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The Ninth Gate Review by
Paula Nechak
What
hell hath Roman Polanski wrought with this laughably silly film version (that in
its second half reminds of Eyes Wide Shut) of the novel El Club Dumas
by Spanish writer Arturo Perez-Reverte? It's an occult thriller without thrills
and while it purportedly goes for dark humor and an equally dark style, most of
its laughs are unintentional. The Ninth Gate stars Johnny Depp as Dean
Corso, a mercenary piranha of old, rare books who will say or do anything in
order to make a lucrative deal with book collection heirs who are bereft after a
family death. Into his life comes billionaire publisher and procurer-at-any-cost
of a library dedicated to Satan, Boris Balkan (Frank Langella). Balkan is the
proud owner of the obscure The Nine Gates of the Kingdom of Shadows, a
manual reportedly written in collaboration with Lucifer himself. Balkan hires
Corso, who should known better than to take the gig once he notices Balkan's
book vault passcode is "666," to track down the only two other
existing copies - one in Portugal and one in France - and compare his volume to
those in order to discern authenticity. The job descends Corso into a different
hell - one of death, greed, obsession and satanic ritual - and unites him with
two women who hold the key to the mystery of the Ninth Gate. While
Depp is an accomplished actor and can usually make much of little, he's out of
his element here and miscast as a snake-hearted antiquarian book dealer. He's
even physically wrong for the role. Polanski drenches the film with gothic
atmosphere and brooding decay to infer the demonic and dreaded but while his
intentions are noble, the script, written by Polanski, Enrique Urbizu and John
Brownjohn, has outwitted and eluded him. After a terrific first half, the film
slides into reminiscences of Polanski's recent, negligible films, Frantic
and Bitter Moon, both of which feature wife Emanuelle Seigner as a
mysterious free spirit. Seigner is the iffy figure in The Ninth Gate as
well and while she's a benign presence here, pitted against the calculations of
a sorely wasted Lena Olin, who plays a rich widow Satan-worshipper, no one ever
said she could act. The Ninth Gate in its second half, makes me miss the
real Polanski - the guy who gave us Repulsion, Chinatown, Macbeth,
The Tenant, and Rosemary's Baby, the latter which chillingly
explored the nature of unforseen evil, wrapped in a shroud of family values and
babies, handsome husbands and loopy older neighbors and, in the end, gave us
Satan with a far more demonic and seductive sense of humor than this awful, bad
joke of a film. Click here to read Cynthia Fuch's interview with Roman Polanski. Contents | Features | Reviews
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