Davy Jones and his crew of men-turned-sea creatures are a veritable treat. According to the legend, a conscript in Davy Jones’ crew is guaranteed a hundred years of life, during which time one gradually transforms from human to creature of the sea. Gore Verbinski’s anthropomorphisms of man and sea creature are detailed, varied and impressively lifelike– rendered such that they fit easily within the flow of the story, without obviously or obtrusively being computer animated.

That, unfortunately, is where my praises of “Dead Man’s Chest” end. By the end of the two-and-a-half hour odyssey, the film felt stretched thin and canned. The humor was intermittent, and relied almost exclusively on gags and set-ups from the first film (lines such as “But why is the rum always gone?” or the pirate with the fake eye, scrounging around on deck for it). The witty, verbose exchanges that helped keep the first entertaining for those over the age of 12 are also present in the second– but too many, and often feel forced rather than clever.

In fact, even the set of characters is rather unvaried from the original. We get a new, if somewhat bland East India Company man, and Davey Jones and his crew of sea-creatures replace Barbossa and his crew of the damned, but the cast is otherwise unchanged– Swann, Turner, Sparrow, Sparrow’s crew, Norrington, etc. Unfortunately, the characters themselves are also unable to break out of their shallow and clichéd roles– honor-bound Turner, unscrupulous and goofy Jack, power-hungry Norrington, and so on.

While “Dead Man’s Chest” is not without its amusing or clever moments, overall it feels much too like sequels often do– a plot-less extension (though there is a plot, it’s rather vague and inane) of the same characters, gags and devices. It will be interesting to see how the third of the trilogy–“At World’s End” turns out when it releases next summer because, frankly, “Dead Man’s Chest” feels like it thoroughly killed everything great about the series.

Quoting from the Warren Sentinel, June 30, 2006 (emphasis added):

Warren [Air Force Base] now has a “Giant Voice” system that will be used to play reveille, retreat and taps. The sounding of these honors is a special part of military culture and all base personnel will be expected to follow tradition and protocol.

Monday through Friday, reveille will be played at 7:30am and retreat will be played at 4:30pm. … Taps will be played at 10pm. The following outlines what both military and civilian personnel should do during reveille and retreat:

… At first note, all personnel in uniform and not in formation should face the flag or the music (if the flag is not in view), stand at attention and render a hand salute. Hold this position until the last note of the music has been played.

When not in uniform, personnel should, at first note, stand at attention facing the flag for the music (if the flag is not in view), remove headdress, if any, with the right hand, and place the right hand over the heart. Hold this position until the last note of the music has been played.

All vehicles in motion should stop at the first note of the music and the occupants should sit quietly until the music ends.

This scares me. Oh, and more than that, infuriates me.

As to the first– just the idea of a “Giant Voice,” that commands the absolute obedience of an entire group of people– eesh. The wording of the article is very specific: “will be expected to follow tradition and protocol.” This isn’t a voluntary sort of thing. The article doesn’t say personnel are encouraged to honor this “special part of military culture” (a sarcastic side note: ah, yes. The military! And culture! Age old allies!). No. You “will.”

And I shudder to think of the repercussions if one fails to meet expectations. I mean, is it so inconceivable that failing to stop and salute could place me in a secretive, illegal military prison under suspicion of terrorism or subversion? Could I be beaten and tortured and held indefinately without trial? Is our military above this? And if so, what really happened in the American military controlled Iraqi prisons? What’s really happening in Guantanamo? … I digress.

As to my fury– am I not a free individual? What right has any government to dictate to me what I will or will not do, and which hand it will or not will be done with? What do I care if they choose to play their favorite patriotic cheer? I’m sorry, but no. No! I will not stop. I will not remove my headdress. I will not hold my right hand over my heart. Only by the use of physical force will you master me. And even then, you’ll not have mastered my heart, and I’ll spit in your face as you force my hand over that very organ which you cannot control!

How Orwellian is this? How like a totalitarian state?

On a completely unrelated note, allow me to quote another source– this time, Chen Village, an account of a rural Chinese village under the Mao Zedong regime. From a section titled “Broadcasting the New Order”

Henceforth, to reinforce such thinking, two or three nights every week the peasants were required to meet with the team or brigade level Mao Thought counselors to learn new revolutionary songs and Mao quotes. …

These counselors had a powerful new medium of communication to help in their proselytizing. This was the production brigade’s wired broadcasting system, set up when the village acquired electricity in 1966. The system consisted of thirty loudspeakers positioned throughout the village, with four large ones installed in the village’s main meeting places. The volume was tuned loud enough that even while indoors people could hear the announcements. …

The new broadcasting system altered the peasants’ lives on more than one way. … About half the broadcasting time was given over to music and reports from the provincial radio station. The other half was devoted to brigade news and pep talks composed by the brigade broadcaster with the help of the Mao Thought counselors.

How is this different? And how is this the same?

Random life suggestion: if you’ve been drinking and you order a pizza, let me suggest you pass out after the pizza arrives, rather than before, to avoid a somewhat awkward situation for the pizza guy.

=)

Hope, you may be appalled. And William, you may well approve. But: the floor in my room is littered with the brass casings of .22 shells. Or, the floor in my room near my window, that is.

Yeah, I’m still a firm believer in gun control. Probably for reasons exactly such as this. But as long as gun use isn’t controlled or restricted (in Wyoming, no less)…

Allow me to explain. One of my side-projects this summer has been to turn the weed-patch around my house in to a lawn– or something generally green, soft, and resembling a lawn. So I’ve planted seed and hauled in tons (literally) of top-soil, etc. And, what-d’ya know, there’s actually grass growing. It’s small and feeble, as of yet, but mmm… It makes me happy, strangly.

Enter stage right: the gopher invasion. All over the lawn. *ahem.* Did’ja miss the sign, gopher punks?! MY lawn. Well. Apparently, small and feeble, in gopher parlance, is codeword for tasty and tender. So look out my window at any given time, and you can just count the gophers, crawling, slithering, eating my small, feeble grass.

I live on the 2nd floor, you see. And, yeah, I get a great view of the Colorado Front Range from my room. It’s nice. But I also have a great view of my back lawn/weed-patch, which is nice, too, but more in a Lee Harvy Oswald sense than, say, an aesthetic one, if you catch my drift. =)

So yeah. I dug out my grandfather’s old single-shot, bold-action, open-sight .22 rifle (from under my dad’s bed). And, as I write this, empty brass casings litter my floor.

You do the math. =)