When Steven Spielberg’s latest film premiered at Cannes there was some kickback against critics who dared to suggest that it was “just for kids”. Duh! What do you expect from an adaptation of a Roald Dahl book about a Big Friendly Giant?
Well, one of the key components of Spielbergia is that ability to deliver family films that really are for all the family. There is much to admire (and quite a bit to love) in this predictably well-tooled entertainment, but grown-ups expecting a guilty tear will probably be disappointed.
Spielberg cannot be faulted on his key casting. It is hard to imagine anybody bettering Mark Rylance’s performance as the amiable behemoth who prowls the streets of an idealised London in search of dreams. The actor, motion-captured into an only faintly grotesque version of himself, has an ineffable sadness that makes his moments of childlike delight all the more intoxicating. Delivering the late Melissa Mathison’s dialogue in a faintly Kentish burr, he proves a master of Dahlian oddness.
If Spielberg failed to discover a talented child to play Sophie – the orphan who catches sight of the BFG and is spirited off to his aerial lair – then he may as well have moved to the Sunnypine Home for Superannuated Directors. Spotting juvenile stars is his thing and Ruby Barnhill is terrific. As English as odd hobbies and sandals worn with socks, she manages the tricky business of combining precociousness with unfussy charm. She should go far.
The design is warm and inviting. Janusz Kaminski’s camera makes a timeless Nowhere of London and a Gloomy Hades of the territory around the BFG’s door. John Williams does what he does.
So, why might adults find it just a little unsatisfactory? Too many half-funny diversions (most lifted from the book, to be fair) distract from the beautifully maintained relationship at the core of the film. The farting is quite funny. Penelope Wilton has some fun as a lively version of the queen. The American football game between the giants makes no sense, but it is, at least, over relatively quickly. During these diversions we get the sense of a film that thinks itself much cuter than it proves to be. We want more blubbing and less sniggering.
And then there’s that odd phone call the queen, at a time of crisis, makes to “Ronnie” (Reagan) and “Boris” (Yeltsin, I’m guessing). Is this the 1980s or the 1990s? I’m confused. I want the Giant back.
