Out in the blogosphere you frequently run across invocations of Godwin’s Law, which can be paraphrased as stating that sooner or later every argument will come around to a Hitler analogy. A similar axiom, applied to Hollywood, would stipulate that every movie star must eventually dress up in a German war uniform.
This is not the review of “Valkyrie,” by the way, a film that upholds this rule with respect to the special case of Tom Cruise. I’m just trying to figure out why, somewhere in the middle of “The Spirit,” Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlett Johansson arrive on screen decked out in swastikas and jackboots. Nothing in the logic of the film explains it, but then, to use the phrase “the logic of the film” when talking about “The Spirit” may be to take the “oxy” out of “oxymoronic.”
To ask why anything happens in Frank Miller’s sludgy, hyper-stylized adaptation of a fabled comic book series by Will Eisner may be an exercise in futility. The only halfway interesting question is why the thing exists at all. The most plausible answer lies in its pedigree. Eisner, who died in 2005, is worshiped by aficionados of what he called “sequential art” for his graphic brio, literary flair and naughty wit. For his part Mr. Miller occupies a special spot in the modern geek pantheon as the author of high-gloss comics and graphic novels like “Batman: The Dark Knight Returns,” “Sin City” and “300.”
Though he was involved in the film adaptations of “300” and “Sin City,” “The Spirit” marks Mr. Miller’s first solo effort as a director, and his bold visual style is not well served by his clumsiness as a cinematic storyteller. The movie seems to be trying to combine a knowing, winking sense of pop-culture history with an embrace of the more soulful aspects of that history, but the result is a talky, pretentious stew of film noir poses and crime-fighter clichés.
Mr. Jackson and Ms. Johansson at least seem to enjoy themselves, which is their prerogative since they are the villains. Gabriel Macht, who plays the fedora-wearing, skirt-chasing, undead hero (a former policeman brought mysteriously back to life as a vigilante), works hard to give off an air of hard-boiled insouciance. Unfortunately whatever natural charisma he may possess is disguised by his hat, his mask and the murky shadows of the mise-en-scène.
What is most striking about “The Spirit” is how little pleasure it affords, in spite of its efforts to by sly, sexy, heartfelt and clever all at once. Or perhaps the movie flounders because its multiple ambitions are fundamentally at odds, like the various femmes, fatale and otherwise, who do battle for the hero’s heart.
The 108 overstuffed, interminable minutes of “The Spirit” yield exactly two memorable moments: when one of Mr. Jackson’s genetically engineered minions (all played by Louis Lombardi) appears as a tiny, hopping foot with a head grafted on to it, supplying an odd, creepy morsel of Surrealism; and when Eva Mendes, playing a character called Sand Saref, sits on a copy machine and presses the button. She produces what may be the only true-to-life image in the movie, as well as the most interesting.
“The Spirit” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Its intense brutality is carefully edited and shaded to emphasize its fantastical nature.
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