Jurassic Park 3D, review, Many movies gain little from a 3-D conversion; indeed, some lose a little of their edge in the process. But 20 years on since its first release, Steven Spielberg’s dinosaur theme-park saga looks as if it was made for 3-D. And if you see it (as I did) in an IMAX cinema, the effect is so immersive as to be overwhelming.
Everything looks better, starting with the heavy rain and the lush foliage on the island off Costa Rica where the prehistoric beasts roam. As for the beasts themselves, they look even more magnificent in 3-D; the special effects industry has come a long way in two decades, yet these creatures still have the capacity to elicit gasps.
But then everything sounds better, too; the film’s sound design has been greatly enhanced in conversion. Originally, the thunderous footfall of the dinosaurs as they stalk their human prey was signalled by visual clues: the wobble of jelly, sudden ripples in a glass of water. But now you physically feel their approach; it’s literally jolting.
Quite apart from all the technological enhancements, Jurassic Park stands in its own right as a sturdy, shrewdly constructed work. Its script, by Michael Crichton (adapting it from his own novel) and David Koepp, is impeccable: it takes almost an hour before the visiting humans are finally exposed to peril from the dinosaurs, yet every scene up to that point carefully makes their jeopardy increasingly inevitable.
Each main character plays a crucial role in the story: Sam Neill, the palaeontologist visiting the park as a means of securing more funding for his research; Laura Dern, his colleague and girlfriend; Jeff Goldblum, the sceptical chaos theorist (and Crichton surrogate) who explains the dangers in creating such a theme park — and Richard Attenborough as vainglorious, faintly crazed John Hammond, determined to see his wildly ambitious project realised whatever the cost.
Then, of course, there are the unforgettable set pieces, an area where Spielberg truly comes into his own: Hammond’s treacherous employee Nedry, dying a horrid death from a small gremlin-like dilophosaurus, which spits venom as it snarls and pounces; the tyrannosaurus attack on the visitors’ stranded jeeps during a rainstorm; and best of all, a masterpiece of visual storytelling, Hammond’s two grandchildren desperately trying to elude velociraptors in the compound kitchen.
It all adds up to a thrill ride worthy of a real-life amusement park. But revisiting Jurassic Park inevitably summons mournful thoughts of the degree to which studio blockbusters have changed in 20 years. Now there would need to be dino attacks within the first 10 minutes; no Hollywood executive today would feel comfortable with a film that let its well-judged story unfold at such a leisurely, confident pace. It’s our loss.
Everything looks better, starting with the heavy rain and the lush foliage on the island off Costa Rica where the prehistoric beasts roam. As for the beasts themselves, they look even more magnificent in 3-D; the special effects industry has come a long way in two decades, yet these creatures still have the capacity to elicit gasps.
But then everything sounds better, too; the film’s sound design has been greatly enhanced in conversion. Originally, the thunderous footfall of the dinosaurs as they stalk their human prey was signalled by visual clues: the wobble of jelly, sudden ripples in a glass of water. But now you physically feel their approach; it’s literally jolting.
Quite apart from all the technological enhancements, Jurassic Park stands in its own right as a sturdy, shrewdly constructed work. Its script, by Michael Crichton (adapting it from his own novel) and David Koepp, is impeccable: it takes almost an hour before the visiting humans are finally exposed to peril from the dinosaurs, yet every scene up to that point carefully makes their jeopardy increasingly inevitable.
Each main character plays a crucial role in the story: Sam Neill, the palaeontologist visiting the park as a means of securing more funding for his research; Laura Dern, his colleague and girlfriend; Jeff Goldblum, the sceptical chaos theorist (and Crichton surrogate) who explains the dangers in creating such a theme park — and Richard Attenborough as vainglorious, faintly crazed John Hammond, determined to see his wildly ambitious project realised whatever the cost.
Then, of course, there are the unforgettable set pieces, an area where Spielberg truly comes into his own: Hammond’s treacherous employee Nedry, dying a horrid death from a small gremlin-like dilophosaurus, which spits venom as it snarls and pounces; the tyrannosaurus attack on the visitors’ stranded jeeps during a rainstorm; and best of all, a masterpiece of visual storytelling, Hammond’s two grandchildren desperately trying to elude velociraptors in the compound kitchen.
It all adds up to a thrill ride worthy of a real-life amusement park. But revisiting Jurassic Park inevitably summons mournful thoughts of the degree to which studio blockbusters have changed in 20 years. Now there would need to be dino attacks within the first 10 minutes; no Hollywood executive today would feel comfortable with a film that let its well-judged story unfold at such a leisurely, confident pace. It’s our loss.
