The entire film feels rushed in this way, a succession of sets and encounters that do what they have to do, but skimp on the sorts of texture and context (character development, sense of place) that can bring a fiction, particularly one as fantastical as this, fully to life. There’s something strangely business-like about the whole enterprise, as if any scene that does not have a clear and crucial purpose, that would merely add a bit of further background or an unexpected glimpse of personality, has been cut.
This is particularly awkward given that Pullman doesn’t set his tale in a semi-familiar medieval fantasy world, but rather in one that borrows from varied periods and genres, with its first-class blimps and talking bears, Texan aeronauts and Samoyed kidnappers. Characters, nationalities, professions, species--magical and otherwise--enter and exit the tale with almost no sense of motive, history, or place within the larger universe.
And then, abruptly, it’s over. In this era of cinematic bloat, I generally find a picture that can have me headed for the exit in under two hours worthy of congratulation. But the brevity of The Golden Compass is a frustration rather than a relief. No sooner does one start to feel situated in the world it has conjured than the lights are coming up. (I suspect this feeling will be still more pronounced for viewers unfamiliar with the book.) Unlike many inflated Hollywood offerings, this is supposed to be an epic, the inheritor (however grudging) of the Lord of the Rings mantle. Moreover, at an estimated price tag of $180 million, its per-second financial burn rate may be the highest in cinematic history. The producers may question whether they got their money’s worth--and viewers probably will, too.