Amazon.com essential video
Roald Dahl's modern classic for children becomes a delightful combination of live action and stop-motion animation by the team that made
The Nightmare Before Christmas: director Henry Selick and producers Tim Burton (
Batman) and Denise Di Novi. The story concerns young James (played for real and through voice-overs by Paul Terry), who is orphaned and left in the charge of two cruel aunts (Miriam Margolyes, Joanna Lumley). Rescued by a mysterious fellow (Pete Postlethwaite), James ends up inside a giant peach, drifting over the Atlantic Ocean in the company of a gentleman grasshopper (voiced by Simon Callow), a fast-talking centipede (Richard Dreyfuss), an anxious earthworm (David Thewlis), a matronly ladybug (Jane Leeves), and a sexy spider (Susan Sarandon). The collection of actors and their creepy-crawly alter egos are a delight, especially when some of the song-and-dance numbers (tunes are written by Randy Newman) get everyone going.
--Tom Keogh
Adapted from Roald Dahl's surreal adventure story, Henry Selick's short, spiky movie is pretty adventurous itself. James (Paul Terry), a young orphan, goes to live with a brace of loathsome aunts (Miriam Margolyes and Joanna Lumley). His chance to flee their Dickensian gloom comes with the appearance of a magic peach in the garden: he crawls inside, where he finds a posse of insect friends, and travels by air and sea to an improbably benign New York. The film opens and closes on live action, with rubbery stop-motion animation in between. The bugs, designed by the children's illustrator Lane Smith, are enlivened by voice-overs from, among others, Richard Dreyfuss and Susan Sarandon. The movie, like the peach, offers a bumpy ride, and the level of invention dips and soars without warning, but Selick's feeling for texture-for the climates of bliss and apprehension-is so sure that you gradually come to relish the oddity of the whole enterprise. As a tribute to the cranky genius of Dahl, it's both fond and, in the best sense, fruitful. -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker