If you took the Lord of the Rings trilogy, peppered it with liberal helpings of Narnia, Harry Potter and any number of other big fantasy epics, then turned the whole concoction upside down and shook it until every last spark of creativity came tumbling out, the result might look more than a little bit like "Eragon." In an age when the grandeur of fantasy films is limited only by the imaginations of their creators, here is a movie made without the scarcest hint of inspiration or originality. "Eragon" feels so derivative that to note that is also atrociously bad seems almost beside the point. It's worse than bad -- it's bland.
The movie opens on that crucial ingredient of the generic fantasy saga: the evil tyrant, obsessed with vague-yet-sinister plans of conquest and destruction. In this case, the tyrant is King Galbatorix (John Malkovich), a nasty-looking fellow who spends the entire movie striding around a set that resembles Hugh Hefner's bachelor pad with more brimstone. Malkovich is no stranger to the role of the hammy villain, and here he manages to build up an impressive aura of dread that is promptly spoiled by his first line of dialogue: "I suffer without my stone. Do not prolong my suffering!"
The stone over which the good king suffers has fallen into the hands of generic fantasy ingredient number two: the corn-fed farm boy with a flicker of nascent heroism. The farm boy, Eragon (Ed Speleers), finds the stone while hunting a stag -- he shoots the animal with an arrow and it disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving behind what appears to be an enormous blue jellybean. These things happen, I suppose.
Eragon takes the stone back to his farmhouse, where it promptly hatches into a cuddly little dragon cub. There are those who would be at least a little unnerved by such an occurrence, but Eragon takes it in stride -- as the dragon bursts out of its shell, he remarks matter-of-factly, "Not a stone. An egg!" Seeing this strange blue creature leap around the room, Eragon does what anyone would do under the circumstances; he offers it a flagon of milk, then promptly returns to his chores.
After that, the story practically writes itself. Needless to say, the tiny dragon wastes little time morphing into a much bigger dragon, and it and the farm boy set off on an adventure to challenge the evil tyrant, win the heart of the girl and discover their destiny, or whatever. They are aided in their nebulous quest by a grizzled old warrior named Brom, played by Jeremy Irons with what can only be described as a protean willingness to ignore the silliness of the material. Irons breathes what little life he can into the movie, but he is doomed by an impenetrable screenplay -- the dialogue oscillates between meaninglessly generic declarations ("You must face your destiny!") and incomprehensible fantasy jargon ("Watch out for Urgals -- or worse, Ra'zac!").
Such eloquent gems strike a similar chord to what I remember of the film's source material, a pulp novel written by a 15-year-old Tolkien junkie named Christopher Paolini. Paolini, who was 19 when "Eragon" was published, wrote with such slavish appreciation for the tropes of classical literary fantasy that his novel quickly became a stylistic mess -- despite several sincere attempts, I have never made it past page 50.
The comparison between the novel and the film it has now spawned is instructive, as both share the same fatal flaw: They offer up the standard mechanics of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis and all the rest, but in doing so they forget that without an underlying narrative such trappings are in grave danger of appearing ridiculous. "Eragon" pumps out the standard parade of mighty dragons, black-clad foot-soldiers, wizards, warriors, elf babes and other live set pieces; what's missing this time around are actual characters, believable human beings that anchor us amidst all the thunder and lightning. The result is noisy and colorful, but can hardly be called a film.
That the movie is an imitative amalgam of fantasy cliche might perhaps be forgivable if it plagiarized with any degree of skill. But in addition to its dazzling lack of originality, "Eragon" happens to be exceptionally poorly made. The film marks the directorial debut of Stefen Fangmeier, a special effects whiz who gave us the tornado in "Twister," the aliens in "Signs" and the perfect storm in "The Perfect Storm." You would think that someone so well-versed in the creation of spectacle would be a natural at a film like this, but as a director Fangmeier lacks any sense of visual scale -- the big final battle scene, for example, appears to encompass about 30 people. There's never a moment that sweeps us off our feet, nothing captivating enough to make us forget that, when all is said and done, we are watching a guy in a tunic acting alongside a computer-generated dragon.
I use the term "acting" loosely. Speleers, an intrepid young Englishman, is a graduate of the constipation school of drama -- the method being that if you squeeze your face tightly enough, the emotion will presumably ooze out of your pores through sheer force of will. It's not a technique that plays particularly well on the screen, which is unfortunate given that Speleers occupies just about every frame of it.
"Eragon" appears to have been crafted by people who suffer from either a pitiable lack of imagination or more likely, an economically motivated taste for homogeny. With its family-friendly PG rating and comfortably formulaic construction, the film is accessible to everyone, but is unlikely to be truly enjoyed by anyone. Spare yourself the two hours and rent "Lord of the Rings" instead.
