When I first heard, some months prior to its release, that a new version of "Willard" was in the works, I wondered who would play the title role -- Crispin Glover? Bingo! And R. Lee Ermey similarly seems a natural choice to reprise Ernest Borgnine's role as Willard's one-dimensional troll of a boss. (Bruce Davison, who played the original Willard, is a good enough sport to allow the use of his face in pictures of the new Willard's late father.)
Regrettably, Elsa Lanchester's role as Willard's mom is played in a shrill, one-note fashion by whoever that was in the fright wig, making it impossible to believe that Willard loves her as much as he says he does, or indeed, that anyone could. And Willard's only unlikely sympathetic human connection, a young woman at his workplace who must be attracted to the worst losers she can find, bails on him at a critical moment, so that what starts out as unbelievable turns out to be inconsistent.
The remake has decent production values, including suitably creepy atmosphere in Willard's Norman Bates-ish house, and very good rat wrangling, involving (apparently) fewer CGI scenes than I'd expected. Unfortunately, the main element of the movie that doesn't work is the title character. Willard is such a spineless schlub that one wonders what even a rat would see in him. Crispin Glover could've given the character a dark, brooding, subtle intensity that erupts in a volcanic flow of rats from the id, and that appears, at times, to be what the director had in mind. But instead, Willard snivels, blubbers, whines, pleads, and screams to the point that he quickly becomes tiresome. If "Vampire's Kiss" was Nicolas Cage's over-the-top self-parody, and "The Witches of Eastwick" was Jack Nicholson's, "Willard" does the same for Crispin Glover. But it's no fun at all; it's as much of a wet blanket as Willard himself is. We can pretend we sympathize with him, but let's face it: if we knew somebody like this in real life, we'd alternately ignore him and take advantage of him too.
The movie's one apparent attempt at humor is an astoundingly wrong-headed scene involving the fate of a cat that finds itself alone in a houseful of rats. Scored (via contrivance) by the treacly title song of "Ben," the 1972 sequel to the original "Willard," the scene brings the story to a standstill, and is as embarrassingly bad as the sequel it evokes. It's one of those jaw-droppingly awful moments that make you wonder what the hell the writer and/or director was thinking. And as one who has lost three cats to various misadventures in a little over a year's time, I certainly didn't appreciate it.
Worst of all, "Willard" commits the unpardonable sin of being dull. It's a tedious, unpleasant chore to watch. This is a pity, since Willard Stiles may well be the role Crispin Glover was born to play.
Regrettably, Elsa Lanchester's role as Willard's mom is played in a shrill, one-note fashion by whoever that was in the fright wig, making it impossible to believe that Willard loves her as much as he says he does, or indeed, that anyone could. And Willard's only unlikely sympathetic human connection, a young woman at his workplace who must be attracted to the worst losers she can find, bails on him at a critical moment, so that what starts out as unbelievable turns out to be inconsistent.
The remake has decent production values, including suitably creepy atmosphere in Willard's Norman Bates-ish house, and very good rat wrangling, involving (apparently) fewer CGI scenes than I'd expected. Unfortunately, the main element of the movie that doesn't work is the title character. Willard is such a spineless schlub that one wonders what even a rat would see in him. Crispin Glover could've given the character a dark, brooding, subtle intensity that erupts in a volcanic flow of rats from the id, and that appears, at times, to be what the director had in mind. But instead, Willard snivels, blubbers, whines, pleads, and screams to the point that he quickly becomes tiresome. If "Vampire's Kiss" was Nicolas Cage's over-the-top self-parody, and "The Witches of Eastwick" was Jack Nicholson's, "Willard" does the same for Crispin Glover. But it's no fun at all; it's as much of a wet blanket as Willard himself is. We can pretend we sympathize with him, but let's face it: if we knew somebody like this in real life, we'd alternately ignore him and take advantage of him too.
The movie's one apparent attempt at humor is an astoundingly wrong-headed scene involving the fate of a cat that finds itself alone in a houseful of rats. Scored (via contrivance) by the treacly title song of "Ben," the 1972 sequel to the original "Willard," the scene brings the story to a standstill, and is as embarrassingly bad as the sequel it evokes. It's one of those jaw-droppingly awful moments that make you wonder what the hell the writer and/or director was thinking. And as one who has lost three cats to various misadventures in a little over a year's time, I certainly didn't appreciate it.
Worst of all, "Willard" commits the unpardonable sin of being dull. It's a tedious, unpleasant chore to watch. This is a pity, since Willard Stiles may well be the role Crispin Glover was born to play.