Film Review--The Spirit

The Spirit
written and directed by Frank Miller
basic on the comic by Will Eisner
starring Gabriel Macht, Eva Mendes, Samuel L. Jackson, Scarlett Johansson, Louis Lombardi, Sarah Paulson, Dan Gerrity, Stana Katic

When a comic is tranferred to a cinematic product, there are just so many expectations that must be met to satisfy the hard core fans who devote a great deal of time creating their own film in their heads. I can imagine how disappointed these folks are with this product as it possesses nothing save a blind stab at style and a convoluted story that cannot possibly be what the late great Mr. Eisner had in mind.

Every type of male fuck fantasy is on display here. There’s Sand Saref (Mendes) as an international jewel thief who used to be the Spirit’s (Macht) , --then known as Denny Colt– primary lust object. His most recent flame is Dr. Ellen Dolan (Paulson) who stays late at the hospital in the hope that her former lover might need a bit of stitching up. Her body is enveloped in classy formal attire and one imagines the hell kitty that clamors to be released. The Spirit meets Plaster of Paris (Paz Vega), an exotic dancer with a fierce temper who he appears to have intimate knowledge of. Silken Floss (Johannson) is a bespectacled charmer with tremendous power who scares most men into flight. As sexy as Johannson has ever been on screen, it’s the threat of instant death that she brings to the promise of any encounter. Still, she doesn’t look all that convincing with a gun but the idea is certainly stimulating. Miller even brings in a female cop named Morgenstern (Katic) who naturally caters to every little boy’s longing to be punished severely by a hot woman in uniform.

The story ostensibly involves the Octopus’s (Jackson) attempt to secure a vase containing the blood of Heracles which he believes will make him immortal so he can then rule the earth. Sand Seref (Mendes) retrieves it and he wants it back. She purrs and pants and is the most carnal female character since Michelle Pfeiffer’s Cat Woman. But she doesn’t quite rescue the film from it’s graceless demise. A fierce body, no matter how appetizing, cannot make an otherwise dismal film passable. Still, it’s enjoyable to look at and fuels the imagination as long as it appears on the screen.

Samuel L. Jackson chews through his role like a surly dog chewing through a phone book. He doesn’t as much act as careen wildly through his lines, spraying them with all the tenacity of an AK 47. It’s clear that he is enjoying himself ostensibly because it’s much easier to play a cartoon character than one filled with actual depth and emotion. Here, he’s a bona fide lunatic who as the Octopus has eight of everything including guns. He is exceedingly enjoyable to watch simply because he’s so vacuous and the audience doesn’t have to worry about trying to understand him. Who cares when a character is this over-the-top? He fits in well with all the better cinematic villains who always sear the flesh more readily than the lousy heroes. The Octopus is an agent of pure, animal death and charmingly efficient at capturing his quarry.

In this film, the Spirit is certainly not aptly named as he lacks energy, vitality, and any legitimate drive. He’s spiritless, to be sure, and drags the story down whenever he’s on the screen. All his posturings are bland and empty and provide no lasting entertainment value in the end. When compared to the Octopus he comes up exceedingly short and the film suffers for it.

Another aspect of the story involves the Spirit’s longing for Sand who disappeared when they were teenagers because she wanted diamonds, sports cars and cold hard cash and didn’t see herself getting these things on a cop’s piddling salary. Her father is shot dead and she claims to a reporter that she hates cops. Then she vanishes from Denny’s life and he never sees her again until she shows up in Central City which she also claims to loathe.

The Spirit is presented as a nattily attired lady killer who has done most of the doable broads the city over. He has an effect on women that sees them practically disrobing upon even the most innocent contact between them. They move as if they are ready right then and there to spread themselves open to receive the great Spirit in order to make themselves more pure and perhaps even holy. The Spirit is a less witty James Bond although he’s never afforded the luxury of gadgetry and doesn’t have much time for high society. He’s far less elegant as well and not as graceful. James Bond would never be caught with his pants down as the Spirit is in one memorable scene.

The film’s look is certainly slick and unnatural. The City doesn’t come off here as necessarily corrupt or satanic in its presentation. It’s dark but not terribly so. It doesn’t appear as another character as Gotham is in the Batman series. It’s just there and the Spirit considers it to be a woman to whom he has pledged his heart. No mere woman can reach him in the same way his city has and he pledges his loyalty to her for always and for ever.

Death comes in the immaculate shape of Lorelei Rox (Jaime King) who beckons the Spirit and almost captures him on two separate occasions. She is yet another female form who lures her prey and dances with them before devouring them.

The most ludicrous moment in the film happens when Silk Floss and the Octopus appear wearing Nazi uniforms as he boisterously champions Death. It’s utterly preposterous and means nothing in the end and one wonders after the motivation to include it in the film. It might have something to do with the Nazi uniform fetish but it still does not inform the narrative. It’s a purely stylistic choice although it seems designed to equate the Octopus with Adolf Hitler as his image is prominently displayed in the scene. Plus the uniforms are wonky and Scarlett Johannson looks exceedingly uncomfortable.

The performances in this film come across at various levels of believability. As mentioned, Samuel L. Jackson conveys his character’s megalomaniacal nature in the black and white sense which the villains are presented here. The Octopus is bad but he’s got so much energy and panache that he comes across as much more urgent and likable than his adversary ever could be.
Scarlett Johannson affects a method of speaking that seems quite odd. Her performance seems rather wooden at times but perfectly appropriate at others. She is mostly convincing playing her role because she infuses it with a stark, underlying brutality that she might employ any time an inconvenience accosts her. Sarah Paulson is slinky and seductive as perhaps the most sexually alluring doctor to appear on screen in quite some time. Her performance is predicated on her physicality and lines in this case don’t much matter. It is also unimportant what Eva Mendes says in this film. Besides it’s almost impossible to hear her above the rumbling of those dreaded hormones. The way she says everything sounds like phone sex, anyway, so the whole package is fully realized and she does her job admirably. Gabriel Macht delivers his part with the proper amount of disassociation. His flat reading is perhaps necessary for this sort of role but it does nothing to improve his character’s presence in the film. His personality is absent and subsequently his actions have no real meaning.


Overall, this film lacks the spirit that might have imbued it with a great cataclysm that could have elevated it to a level reserved for great films that capture the essence of their source material without sacrificing the story to style. The only aspects of interest in the film come from the ubiquitous displays of sex and death. Rarely are these aspects presented so clearly and they lend themselves to a dynamic that nearly redeems the film were it not for the overall lack of a viable narrative. The film is occasionally pretty to look at but doesn’t accentuate the obvious primal slant brought forth through the general focus on succulent female sexuality. Yes, the women in this film are ably portrayed and their physicality exploited favorably. Similarly, the character of the Octopus presents an intriguing conveyor of immediate fatality and his cartoonish maneuverings bring a demonstrable urgency to the film. Ultimately, however, the characters lack definable personalities that make them memorable rather than being merely ciphers. The Octopus is vital because Samuel L. Jackson cuts loose and turns him into a gleefully satanic death merchant. Elsewhere, even the girls prove to be little more than embodiments of sexual desire. They aren’t otherwise fascinating or intriguing. They don’t do anything that remotely matters. But neither does anyone in this feeble production.