[6.4/10] Not everything that works on the page works on the screen. Adaptation is an art all its own, and translating a story or a mood or a character from one medium to another is its own kind of magic. *The Last Unicorn* film has the advantage of Peter S. Beagle, author of the source novel, writing its screenplay. And it still feels like a pale reflection.

Much of that owes to the parts of the movie that Beagle, as scribe, has no control over. The vocal performances, the character designs, and the music are all choices vital to the success or failure of any movie and beyond the grasp of all but the most influential authors whose works are adapted for the screen. Here, they don’t exactly sink the book’s translation to the silver screen, but they certainly mute it.

None more so than the voicework. Part of what excited me about *The Last Unicorn* movie is its all-star voice cast. Mia Farrow! Alan Arkin! Jeff Bridges! Angela Lansbury! Christopher Lee! The prospect of hearing them lend their prodigious talent to an epic but melancholy fantasy tale was an inviting one.

But so many of the line-reads here are flat or unconvincing. It’s a good reminder that voice acting is a separate skill, and whether by direction or inexperience, not every performer who’s adept in live action is just as talented when performing for a different medium. Jeff Bridges in particular has the charisma of a plastic rake. Of the major characters, only Arkin as Schmendrick the magician really soars, bringing the sweaty energy the character requires. (Though Lansbury does a lot with a little as the imperious Mommy Fortuna.)

The miscalibration of the performances does particular damage to Beagle’s script. The move to cinema already strips the novel of two of its best elements. The need to streamline for a ninety-minute film makes *The Last Unicorn* a more direct tale, squeezing out more of the quieter and contemplative moments for the characters that give them greater depth and nuance. Likewise, it necessarily excludes Beagle’s poetic prose, which imparted much of the tone and feeling of the piece with lyrical turns of phrase and wry humor.

So the only thing that truly survives from the actual writing is the dialogue. In places, it still sings with all the majesty of its place on the page. Molly Grue’s lament still comes with a force and Fortuna’s warnings still haunt the mind. But so many of the central performances are either wooden or overwrought, robbing the movie of the greatest weapon it takes from its source: the words of its author.

Oddly enough, the character designs and animation share the same “too stiff or too overblown” dichotomy that the performances do. Many of the players look downright grotesque. In places, that works. The red bull’s snarls and muscular, lurching gait give it a menace that befits its role in the story. Mommy Fortuna’s gnarled visage (which presages Yubaba in *Spirited Away*) imparts as much terror as her fearsome harpy. So many of the characters here are ugly or unnatural-looking, which is a style and a choice but one that doesn’t work nearly as well beyond the characters meant to be off-putting.

At the same time, many of the good guy characters are supposed to look more human, even strikingly beautiful. Schmendrick, Molly, and Lir are all meant to be a little rough around the edges, but more notably human, and instead look some combination of gawky and plain. Even the titular unicorn and Lady Amalthea, her human form, have an uncanny valley effect in their designs. Taken generously, that may fit a being meant to be supernatural and a little divine, but in practice, it feels like an attempt at beauty that lands in oddity.

Many of these characters look like they don’t belong in the same movie. That fact isn’t helped by the limited animation, which dampens the characters’ ability to be expressive or otherwise communicate the nuances of human emotion through our faces and gestures.

What’s so bizarre about all of this is that the backgrounds and overall aesthetic of the film is utterly gorgeous. The landscapes and forest enclaves and seaside castles all catch the eye with brilliant lighting and color. The crash of a wave filled with unicorns or the red shadow cast by a charging, fantastical bull as its prey rushes away bring a visual panache the film otherwise lacks. The stunning beauty of those images only add to the dissonance with the film’s dodgy character design and animation.

But even many of those lovely images are undercut by the film’s stolid, repetitive score. The songs in the film were written and composed by the band America, and each comes off like it was ladled out of the same vat of limp ballad stew. These stupefying torch songs threaten to turn important stretches of *The Last Unicorn* into one bland cinematic sedative. Worse yet, they turn subtext into text, announcing what characters are feeling or the meaning of a scene via the lyrics in no uncertain terms. In a movie with deep flaws, the soft rock soundtrack may be the most painful and obvious.

And yet, despite all those anchors weighing this movie down, the central wonder and pathos of Beagle’s original story survives in one form or another. You cannot denude the tale of a mystical creature who sets off in search of the rest of her kind, suffers the tragedy of being mortal, and breathes life and meaning into those with whom she’s crossed paths of all grace or profundity. In some ways, *The Last Unicorn* plays like a later *Harry Potter* movie: superficial or confounding for those who consume it independently, but more meaningful to those who know enough of the source material to not only fill in the gaps but add in the deeper resonance of what was winnowed for a standard feature runtime.

Regardless, *The Last Unicorn* is a glimpse of the moon reflected in a rippling pond. The sheer beauty of the image projected cannot be denied, no matter what lens it’s refracted through. And the listing waves and mottled waters have their own charms. But their sum total is ultimately less than the lovely light they borrow for the evening. Mr. Beagle need not regret the movie that sprung from his work, but maybe his story would have been better off had it remained from whence it came.