For some reason I'm experiencing a resurgence in my love for Stephen King, having dedicated most of my late teens and twenties to his books before falling off for several years. Not that there's ever a bad time to get (back) into King, but it feels just a bit random. Then again, so is life, which is probably how we got the most normal film David Cronenberg ever made until he went more or less mainstream with A History of Violence. While there's very little of his penchant for body horror here, it maintains that distinctly Cronenbergian chill of otherworldliness.
As with most feature-length King adaptations it's forced to greatly streamline the plot and characters, which results in a lot of scenes feeling rushed and dialogue that's clearly doing the work. But what Cronenberg, of all people, really captures is the pervasive sadness and tragedy of Johnny Smith's life. It's there each time Christopher Walken monologues about how his so-called "gift" has cost him any chance at happiness - even in hammier moments, one of Walken's best, most restrained performances. It's in every note of Michael Kamen's haunting score, infusing the snowy landscapes with looming dread. It's there in the episodic nature of the plot, one bad turn after another until Johnny's inevitable meeting with a fate even he can't accurately predict.
While dated in some ways (others, sadly, rather prescient), this continues to stand as one of the best big-screen adaptations of King not made by Frank Darabont or Rob Reiner. You'd think with so many stories to adapt, and so many talents trying their hand at it, the batting average would be a lot higher. But I guess the secret to finding that sweet spot is somewhere in...well, you know where.
As with most feature-length King adaptations it's forced to greatly streamline the plot and characters, which results in a lot of scenes feeling rushed and dialogue that's clearly doing the work. But what Cronenberg, of all people, really captures is the pervasive sadness and tragedy of Johnny Smith's life. It's there each time Christopher Walken monologues about how his so-called "gift" has cost him any chance at happiness - even in hammier moments, one of Walken's best, most restrained performances. It's in every note of Michael Kamen's haunting score, infusing the snowy landscapes with looming dread. It's there in the episodic nature of the plot, one bad turn after another until Johnny's inevitable meeting with a fate even he can't accurately predict.
While dated in some ways (others, sadly, rather prescient), this continues to stand as one of the best big-screen adaptations of King not made by Frank Darabont or Rob Reiner. You'd think with so many stories to adapt, and so many talents trying their hand at it, the batting average would be a lot higher. But I guess the secret to finding that sweet spot is somewhere in...well, you know where.