The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is certainly curious a modest F. Scott Fitzgerald story, about a man born in the twilight of life and gradually regressing toward dawn, that has been adapted into a two-ton, Oscar-season white elephant. Directed by David Fincher from a screenplay by Eric Roth, Benjamin Button announces its epic intentions right from the start: An orchestra tunes up on the soundtrack; two studio logos appear, redesigned as button mosaics; and before you can say, And the winner is..., the movie fades in on a prosthetically aged Cate Blanchett dying in a hospital bed. Unsurprisingly, the dying woman, who is called Daisy, asks her daughter (Julia Ormond) to read to her from a diary the contents of which, even less surprisingly, play out as decades-spanning flashbacks.
So we return to New Orleans, circa 1918, where the merriment attending the end of World War I is interrupted by the arrival of a baby boy (played, in a manner of speaking, by Brad Pitt), who emerges from the womb looking like a midget Methuselah. His mother having died during his birth and his father terrified by the sight of him, the strange infant is swiftly deposited on the doorstep of an old folks home. There the childless, gold-hearted, Negro proprietress (Taraji P. Henson, though it could just as well be Butterfly McQueen) christens the boy Benjamin and opts to raise him as her own.
Were already a long way from Fitzgerald, whose Benjamin Button came into the world not only looking like an old man, but also with the fully developed body, wizened mind, and ornery temperament of one too. But its clear from the start that Roth and Fincher have considerably different aims. Closer in spirit to the Roth-scripted Forrest Gump, Benjamin Button is to the first half of the 20th Century what Gump was to the second a panorama of the American experience as seen from the perspective of a wide-eyed Candide.
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Directed by David FincherStarring Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett, Taraji P. Henson, Julia Ormond, Jason Flemyng, Elias Koteas, and Tilda SwintonRated PG-13168 minutes
Here as there, Roth reduces our complex times to a parade of shockingly straight-faced kitsch: A hellfire-and-brimstone tent revivalist imbues Benjamin with the holy spirit; a pygmy lothario serves as his introduction to the outside world; and a drunken Irish tugboat captain shows him how to be a man. But where Gump actively trivialized history, Benjamin Button effectively ignores it: Although Benjamin briefly exchanges fire with a German submarine during World War II, and Hurricane Katrina makes a cameo toward the end, this movie about a white baby raised by a black adoptive mother during the inglorious years of the Jim Crow South never so much as addresses race once.
The strived-for atmosphere is whimsical and picaresque, the results save for Benjamins brief dalliance with the coolly amused wife (Tilda Swinton) of a British spy in Murmansk mostly tedious. Very little about the first half of the film invites us in or gives inner life to the characters, leaving only the admittedly fascinating spectacle of seeing Pitts computer-aged face digitally grafted on to the several pint-size performers who help embody Benjamin over the first two decades of his existence. From a technological standpoint, this is rivaled only by the later reverse aging effects that convincingly restore Pitt to his Thelma & Louiseera visage and that should, if nothing else, establish Benjamin Button as a cult film with the Botox crowd.
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The movie finally gives off a spark or two at exactly the midpoint, when Benjamin is reunited with ballet dancer Daisy (Blanchett, reverse-aged herself to resemble a twentysomething ingenue), whom he loved from afar as a boy, but can now see socially without causing a scandal. The trajectory is obvious, although Pitt and Blanchett surrender themselves to it with reasonable conviction: Shes getting older while hes getting younger; eventually, theyll meet in the middle somewhere, but that too cannot last. Will you still love me when I have acne, when I wet the bed, when Im afraid of whats under the stairs? he asks her. But it speaks to the treacly nature of the entire film that most of the scenarios potential unpleasantries are carefully elided. Unlike Fitzgeralds Button, whose adolescence and eventual infancy bring with them a series of public and private humiliations, Roth and Finchers Benjamin enters his second senescence in relative comfort, attended to by the ever-loyal Daisy and the oppressively emotive stirrings of composer Alexandre Desplats score. No bed-wetting is ever shown.
Perhaps its no wonder, considering producers Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall are longtime Steven Spielberg associates, that one of Benjamin Buttons closest cinematic precursors is Kick the Can, the Spielberg-directed segment of 1983s Twilight Zone: The Movie, in which the denizens of a retirement home briefly revert to their childhood selves, only to realize that, no matter what age you are, into every life some heartache must fall. There the folk wisdom took a mere 30 minutes to dispense; here it takes the better part of three hours, which is odd indeed for a movie so concerned with the preciousness of time. Mama always said life is like a ticking clock you never know when its gonna stop. You dig?
It was just last year that Fincher delivered a great film, also three hours, on the subject of time. But whereas, in Zodiac to say nothing of Charlie Kaufmans Synecdoche, New York the passing years wrap around the characters like a vise, catching them up obsessively in a single, distended moment, in Benjamin Button the ravages of time are trumped by a kind of eternal, undying love that mere physics is at a loss to contain. And Fincher, try as he might, scarcely seems able to buy into Roths brand of Harlequin-romance hokum. In order for Benjamin Button to succeed on its own terms, there shouldnt be a dry eye left in the house. Yet, when the lights came up, mine were like sandpaper.
Mostly, the film is an orgy of excess, in which Fincher, armed with a huge budget, some of the best technicians in the business, and every available brush in the digital paintbox, indulges his passion for luxuriant image-making with little regard for whether the story merits (or can withstand) such grandiose treatment. All I have is my story, Benjamin tells us in voiceover early on in the film. The true worth of any story, though, lies in the telling, and some stories arent worth telling in the first place. Life, after all, is too short.