View
from Above A
murder victim hovers in purgatory by
Molly Templeton
THE
LOVELY BONES: Directed by Peter Jackson. Screenplay by Jackson,
Philippa Boyes and Fran Walsh, based on the novel by Alice Sebold.
Cinematography, Andrew Lesnie. Editor, Jabez Olsson. Music, Brian
Eno. Starring Saoirse Ronan, Mark Wahlberg, Stanley Tucci, Rachel
Weisz, Susan Sarandon and Rose McIver. Dreamworks/Paramount, 2009.
PG-13. 135 minutes.
It seemed like a strange yet appropriate match: Peter Jackson —
he of Lord of the Rings, of course — and Alice Sebold’s bestselling
novel about a murdered girl looking back on her life and her family.
Jackson has an expansive vision that had the potential to beautifully
stretch Sebold’s intimate story across a cinematic framework; let
us not forget his previous film involving teenage girls and death,
Heavenly Creatures. When Saoirse Ronan (Atonement),
with her narrow, intense face, was cast as poor dead Susie Salmon,
The Lovely Bones became a film to look forward to.
But Bones is a hollow, rattling disappointment. With its
fixation on serial killer George Harvey (Stanley Tucci) and the
bright, shifting, ever-so-meaningful in-between — the place where
Susie finds herself after her off-screen murder — the film bogs
down in showiness. The story, adapted from Sebold’s novel by Jackson
and his writing partners Philippa Boyes and Fran Walsh, is too loosely
stitched together, its brief stronger pieces connected by narrow
threads. Apart from Susie, a wide-eyed teen discovering an interest
in photography, a first crush and the ability to sass her parents,
the characters are limited to one key expression and hobby apiece:
Susie’s father (Mark Wahlberg) meticulously builds ships inside
bottles and frowns heartbrokenly as he tries to solve Susie’s case
when he feels the police aren’t doing enough. Her mother (Rachel
Weisz) spends her too-rare screen time reading voraciously from
feminist texts, looking fragile and pushing her husband to move
on. Susie’s moppet of a little brother makes childlike pronouncements
about the afterlife; her sister mostly just goes running.
And then Susan Sarandon, as Grandma Lynn, sweeps in on a cloud
of cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes, ostensibly to put the family
back together. Instead, the Salmons fragment further, and Sarandon’s
big moment, a montage of cleaning mishaps, plays out as a desperate
attempt at levity in the least appropriate place. All the while,
Susie is running around the in-between, where certain symbolic images
crop up repeatedly: a lighthouse, a gazebo, a blooming red flower,
the penguin from a snowglobe she had as a child. From time to time,
Susie seems to stare through a window in the in-between, watching
the goings-on back on earth as her sister and father get closer
and closer to pegging Harvey as the vicious creep he is.
In some circles, much has been made of Jackson’s choice to avoid
depicting Susie’s fate. There’s no mention of rape in the film,
and we don’t see the murder; Susie’s ghost bolts from the scene
of the crime. The grisly truth of her demise is slipped between
the frames, where neither we nor she have to look at it. It was
the right choice to skip showing the murder, but it somehow needed
to feel present in order for this story to mean much of anything.
Jackson leans too heavily on Tucci’s creepy George Harvey to provide
a sense of danger and the reminder of mourning; we watch Harvey
making his deadly plans and see the threat he poses, but it’s oddly
disconnected from what happened to Susie.
The Lovely Bones is about what happens to a family after
a terrible loss, but Jackson’s focus is on everything but the repercussions
for Susie’s family — and her spirit, hovering in a purgatory of
her own devising. It’s all well and good to dream up a lovely afterworld
in which we’re given the time to come to terms with leaving our
loved ones behind, but Jackson avoids facing the horrors that sent
Susie to that world, opting instead for a mushy-sweet suggestion
that everything will be fine if we just move on. Everyone, mystically,
will get what’s coming to them.