Revisiting Matilda after a long time, I pondered its stake as the quintessential Roald Dahl adaptation. Which of his stories transformed for the big screen have aged the best? Is it the films which lean into his darkly comic vision of life, like the bewitched stop-motion creatures of James and the Giant Peach? Or is it the relatively lighter whimsy of Fantastic Mr Fox, rendered through Wes Anderson's trademark form of dollhouse twee? Could it possibly be the cult classic Willy Wonka, which gained considerable esteem in the wake of its garish remake? The late author disliked the original interpretation, disappointed that Wilder's magnetism stole focus from the child's worldview, the inherent kindness and goodwill of Charlie. The tale of Matilda is a typical prototype for Dahl's children's fiction, with the eponymous protagonist a magical force for good, banishing the greedy adult for their evil deeds.
So if the original novel had simple, clear cut guidelines on how people must behave in order to reach their happily ever after, the 1996 film adaptation is its counterpart, relatively conventional Hollywood fare in comparison to those other twisted Dahlian tales. In spite of it being DeVito's fifth directorial effort, it has the broader appeal of a blockbuster, not an auteur's showing. Case in point: DeVito chooses to play the narrator himself, seemingly to draw on the audience's familiarity with his work, but his narration lacks the omniscient, all-knowing power of Dahl's prose, which was whimsy and playful, with a dash of didacticism and just the right streak of mean when villainy stepped out of line. DeVito's one of these misguided villains himself, as the full-time car salesman and part-time father who continually improvises shortcuts to success as he neglects his daughter's ingenuity. He can't pull it off while simultaneously hovering above the story as its wise overseer.
Matilda is at its zany best when she is forced to contend with the carnival freak show that is the Wormwood household. Rhea Perlman is the ditzy housewife who inhales a daily coating of cosmetics, looking as if she was an extra stepping off the set of Terry Gilliam's Brazil. She must be the home's decorator because its interiors are likewise tacky. The production design team must have cobbled together six different sets from six different architectural periods when constructing the house; you could pause at any moment and see a whole off-brand colour wheel represented in wide shot. It's all clutter and chaos and ugly wallpaper, an unnatural look that seems almost too pristine, as if the whole effect could be replicated in an art exhibit (it's altogether much more unnerving than the polar extreme, the hyper irony of a Edward Scissorhands or god forbid, The Cat in the Hat). There's a moment where Harry clutches Matilda's head and forces her towards the TV, where a reality show has a sticky man catch dollar bills with his body, and we slowly zoom into the cackling Wormwoods while her own face is contorted in fear and disgust, and you'd swear that DeVito was riffing off A Clockwork Orange. That's where he's having the most fun, where you feel he really embraces the formal advantages of a medium to capture the dread of suburban greed in a way that Quentin Blake's scrawlings simply cannot (not a knock on the art at all). Between that and shooting Pam Ferris, the standout terror as Trunchbull, almost always at a wide and low angle to distort her warty mug and make her loom over the audience, Matilda's certainly got a lot to run away from.
Yet boldness, whether it stems from stupidity or genius, runs in the Wormwood family. If there's one major slight in the story and its mostly faithful adaptation, it is that it all seems to come too easy for Matilda. You'd never accuse adorable little Mara Wilson for being smug, but the way the story is painted, in broad, easy strokes, she practically skips hand in hand with Miss Honey to the happy ending. That's where Tim Minchin's musical adaptation comes in. In many ways Minchin is a natural successor to the Dahlian method of storytelling; with his penchant for mischievousness, an ear for wordplay, and a knack for smuggling sentiment and life lessons between his notes and rhymes. The musical format allows the whole cast their own brief spotlight; the Wormwoods get an exuberant solo each, Trunchbull lays down the law, and Miss Honey finally gets her due, instead of having Matilda spell out her trauma while she stands on the sidelines. She's given a wistful, bittersweet ballad in 'My House', and in the show's cornerstone, 'When I Grow Up', which examines the paradoxical condition of being an adult, she wrestles with her conscience pleading with her to confront her childhood demons and rescue Matilda. You only have to listen to Minchin's commencement speech upon receiving his honourary degree from UWA to recognise the respect he holds for teachers like Jenny Honey. She gives Matilda the recognition and push that every little girl needs once in a while, and Matilda answers with her own brand of mischief. 'Naughty' might best encapsulate how Roald Dahl saw the world; sometimes, you have to deal the villains a dose of their own medicine. In a way, Jenny and Matilda save each other, and that is where the real magic of the story lies.
