Battle Royale With Cheese, better known as The Hunger Games, has been one of the better YA-novel-turned-film-adaptations in recent memory. While the competition has hardly been stiff, the Jennifer Lawrence starring vehicles took advantage of the void left behind by Harry Potter while introducing younger audiences to themes of class warfare, oppressive government power, and media manipulation – among others. But once you hit the end of a story, the question arises on if a series should continue or retire itself? The Hunger Games: Ludicrous Subtitle chooses the former, implementing the well-worn franchise tradition of taking us back in time, you know – so the creators don’t have to worry about establishing new canon in the future that could complicate the inevitable and threatened legacyquel down the line.
The issue with prequels continues to be the challenge for the work to offer meaningful universe expansion and compelling character-centric storytelling that doesn’t feel like it’s treading old ground. The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, a title much more literal than you’d imagine, stumbles at adding something substantial to this already dark tale, offering an entry lacking in intrigue, illumation, or fascinating world-building. This early chapter centers on a young Anakin Skywal Coriolanus Snow (Tom Blyth) years before his villainous reign as President of the Capitol. Here, he’s a mere Orphan Boy™, but one who enjoys brushing up with the elites of society.
Snow desires to restore his family name and regain a sense of class in the Capitol. This, of course, sets up an egregious conflict of interest when he is selected as a mentor for the annual Hunger Games. The games are a brutal televised competition where representatives from each impoverished district must fight to the death, the winner obtaining essential goods for their district while the television viewers satisfy their voracious schadenfreude. Snow initially only has money and power in his sights, but he becomes smitten with the lovely Padme Amidala Rachel Zegler Lucy Gray, a district 12 representative whose unique talents may win over record viewership as well as public approval for the Capitol’s sadistic competition.
Francis Lawrence, who helmed all of the franchise’s sequels, returns as director as a means of consistency. He’s been great at establishing a specific visual style that captures the elegant tragedy on display, most successful in the best film of the franchise: Catching Fire (2013). One of the new film’s best strengths is its sense of scale, including striking cinematography from DOP Jo Willems. Lawrence is able to achieve a 3D look with his camera, having his actors occupy vast sets, but the characters stand just as tall as their large surroundings. However, I imagine the most imperative reason for Lawrence’s return is his familiarity with the source material, a steady hand needed to align the canon within a uniform tone.
But the prequel, based on the novel of the same name, doesn’t always play it safe, taking some big swings and recording big misses. The film attempts to be so many things at once that it’s not really that great at any of them. Chief among these misfires is the movie’s aim to be a musical, of all things. This is foreshadowed when Lucy Gray is elected to the Hunger Games, prompting a local hater to remark, “Let’s see your singing get you out of this situation.” You know, because that’s a thing that human beings say. Zegler has immense talent, but she’s saddled with a character constructed with some bizarre ideas.
For starters, Lucy Gray’s southern accent seems like it’s in an entirely different movie. It’s consistent with District 12 canon, but the accent feels out of place in the film as it’s more exaggerated than any other performance in the movie. We get its purpose – to establish Gray as an empathetic, “aw shucks!” overnight star for the Capitol’s content-hungry viewers. But it’s goofy and distracting, not endearing. The same criticisms can be levied at Gray’s multiple solo ballads, used to garner sympathy from the audience, but awkwardly placed in the narrative. Without the film fully committing to the musical genre, it becomes silly watching this character repeatedly beat down only for her to rise up and solve the problem via song. If this was an anime, we’d no doubt see attentive viewers sobbing with streams of tears flying down their face as Lucy belts out another “banger.” It’s as if the movie is going for some weird hybrid between Revenge of the Sith (2005) and Nashville (1975), falling short on both counts but especially the latter.
This brings us back around to Snow, as he vaccilates between his devotion to his superiors, his ambitions, and his newfound romance. But Blyth doesn’t establish the younger Snow as a particularly interesting film character, instead embodying a paint-by-numbers descent into a lack of empathy. The movie’s plot seems to anticipate more character growth for the future villain than the actual acting on the screen, sending Snow through a metamorphosis that Blythe and Lawrence do not successfully capitalize on. Thus, the biggest noticeable change the character goes through is a haircut, but he’s still the same flavor of bland protagonist. For I fail to see a guy at the end of the movie that’s all that different from the start – he just has the mask off now, showing just how self-centered and ruthlessly ambitious he has always been. In its wake, the relationship between Snow and Gray suffers, as the two leads hardly initiate electricity between each other, going together like a potato next to a bowl of mango.
Since this relationship never sends any thrills through its audience, the response to the eventual downfall is lukewarm. So, thank goodness for Viola Davis, as Volumnia Gaul (we’re going to have to do something about these names), clearly not giving a fuck and injecting each bit of dialogue with whatever tone or cadence she damn well pleases. In a film where the characters are mostly drab curmudgeons (even Peter Dinklage is joyless), Davis just walks from the set of another movie, pantomiming ridiculous facial expressions with mischievous and theatrical line deliveries. She’s about two octaves away from the Big Bad Wolf dressed as Red Riding Hood’s Grandma. I wouldn’t say it’s exactly a 3-dimensional character, but it’s at least entertaining. Jason Schwartzman is having a great time as the host of the games, a TV personality that lives for being outrageous and out of pocket. Wouldn’t be surprised if he began pissing on a contestant while mugging to the camera.
But these eccentricities, while amusing, don’t make up for a narrative that feels rutterless. What does The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes have to add to the franchise’s story that couldn’t be summed up in a synopsis? Snow isn’t now a more complex character, at least not in movie form. Donald Sutherland added a callousness to the character that was indicative of the wealthy and heartless rulers that the character is meant to imitate. But the younger Snow isn’t given enough options to make his (at that moment) undecided path a compelling decision. Songbirds and Snakes largely wastes a young cast of youthful energy, not giving them adequate material to question the nature of power, government, control, and autonomy. Even though we know the ending, the heroes still are given almost no hope for survival. Thus, their journey lacks tension and suspense, making every character decision and pitfall a formality rather than a twist of fate. I don’t see myself revisting this adaptation – but maybe the book sings a better tune.
