Avis des critiques

That's the kind of fever dream this picture works on one's brain – through its dreamy matte paintings, foreground miniatures, rear screen and stop motion animation – we accept its logic entirely, ferocious pterodactyls and all – and we mourn this primal, compound force of innocence and righteous fury. He's either like Lenny in Of Mice of Men who can't help but accidentally pet those rabbits to death (did John Steinbeck watch Kong?), or, if he could talk, he's akin to The Tempest's Caliban.

If you ever get the chance to see Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack's original film on its own terms—that is, a dark theater, a big screen, and as little preconceptions as possible—you should absolutely take it. It is still a model of dramatic pacing and imaginative effects, but don't forget how much the 1933 King Kong is also a movie about movies.

The movie seems a lot less innocent the older it, and I, get. Not that this is a source of great concern to me; in a sense I find its relentless malevolent lurid sensationalism kind of admirable, and I understand why some of the Surrealists did too.