Many years ago the public radio station in my hometown ran the radio series of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." The theme song, "Journey of the Sorcerer," performed by a band that I otherwise loathe, to this day nearly brings tears to my eyes.
Hence it is probably impossible for me to give an entirely objective review for this film. This great conception was first hatched in those jokey yet skilfully made broadcasts. Since then it has taken many forms, from a television show to a series of novels, to record albums, to a computer game, to (finally) a film, each time being reshaped and reimagined by its creator, the late and sorely missed Douglas Adams. He really hit on something: a vehicle by which he could not only satirize pettiness, bureaucracy, consumerism, narcissism, and uncounted other foibles of humanity, but also the pomposity of science fiction itself. His sense of humor was at once deeply cynical and deeply warm, and one of the most gratifying and surprising qualities of this film version is the obvious respect it shows for its author.
Adams didn't live to see his creation hit this new medium, and yet the script he wrote seems not to have been, as might be expected, trampled upon by the filmmakers. The opening song is strikingly catchy and funny, the casting is excellent -- Freeman, Def, Deschanel, Nighy, Rickman, and especially Rockwell are ideal -- and the verbal wit, unusually intact, holds up.
And we have the moment, most importantly, when the Earth itself is destroyed -- not in a mammoth explosion but in a nicely understated poof. That unexpected sound instantly lets you know the movie is on the right track. And then, in the starry darkness, that banjo begins to play -- and for anyone who ever laughed out loud at hearing a deep, melancholy metallic voice say, "LIfe. Don't talk to me about life,'" that sound will send a chill down the spine. Adams created that rare work that creates laughter and sparks the imagination simultaneously. He made the universe seem like home.
Hence it is probably impossible for me to give an entirely objective review for this film. This great conception was first hatched in those jokey yet skilfully made broadcasts. Since then it has taken many forms, from a television show to a series of novels, to record albums, to a computer game, to (finally) a film, each time being reshaped and reimagined by its creator, the late and sorely missed Douglas Adams. He really hit on something: a vehicle by which he could not only satirize pettiness, bureaucracy, consumerism, narcissism, and uncounted other foibles of humanity, but also the pomposity of science fiction itself. His sense of humor was at once deeply cynical and deeply warm, and one of the most gratifying and surprising qualities of this film version is the obvious respect it shows for its author.
Adams didn't live to see his creation hit this new medium, and yet the script he wrote seems not to have been, as might be expected, trampled upon by the filmmakers. The opening song is strikingly catchy and funny, the casting is excellent -- Freeman, Def, Deschanel, Nighy, Rickman, and especially Rockwell are ideal -- and the verbal wit, unusually intact, holds up.
And we have the moment, most importantly, when the Earth itself is destroyed -- not in a mammoth explosion but in a nicely understated poof. That unexpected sound instantly lets you know the movie is on the right track. And then, in the starry darkness, that banjo begins to play -- and for anyone who ever laughed out loud at hearing a deep, melancholy metallic voice say, "LIfe. Don't talk to me about life,'" that sound will send a chill down the spine. Adams created that rare work that creates laughter and sparks the imagination simultaneously. He made the universe seem like home.