D eath be not proud, death be right stupid. The two films share the same premise. Death, who assumes human form to spend some time among the living, unintentionally falls passionately in love. But this time it takes twice as long to tell, given the bloated script, Brest's self-indulgence and the cast's halting delivery.
Questions go begging, pleas go unanswered, and retorts hang in the air like a bad smell.
It's as if the actors had three hours to fill, but only two hours of script, so everybody had to talk . . . The bladder-impaired will be relieved to learn there's enough time between lines for both a pit stop and a refill at the concession stand. Though the new picture is an improvement over the fusty original, its blithe spirit is not as effective as the 1934 film's ghostly, Gothic tone. Nor is Pitt as Joe Black as well cast as Fredric March, who played Death with Dracula-like flair. Pitt gives the almighty and powerful Lord of the Underworld the trusting, childlike demeanor of Forrest Gump and the blinding beauty of an archangel.