Remember when, some years ago, it was predicted that Hollywood would soon have the technological ability to raise the dead and film them anew -- Marilyn Monroe in a movie with Humphrey Bogart, with supporting parts for James Dean and the young Charlton Heston, that sort of thing. Can't say that kind of necrophilia ever appealed although it must have seemed thrilling to some. But who would have expected that the first obvious use of this technology would be so morose, so ghostly? Let me say first that, by and large, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a disappointment, especially to David Fincher fans -- the episodic memory structure never lets the story breathe or stretch, and it seems genuinely emotionally affecting only three times within its unearned close-to-three-hours: the opening anecdote about the clockmaker who loses a son in the war and takes a kind of metaphysical revenge, the weirdly poignant vision of an elderly woman nursing her senile dying partner as a newborn baby and a quick shot, on a television, of Tilda Swinton as an old woman. Age and death is the big theme, of course, but these three points make the rest of the endless dirge redundant.
Of course, the voice-over stabs at profundity are pure middle-brow Oscar bait (and with 13 nominations, I guess it worked). All those deep, deep thoughts like, "You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it." As if that American Express commercial-like image, above, of Brad Pitt playing chess on the banks of the Ganges didn't already clue you in. But I think there is some profundity further back in the film, and it's why it may win big at Oscar-time. If you take it as a loose rewrite of Forrest Gump (same writer: Eric Roth) around F Scott Fitzgerald's original idea, then what you're surprised by is the race issue. Or lack of an issue. Which makes it the ideal film for the Obama age. If black and white no longer makes a difference, here's that view projected backwards nearly a century: in this alternative fantasy Louisiana, race never mattered at all and the civil rights movement never even had to get started (this film's 1964 means the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, not Martin Luther King).
But that other, weirder thing: the ghostly Brad. As the star ages backwards, into his twenties, we see the young and slim, pretty and perfect-skinned Brad Pitt of Thelma and Louise; he comes out of shadows to surprise Cate Blanchett's Daisy and to surprise us, too. We're expected to gasp as we see once again this person we long thought dead -- his younger self -- stand before us. The twist is that technology was supposed to resurrect dead stars not live ones.