Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest

My literary blog appears to have been taken over by movies for the past few days. I hope no one minds, we'll get back to books soon, I promise. I actually have a backlog still to review before I read anything new.

Anyway, I went to see Disney's new Pirates of the Carribean movie, and I have to say that it was very enjoyable. It wasn't profound, mind you . . . in fact, it swung violently between melodrama and slapstick to the point where I developed this vision of Charlie Chaplin twirling his mustache evilly as he drops a pie onto the face of the heroine he's just tied to the railroad tracks.

Needless to say, that's a little . . . weird, a term that more than adequately describes this movie. You have your dastardly plot. You have poor honor-bound Orlando Bloom (I can't remember his character's name, but is it important? It's Orlando Bloom! Just call him Legolas) searching the seven seas to redeem his imprisoned love. You have the female lead (what's her name?) proving to be much more practical and effective than her absent lover (Orlando Bloom, just in case you forgot, anyway it bears repeating), except on the one occasion when she tries to use her "feminine wiles". You have the wise-cracking sidekicks (although it's not readily apparent whose side they are on), and you have the Giant Squid/Octopus Thingy with Incredibly Bad Breath.

And you have Johnny Depp, as the perpetually less than masculine Captain Jack Sparrow in a (possibly) final showdown with . . . The Terminator.

No, no, wait, that would be David Jones of the David Jones' Locker fame, although having Ahnold show up in this movie would probably not have been completely beyond the pale. It was a fun way to start off a weekend.