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But the real plum in this Yuletide pudding is Jim Carrey's fine title role portrayal. Making fully real what before only existed in book and cartoon form, his eventually loveable Grinch is suitable for framing in your child's bedroom, along with the inscription, "My Very First Antihero."
Mr. Carrey's wonderfully green and hairy bogeyman recalls, and sings a winking paean to, the great costumed monsters of Hollywood past. Misunderstood and maligned for his physical differences, the Who who quit Whoville to become a woeful, Christmas-hating recluse in his garbage-strewn mountain refuge is also Junior's first lesson in tolerance.
Liberties are taken, both by Mr. Howard and screenwriter Jeffrey Price, in adapting the cherished source material for contemporary tastes. But considering how fraught with peril an undertaking of this sort is, the artistic balance achieved is commendable.
For example, while the film's FX quotient is estimable, who better than the folks of Whoville to benefit from the gadgetry of modern technology? Dr. Seuss' neo-Rube Goldberg penchant for contrived contraptions and glorious gizmos, matched only in creativity by his ingeniously eccentric word construction, is ready-made for the high-tech treatment. And as it takes some doing to out-do the far-fetched fantasies of everything that goes along with being a Who, the filmmakers stop happily short of overdoing it. The colourful, mood-enhancing special effects usually complement and rarely overpower.
Insofar as the amended tale is concerned, story updates and flourishes don't hamper the original message. Curious about the Grinch, Little Cindy Lou-Who (Taylor Momsen) is part psychologist, part budding Barbara Walters. She interviews people about the beast. Having witnessed a rare good side of the Grinch when he spared her from tragedy quite against his worse instincts, the hopeful cherub has dedicated herself to his redemption.
This miffs the stuffy Mayor of Whoville (Jeffrey Tambor). Back in grammar school he viewed the strange classmate as his natural competition for the affections of Martha May Who-vier (Christine Baranski), the most pulchritudinous of all the Whos. And even with The Grinch's self-imposed exile, His Honour still feels threatened. So much so, in fact, that he has perpetuated the Grinchophobia which has enveloped Whoville ever since. And now, Christmas approaches.
Mr. Carrey is the centrepiece here, even though the winning performance he contributes is not instantly discernible. And that's because of all the magic now at the ready disposal of directors. We are jaded. We forget for a moment that there's a human underneath that outlandish costume and all that makeup. Yet once it sinks in that The Grinch is not a figment of some computer's imagination, the wonders of Carrey's marvellous creation become obvious.
Generally, costume roles are dismissed as easy work for actors. The suit does all the talking. All the player need do is show up for his or her scene. But this really only applies to gambits featuring generic entities with little or no human attributes. Odds are The Thing would have been every bit as frightening if James Arness hadn't played the title role. And with all due deference, the same goes for whoever it was wore the rubber outfit in The Creature From The Black Lagoon.
But can you imagine The Invisible Man as positively chilling without Claude Rains in his first film performance? Not hardly. And what sympathy could we afford a Cowardly Lion (The Wizard of Oz) not played by Bert Lahr? Not much.
And so it is with Mr. Carrey's portrayal. A Grinch depicted by anyone else would not be as petulant, perturbed, puckish or perversely problematic. Nor could he exhibit such a great balance between his cynical dark side and the true Who-manitarian that we optimistic viewers hope against hope will emerge as the spirit of Christmas touches him. The only one cuter is his dog Max, a terrific pooch that puts in the film's best supporting performance. He's The Grinch's long-suffering servant and moral conscience. Other secondary players, who all seem like distant cousins of the Emerald City's Munchkins, busily populate the scenario and whimsically foster the fantasy of societal bliss.
Unfortunately, director Howard flubs an important element in his quest to have true holiday classic status conferred on How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Namely, the narration. Granted, Anthony Hopkins can enunciate with the best of 'em. But he needs more to say.
Without a script fully committed to offering Dr. Seuss' actual words alongside their filmic interpretation, Sir Tony's aristocratic tones are wasted. He is relegated to voice-over duty. More creative editing, wherein the whirligig visuals are interspersed with literal passages from the book, would have been a bold stroke. But then again, Mr. Howard's quick-splice stance is understandable. When dealing with an entire country suffering from attention deficit disorder, anything diverging from lickety-split exposition poses a risk. Yet even with its compromises, it's a sure thing that How The Grinch Stole Christmas won't give you that short-changed feeling this holiday season.
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