Overwrought, over-written, ill-conceived and disjointed, Peter Jackson's decisions about how to portray this best-selling book fail at every turn. His need to create heavenly imagery (some of which are magnificent, by the way) is pure ego and disrupt the story line to the point of distraction. He wastes the talents of Stanley Tucci, who is very good, and young Rachel Weisz, who is even better. Worse, a drunken, chain-smoking grandmother? And the Tucci character killed by a magically placed icicle? Give me a break. A totally unsatisfying interpretation.