So if the original novel had simple, clear cut guidelines on how people must behave in order to reach their happily ever after, the 1996 film adaptation is its counterpart, relatively conventional Hollywood fare in comparison to those other twisted Dahlian tales. In spite of it being DeVito's fifth directorial effort, it has the broader appeal of a blockbuster, not an auteur's showing. Case in point: DeVito chooses to play the narrator himself, seemingly to draw on the audience's familiarity with his work, but his narration lacks the omniscient, all-knowing power of Dahl's prose, which was whimsy and playful, with a dash of didacticism and just the right streak of mean when villainy stepped out of line. DeVito's one of these misguided villains himself, as the full-time car salesman and part-time father who continually improvises shortcuts to success as he neglects his daughter's ingenuity. He can't pull it off while simultaneously hovering above the story as its wise overseer.
Matilda is at its zany best when she is forced to contend with the carnival freak show that is the Wormwood household. Rhea Perlman is the ditzy housewife who inhales a daily coating of cosmetics, looking as if she was an extra stepping off the set of Terry Gilliam's Brazil. She must be the home's decorator because its interiors are likewise tacky. The production design team must have cobbled together six different sets from six different architectural periods when constructing the house; you could pause at any moment and see a whole off-brand colour wheel represented in wide shot. It's all clutter and chaos and ugly wallpaper, an unnatural look that seems almost too pristine, as if the whole effect could be replicated in an art exhibit (it's altogether much more unnerving than the polar extreme, the hyper irony of a Edward Scissorhands or god forbid, The Cat in the Hat). There's a moment where Harry clutches Matilda's head and forces her towards the TV, where a reality show has a sticky man catch dollar bills with his body, and we slowly zoom into the cackling Wormwoods while her own face is contorted in fear and disgust, and you'd swear that DeVito was riffing off A Clockwork Orange. That's where he's having the most fun, where you feel he really embraces the formal advantages of a medium to capture the dread of suburban greed in a way that Quentin Blake's scrawlings simply cannot (not a knock on the art at all). Between that and shooting Pam Ferris, the standout terror as Trunchbull, almost always at a wide and low angle to distort her warty mug and make her loom over the audience, Matilda's certainly got a lot to run away from.
Yet boldness, whether it stems from stupidity or genius, runs in the Wormwood family. If there's one major slight in the story and its mostly faithful adaptation, it is that it all seems to come too easy for Matilda. You'd never accuse adorable little Mara Wilson for being smug, but the way the story is painted, in broad, easy strokes, she practically skips hand in hand with Miss Honey to the happy ending. That's where Tim Minchin's musical adaptation comes in. In many ways Minchin is a natural successor to the Dahlian method of storytelling; with his penchant for mischievousness, an ear for wordplay, and a knack for smuggling sentiment and life lessons between his notes and rhymes. The musical format allows the whole cast their own brief spotlight; the Wormwoods get an exuberant solo each, Trunchbull lays down the law, and Miss Honey finally gets her due, instead of having Matilda spell out her trauma while she stands on the sidelines. She's given a wistful, bittersweet ballad in 'My House', and in the show's cornerstone, 'When I Grow Up', which examines the paradoxical condition of being an adult, she wrestles with her conscience pleading with her to confront her childhood demons and rescue Matilda. You only have to listen to Minchin's commencement speech upon receiving his honourary degree from UWA to recognise the respect he holds for teachers like Jenny Honey. She gives Matilda the recognition and push that every little girl needs once in a while, and Matilda answers with her own brand of mischief. 'Naughty' might best encapsulate how Roald Dahl saw the world; sometimes, you have to deal the villains a dose of their own medicine. In a way, Jenny and Matilda save each other, and that is where the real magic of the story lies.