Even if you try hard, it’s difficult to say something nasty about “Pirates of the Caribbean” out of habit. You’d probably need a confirmed diagnosis of creeping pragmatism for that. But if you’re without prejudice, it becomes clear where the soul of America is hidden. It’s hidden in Disneyland, based on the theme park ride that inspired this movie.
Of course, no one doubted it was somewhere there, but now the address is precise.
And no need to complain that the plot is too convoluted, the setting is fake, and the characters are typical. Does anyone really watch a pirate movie for plot logic or psychoanalysis? Can’t we have a break from treating schizophrenics for once? What matters in a pirate movie is the fullness of romantic, adventurous, and enthusiastic perception of the world. All the characters should fight, fall in love, and chase each other, palaces and frigates should explode, and the sky should be blue, the sea – blue, the grass – green, and preferably more coconut palms and pearl shells, and definitely treasure in a cave, so that the number of displayed beauties doesn’t fall short of the number of adventures. And if the speed of all this matches today’s internet loading speed, and the quickness lasts for a whole two hours, a half-forgotten desire might suddenly appear (since Errol Flynn’s Captain Blood, after whom there were no more pirates – only costumed characters) to be like children, like the sun, to live happily ever after and die in one day. And if the spectacle is seasoned with giggles and guffaws, that is, with completely forgotten romantic irony, it becomes invulnerable, and even after the movie, it’s not so scary in dark alleys, dirty entrances, and other wretched landscapes of our beloved homeland for a while.
“Pirates of the Caribbean” is such a protective, spectacular movie. Everything is in place: the luxurious 17th century, beautiful words like “Tortuga” and “Port Royal,” a beautiful general’s daughter (Keira Knightley), a titular counselor type like a blacksmith (Orlando Bloom), a terrible secret that binds them, fateful events that separate them, a bad pirate (Geoffrey Rush), a good pirate (Johnny Depp), a couple more comical pirates, and crowds and crowds of half-decayed pirate skeletons. This leads to kidnappings and escapes, fires and explosions, sea battles under sail, the threat of the gallows and immortality, and speed-speed-speed. It’s all in jest, because, of course, there are no living dead, but everything is extremely natural. The fullness of romantic perception lies precisely in the fact that in the movie, the ships maneuver in any angle are real, and people react adequately in any situation. “Why the rum?” says Johnny Depp with a hangover when the general’s daughter burned all their belongings on a paradise uninhabited island so that the smoke would be visible. Immediately you want not only rum, but also to that island.
Spectacle is a genre that is knowingly not authored, but a team effort, which Hollywood can handle. The team was well-chosen. Screenplay – Terry Rossio and Ted Elliott (“Shrek”), director – Gore Verbinski (“The Ring”), producer – Jerry Bruckheimer (“Pearl Harbor”), and special thanks to the cinematographer. Dariusz Wolski seems to be the biggest romantic of them all. Further: Orlando Bloom’s face is just bland enough to fit into everything that is expected of lovers and idiots, and, conversely, Johnny Depp presented a face that was unexpectedly just enough (gold teeth, lined eyes, etc.) so that you still expect to see how the folk-tale plot ends. Geoffrey Rush is simply enjoying the fact that he is no longer a schizophrenic (“Shine,” “Quills”), but can swim, command, and sort through gold. Immediately you want to be Geoffrey Rush.
And all this was shown in the newly opened “Kyrgyzstan” cinema, where one large hall was made into five small halls with a corridor system. Walking into the dark corridor, I was tempted to turn left, hide behind a corner, and dig up some stranger’s handbag, a forgotten cell phone, a wad of dollars dropped near the toilet.
Alas, the cinema was too freshly washed for romantics to profit, and not just to drink the presented champagne.