Bohemian Cinema By Jonathan Pacheco

“Harry Potter” and the Perfect Film

Tags: Harry Potter, Alfonso Cuaron, Guillermo del Toro, Mike Newell, Roger Ebert, Growth

As only fanatics can do, my brother, sister-in-law, and fiancé periodically debate our personal rankings of the Harry Potter films. Despite having spoken our minds on numerous occasions, the argument continually resurrects like Fawkes the phoenix, fervent with new life each time.

In these debates, I’ve taken particular joy in tearing down the near-universal favorite, Alfonso Cuarón’s Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, much to everyone’s aggravation and confusion. After all, Cuarón put a new spin on the franchise, using the opportunity to develop characters and push the film artistically. It’s very difficult to find any true flaws in the film. In that sense, Prisoner of Azkaban is really just about perfect, which is why so many people love and defend it; it’s also why I don’t.

What makes a “perfect” movie? Is it a film that does nothing wrong or is it a film that does everything right? Or is it neither? When it comes to art, the term “perfect” can be as subjective as “good” or “bad,” so definitions inevitably vary. Back in 2007, Roger Ebert labeled No Country for Old Men “a perfect film,” going on to share his own explanation of the term:

A perfect film is serious or funny or anything in between, but in its way it owns wisdom about life, and we learn something from it. Our attention is fully engaged by it. If we are movie critics, our notebooks rest forgotten in our hands. It is cast so well that the roles fit the actors like a second skin. It has dialogue that functions to accomplish what is needed, and nothing more; it can be poetry, prose, argument or bull---t, but we believe the characters would say it. There is not an extra or a wrong shot. The compositions make everything clear but not obvious, and they work on an emotional level even if we’re not aware of it. And when it’s over we know we’ve seen one hell of a film.

While that definition sounds pretty darn good, it also sounds pretty darn safe. Why not take the risk with more-than-functional dialogue? Why not take the risk with that extra, “wrong” shot? Those risks can lead to moments of absolute magic. My point: the “perfect” film isn’t always the best film. A flawed but audacious film often provides a more engaging, enriching experience than a perfect one because of its willingness to take more chances. If that means it occasionally falters in its ambitions, I’m fine with that.

Prisoner of Azkaban is almost suspiciously perfect. So faultless, you must recognize that Cuarón knew exactly what he was doing—not just as a competent filmmaker, but as someone playing to and manipulating his audience. The third film arrived at a time when Harry Potter fans hungered for something much darker than the Home Alone sensibility Chris Columbus brought to the film series. Cuarón knew this and he catered to it. Prisoner of Azkaban isn’t an exceptionally grim book—certainly not nearly as grave as Goblet of Fire—but Cuarón implements his trademark “cold,” detached visual style and, with the help of a great art direction team, produces a film brimming with moody darkness. He lets the kids cut loose a little, untucking their shirts and getting them out of those suffocating school robes. Cuarón even adds a slight Y tu mamá también vibe to the sexual tension between the core characters. The man’s film plays to the audience’s every wish for the franchise: things get darker, cooler, and more mature. But I could feel Cuarón’s hands pulling each string so meticulously, hovering over every choice to the point that I wouldn’t be surprised if the director personally arranged every hair on Harry’s head.

I don’t deny that Cuarón possesses talent worthy of distinction as a filmmaker, but do his objective style and calculated methodology really fit the Harry Potter franchise? Guillermo del Toro turned down the chance to direct Prisoner of Azkaban, recommending his buddy Cuarón instead. He went on to direct, among other things, the Hellboy films, fantasies that exhibit the director’s wild, unruly imagination—a perfect fit for the rowdy, sanguine wizarding world J.K. Rowling originally envisioned. More importantly, the brilliant Hellboy II displays del Toro’s willingness to take bold risks that accelerate his growth as a filmmaker, even if some of those swings miss.

I see no growth from Cuarón in Prisoner of Azkaban. He knowingly pushes all the right buttons at precisely the right times, implementing every artistic and cinematic stroke with ease. The director systematically adds some flare to the film by inserting silent film-style iris effects, blacking out the visuals with a fuzzy, shrinking circular mask to represent Harry’s Dementor-induced fainting spells. The first films in the series were void of such stylistic flashes, so the recurring effect impresses. Nevertheless, it adds little substance to the film and feels more like a cheap and easy gimmick than a true extension of the director.

Similarly, Cuarón employs long, gliding, CG-assisted camera movements that certainly look slick, but fail to challenge the director the way his next film does. Children of Men features seemingly impossible and sometimes groundbreaking shots, such as the one chronicling a roadside ambush of a moving vehicle. The complicated shot, lasting over four minutes, requires Cuarón to push himself and his crew to cleverness and technological innovation, culminating in a mesmerizing, satisfying experience. I’d rather see these projects that require the filmmaker to push, to stretch himself, and possibly bite off more than he can chew. In the case of Prisoner of Azkaban, Cuarón sticks to what he knows he can control, carefully measuring each ingredient for a dish he’s confident in preparing.

My brother bases most of his heavy dislike for Mike Newell’s Goblet of Fire on the rather frenetic pace the film occasionally slips into; funny, that’s one of the reasons I love the film. Newell’s vision for the fourth film as a mystery thriller in the North by Northwest mold shows creativity, and the director (along with the writer) includes bold strokes that demonstrate vision as well as a willingness to take risks. A wonder of fanfare and magic, the Quidditch World Cup embodies everything beautiful about European sports, yet the tough decision had to be made to remove that actual match from the film. The final Triwizard Tournament task, as written in the novel, bursts with boggarts, skrewts, a sphinx, and many more magical creatures, yet Newell tones it down for the film, making the task less about the outer obstacles and more about obstacles of the mind: greed and pride. With so many ambitious sequences, sure, the film occasionally slips from the Newell’s grasp, but that shouldn’t be taken as a knock against the director, as he’s proven to be a capable filmmaker. That frenetic pace in Goblet of Fire indicates that the man would rather push himself to grow as a filmmaker than play things safely.

To me, the debate over these films ultimately boils down to what one values more, growth or “perfection.” Roger Ebert prefers the comfort of flawlessness; I respect the films that take risks, satisfying with their audacious moxie. You’ll see films like No Country for Old Men and Juno topping Ebert’s favorites of the year, but I prefer the lawlessness of Newell, del Toro, and even Cuarón in Children of Men.