01.19.10
“Lord of the Flies,” the secon…
“Lord of the Flies,” the help epoch hither, is a lyrically primordial retelling of William Golding’s archetypal novel, a bland fable on the strife between savagery and shot. Languidly paced and prettily crafted, it’s certainly a awe-inspiring suiting of Golding’s novella. But while it’s been brought up to date, there’s certainly nothing new subsumed under this tropical sun.
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Directed by Harry Hook, this ’90s version finds not postwar British schoolboys but American military cadets marooned on an uncharted island, its beach strewed with coconut husks and palm fronds that look like wooden skulls and bones. Well nigh strangled by the jungle, the beach is the last bastion of civilization, and the cadets sit upon its sands precariously, almost gingerly. They have pulled the only surviving adult to safety, but he is feverish and finally crazy with pain.
Left without adult supervision, the boys, ranging in age from 8 to 13, gradually form rival groups — the feral hunters, led by Jack (Chris Furrh), and the hopeful fire watchers, led by Ralph (Balthazar Getty). Gradually worn down by hunger, intimidation and fear of the unknown, Ralph’s troops desert him for the meat and safety that Jack, with his spears and totems, provides. Only Ralph’s stalwart lieutenant, Piggy (Danuel Pipoly), the quintessential dweeb, stands with Ralph as the drama screams to a climax.
“We did things the way grown-ups would have. Why didn’t it work?” sniffles Piggy, a nagging bore who reminds the others of the parents and teachers they are happily rid of. When Jack, a psychotic Peter Pan, and his lost boys begin hunting down the local pig population, poor Piggy’s sorry fate seems sealed, what with the symbolism being thrown around. After all, this is a cautionary adventure for adolescents easily wowed by tidy profundities.
Piggy, still with his squishy face and Coke-bottle glasses, has evolved into a miniature Leo Buscaglia, an advocate of positive people in Sara Schiff’s updated screenplay, with its oddly appropriate mention of ALF, that Robinson Crusoe of sitcom television. ALF and most of the kid Gilligans, after all, share ALF’s lack of regard for social conventions and finally are obliged to develop similarly uncouth eating habits. The point, in both sitcom and classic of world literature, seems to be that boys will be boys, and that is a very dangerous thing indeed.
“We got it made. No parents, no teachers, no academy, no girls,” says Jack, taking an aggressive whack at Ralph in the infancy of his rebellion. Both parts are nicely played by the child actors, the blond badness of Furrh contrasting with the cool reason of Getty as the cadet who clings to civilization while the other boys have long since stripped down to their underwear. Getty, the great-grandson of J. Paul, is especially impressive, a pensive and haunted leader, a young prince in an Aladdin’s Tale.
Like the 1963 adaptation, this film has its roots in Golding’s experiences as a Briton during World War II. Certainly the human race remains as unstable as ever, as vicious and selfish and frightened of the dark. But it would have been all the more effective if “Lord of the Flies” were set on those urban islands where children even now are killing other children. Beelzebub is alive and well and civilization is indeed crumbling, but it isn’t a pretty tropical poem. It is litter on the doorstep.