Writer of things that go bump in the night

Tag: Johnny Depp

It’s Alive! Return of the Universal Classic Monsters

Ah, the “shared cinematic universe”—the favored narrative model–cum–marketing campaign of the new millennium!  Pioneered by Marvel, it wasn’t long before every studio in town wanted a “mega-franchise” of its own, feverishly ransacking its IP archives for reliable brands to exploit anew.  By resurrecting the Universal Classic Monsters, Universal Studios saw an opportunity to create its own interconnected multimedia initiative… and the so-called “Dark Universe” was born.

Well, not born, exactly—more like announced.  When the first offering, Dracula Untold, took a critical beating and underperformed domestically, Universal promptly issued a retraction:  “Just kidding!  That wasn’t really the first Dark Universe movie!”  An all-star cast was hastily assembled:  Russell Crowe as Jekyll and Hyde!  Javier Bardem as Frankenstein’s monster!  Johnny Depp as the Invisible Man!  Angelina Jolie as the Bride of Frankenstein!  And first up would be Tom Cruise in The Mummy

Um… isn’t this precisely the kind of arrogant presumption most of the Universal Classic Monsters came to regret?

Except—whoops!The Mummy bombed, too… at which point the sun rather quietly went down on the Dark Universe project altogether.  Seems launching a shared fictional universe is considerably harder than Marvel made it look.  Imagine that.

The thing is, we already had a revival—arguably a cinematic renaissance—of the Universal Classic Monsters in the 1990s.  Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, the Invisible Man, the Wolf Man, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde were given gloriously Gothic reprisals in an (unrelated) series of studio features that starred some of the biggest names in Hollywood.  None of those projects were cooked up in a corporate think tank, but were instead the idiosyncratic visions of a diverse group of directors—the artists behind no less than The Godfather, The Graduate, The Crying Game, Dangerous Liaisons, and Basic Instinct, to name a few—employing horror’s most recognizable freaks to (for the most part) explore the anxiety of confronting the end of not merely a century, but a millennium.

If the respective creative efforts of these filmmakers were uncoordinated, their common agenda was entirely logical.  Many of their fiendish subjects, after all, first arrived on the cultural scene at the end of the previous century:  Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was published in 1886; both Dracula and The Invisible Man in 1897.  Furthermore, their stories tended to speak to either the hazards of zealous scientific ambition (Frankenstein, The Invisible Man, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde), or, in the case of Dracula and The Mummy, the limitations of it—of humankind’s attempts to tame the natural world through technology:  “And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere ‘modernity’ cannot kill” (from Jonathan Harker’s journal, dated 15 May).

Even the Wolf Man serves as a metaphor for the primal instincts we’ve suppressed under our civilized veneer; far from having learned to let our two halves coexist in harmony, they are instead at war within the modern man and woman.  These are existential issues that seem to weigh more heavily on us at the eve of a new epoch, which is arguably why the monstrous creations we use to examine them flourished in the literature of the 1890s and then again, a century later, through the cinema of the 1990s.  It goes to illustrate that sometimes fictional characters simply speak to their times in a very profound way that can’t be engineered or anticipated.  It’s just alchemical, much as Hollywood would prefer it to be mathematical.

With that in mind, let’s have a look at the unofficial “Universal Classic Monsters reprisal” of the nineties (and I’ve included a few other likeminded films from the movement) to better appreciate what worked and what sometimes didn’t.

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Through the Looking Glass: How Johnny Depp’s Reclusive Tendencies Are a Funhouse Reflection of Our Own

From his days on Jump Street when I was in junior high, to his offbeat movie roles during my time as a “serious” film student in college, to our shared penchant for supernatural cinema, Johnny Depp has steadfastly remained the most exciting actor of his generation.  But his apparent withdrawal from reality in recent years is the role I’d most come to identify with after my screenwriting career catastrophically imploded.  Alas, Mr. Depp—this is where I leave you.


Rolling Stone recently ran a feature profile on actor Johnny Depp, detailing his extensive financial hardships (a reported $650 million fortune vaporized by his compulsive-spending disorder), legal entanglements (home foreclosures and a contentious lawsuit with his former business managers), personal controversies (allegations of spousal abuse and a growing dependency on drugs and alcohol), and “reports he couldn’t remember his lines and had to have them fed to him through an earpiece” (Stephen Rodrick, “The Trouble with Johnny,” Rolling Stone 1317 [July 2018]:  83).

Thorough as Rodrick’s reporting is, though, the documented facts of the respective scandals are less compelling—less tragic, even—than the wider arc of the narrative he presents, illustrating just how far Depp has come from the “days when he was a male ingénue and not a punchline:  bankrupt, isolated and one more mistake away from being blackballed from his industry” (ibid., 134).

Isolated is precisely the right word; one can’t read the Rolling Stone piece and not be impressed by the extent to which Johnny Depp is alone in the crumbling edifice of his ivory tower:

I want to go home, but feel reluctant to leave.  One of the most famous actors in the world is now smoking dope with a writer and his lawyer while his cook makes dinner and his bodyguards watch television.  There is no one around him who isn’t getting paid.

ibid., 135

Yeah.  But who gives a shit, though—am I right?  Whether you’re of the mind that it’s hard to feel bad for spoiled Hollywood stars devoid of limits or impulse control, or whether, like me, you don’t have a crap to spare for the vacuous affairs of celebrity culture (I’ve been checked out at least as long as “Brangelina” was a thing), the trials of Johnny Depp should logically provoke either schadenfreude or apathy, but certainly not sympathetic interest.

If only this were a movie still…

And yet I don’t merely sympathize with his current state of reclusion—in fact I empathize with it.  Perhaps that’s because the different seasons of Depp’s career—the spring, summer, and arguably now the fall—have run parallel to my own life.  During my time as a film-school student in the nineties, he was one of the most exciting actors to follow because of his uniquely unconventional tastes in directors and material.  After I moved to Hollywood and learned to loathe the blockbuster, he headlined the last big movie franchise I actually genuinely enjoy.  But my awareness of him, and his singular talents, predates all of that.  He’s one of the only major artists whose career I’ve followed since its inception.

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