Phizz-whizzing gobblefunk

Spielberg returns to childhood whimsy with ‘The BFG’

After the historical drama trifecta of “War Horse,” “Lincoln,” and “Bridge of Spies,” it’s nice to have the whimsical version of Steven Spielberg back again. Even better, it’s great to have Roald Dahl’s “The BFG,” a staple of my literary youth, adapted by such a master filmmaker.

Dahl has enjoyed a slew of whoopsy-splunkers (that’s Dahl-speak for “fantastic”) films adapted from his work: “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory,” “James and the Giant Peach,” “Matilda,” and “The Fantastic Mr. Fox,” among others. “Wonka” is a cornerstone. Gene Wilder was gloriumptious (amazing), and the film unleashed Oompa Loopmas on the world. “Matilda” is a dark comedy that works as much for its story as it does Danny DeVito’s black-hearted direction. “James” and “Mr. Fox” are stop-motion works of art from two phizz-whizzing (brilliant) directors (Henry Selick and Wes Anderson) which, while slyly conscious of the underlying themes of collectivism that riddle Dahl’s work, relish in the beauty of their handcrafted, hyper-detailed, dioramic worlds. I’ve loved them all, and “The BFG” fits right in.

Sophie (Ruby Barnhill) is an orphaned moppet in Thatcher-era London who, quite sensibly, hates her life at the orphanage. She spies a 24 foot-tall, cloaked giant (Mark Rylance), lurking outside the window, who snitches (steals) Ruby and, as stealthily as a giant can—which, it turns out, is pretty damn stealthy—bears her back to his home in Giant Country.

Instead of eating her, or any other God-fearing children, he subsists on disgusting snozzcumber stew. He’s a gentle, malaprop-spewing vegan giant who only felt compelled to snitch Sophie because his kind cannot be discovered; and so he can get back to the job of catching and releasing dreams. Sophie, in a stunningly quick case of Stockholm Syndrome, dubs him the Big Friendly Giant.

But, as the name “Giant Country” suggests, there are other frightsome (not cool) giants twice the BFG’s size who treat him like the pencil-necked geek in a varsity locker room—and who have no compunctions about scarfing Sophie like a plucky, Victorian-style chicken wing. The BFG, taken with Sophie for reasons she doesn’t yet understand, does his best to protect her from his brethren—particularly Fleshlumpeater (Jemaine Clement), the canniest and most brutal of the bunch.    

Spielberg’s whimsy propels “The BFG.” He commands his forces like a Zen General—squibbling (writing), performance, and cutting-edge technology—to create a diaphanous, magical world that defies its 3D, pixel-driven artifice to become an evocative, waking dream of childhood. “The BFG” is absolutely gorgeous. 

And it’s funny—something for which the ‘Berg isn’t known. Frobscottle-induced (a fizzy drink) whizzpoppers (farts) foreshadow a classy parlor comedy set-piece that gamely exploits the well-known British penchant for scatology. Well-timed farts and burps are hilarious—a fact Dahl never forgot and one Spielberg capitalizes on better than George Lucas.

The script by the late Melissa Mathison (to whom the film is dedicated) is sublime, and Spielberg’s usual suspects—Janusz Kaminski with some atypically warm cinematography and John Williams with a typically moving score—fall into motion like a well-oiled machine.

But the film also belongs to Rylance, Barnhill, and their fairy-tale friendship. Rylance’s motion-captured performance is warm and funny. His character’s animation, while stylized, quickly becomes an afterthought. Barnhill strikes a fine balance between cute and precious, never becoming cloying or unlikeable.

“The BFG” is a scrumdiddlyumptious treat that feels, on first sight, like an instant classic.

For more from Joe, read his review of "The Neon Demon."