Two and a half hours! Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest could have used a cutlass in the editing room for the expository blather and the too-many scenes and subplots that don’t or marginally feature our heroes three: Johnny Depp, again resplendent in Richards; Keira Knightley, who has either started eating or received cheek implants; and Orlando Bloom, handsome and bland.
There’s fun, Buster Keaton-style physical comedy in the swashbuckling of Captain Jack and the lads escaping a cannibal island and swordfighting atop a waterwheel rolling through the jungle. But too much exposition! Too many subplots! As much as the filmmakers would like it to be Pirates of the Rings, especially with their filming-multiple-sequels-at-once shenanigans, this franchise has neither the scope nor majesty of Middle Earth and Tolkien’s storyline. Give me back mindless summertime movies that don’t deaden my ass. There was a big ol’ fishstick of fun to be had here, but it was mostly breading.
The most enlightening part of my moviegoing experience was the realization that one can enter the trio of wide, barren terraces, presumably reserved for receptions, on the upper floors of the AMC Empire 25 that overlook the lights and sprawl of 42nd Street between Times Square and Eighth Avenue. It’s very windy up there, which makes it difficult to spit with accuracy on the tourists queued up for Madame Tussauds, but you can’t beat the skyscraper panorama and the clear view west to the Hudson and Jersey beyond, where a sherbet sunset hovered and eluded my attempts at a majestic photograph.
On the terrace below, a kid in a mohawk and expensive sneakers was hacking away on his laptop, presumably downloading porn or posting a blog entry about Colin Farrell’s Miami Vice moustache.
