Strangely enough, I recently watched Jan de Bont's remake of The Haunting a second time. For those unfamiliar with the film, it is extremely frightening, provided that the viewer has a catastrophic phobia of computer pixels. Liam Neeson plays the role of a man being paid an actor's salary to stand around looking mildly annoyed. Even today, scientists are unable to explain how a movie could feature Catherine Zeta-Jones as an aggressive lesbian in a leather skirt yet not be sexy in any way.
Anyhow. The first time I saw this film, I made the mistake of paying attention to the actors, which is impossible, because everyone in the movie maintains a perfect Keanu Reeves-like state of screen absence at all times, until eventually the viewer's eye is physically unable to perceive them at all. At no point whatsoever does the movie divert from the goal of its single overarching theme: a loosely connected series of emotionally inert tableaux in which actors are positioned in relationship to bits of reflective tape on a green screen. Do not attempt to discern any plot or characters while watching this film, for there are none, and you may hurt yourself trying. Pay no attention when the actor-shaped human objects make noise with their flapping face parts: there is no dialogue, merely an attempt to distract you. Don't fall for it!
No, the interesting thing about The Haunting is the production design, which has been realized according to the set of aesthetic principles that I like to call "Super Goofy." This is one of those movies where the designers were simply allowed to go crazy. My guess is that Jan de Bont showed up at the first design meeting with a catalog of those black cast-resin gargoyle bookends they sell at the mall, and told the set designers: “I envision a house made of nothing but these things.” Then he gave them a check for 80 million dollars and a briefcase full of cocaine.
And so the designers went absolutely apeshit over everything. Pretty much every set in The Haunting is a feast of “what the hell am I even looking at?” It seems apparent that, at first, they were attempting to synthesize the definitive cinematic haunted house; but they ultimately failed at that goal, because they just couldn’t control themselves. Architectural stereotypes are piled all over each other, then covered in spiky protrusions and black resin gargoyles. A colossal bronze door, covered with bas-relief skeletons, goes nowhere in particular. A corridor is designed as a shallow pond that has to be navigated by walking on books (?). There is a mirror maze and a rotating carnival room that plays that evil tootling calliope music. Each room has at least one collection of elements arranged into a cartoon frowny face. Every now and then Jan de Bont would cruise by the set, and the designers would ask him, “What do you think?” And he’d reply with expansive pantomime gestures of even greater excess. “Is there still money left? Then why are you standing around? I see a spot that isn’t covered in gargoyles!”
Reviews of The Haunting singled out the set design as the one successful element of the film, which is half-right. It's not really successful, inasmuch as it doesn't actually end up creating atmosphere or make the movie scary. In fairness, it was probably a doomed effort to begin with, because it was all destined to be filmed in Technically-Competent-O-Vision, lit like a furniture warehouse so as not to complicate the job of the CG technicians later on. But it remains far and away the most engaging element of the film, and it makes me wish there were a way to view it without all the actors in the way. Surely there must be pictures of this stuff in trade journals somewhere? Did they ever produce a glossy “Making of The Haunting”photo book? Do the designers keep a portfolio of images in their online resumes? Or do they prefer not to think about it? Do they even remember it to begin with?
I for one appreciate your work, crazy production designers. I envy your world of artistic excess and temptation. You know that the same forces which provide the largest budget and freedom for your work also tend to ensure that the actual end product will never live up to it. You strive to create entire universes of drama and spectacle, even if that particular universe turns out to be Judge Dredd or Van Helsing. Here’s to the ludicrously, gloriously overwrought visions that you create. Keep going nuts.