The Hunger Games

Yesterday afternoon I went to see “The Hunger Games.” I had enjoyed the novels tremendously, and just about every review of the movie version has been positive, so I had high hopes.

The theater was populated by two dozen humans and three glowing smartphones. (Why do they hold the phones UP while using them? You’d think they would be discrete enough to put them in their laps. Snort, grumble, gnash. I am becoming Andy Rooney.) Shortly after the film started I moved to one of the front rows so that I wouldn’t be irritated by the texting activities. I got a sore neck, but was able to immerse myself in the Games without further distractions.

Rock-face Peeta

First, let me say that I did not get up and walk down the hall to watch “John Carter of Mars,” which was my fallback strategy if THG didn’t work out. “The Hunger Games” is eminently watchable. Jennifer Lawrence did a fabulous job—almost (but not quite) as good as she did in “Winter’s Bone.” The film’s pacing is breathtaking (like the book), and the movie is, technically, nearly flawless. As a movieization of a novel, it succeeds admirably.

But as a movie? Well, it reminded me of the first two Harry Potter movies. It reminded me of the first Twilight movie. It felt soulless, like a very well done paint-by-numbers version of the Mona Lisa. I left the theater feeling sated, but mildly dissatisfied.

I’m wondering how well it worked for people who never read the book.

Note: I am not always disappointed by movie adaptations of books that I have read. A couple of months ago I saw the U.S. movie version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and I loved it. I also liked “No Country for Old Men,” and the third Harry Potter movie.