Rated PG

One of the key elements that may have enamored readers around the world to the adventures of Tintin—a plucky boy journalist who fought corruption, solved mysteries and chased adventure in a Belgian comic series for more than half of the 20th century—was how well it balanced complexity of story with accessibility of style. Tintin, in both character and form, was drawn with bold, precise lines, subtle colors and no shading whatsoever. This “Ligne Claire” technique, spearheaded by Tintin’s creator, Hergé, was a fine match for the hero himself, who very rarely, if ever, broke beyond the boy-scout simplicity at his core. He subsequently became a wonderfully blank slate for followers to imprint themselves onto, step into his shoes, and actively engage in the adventures of imagination in which he was so often embroiled.

It’s laudable that director Steven “Indiana Jones” Spielberg, producer Peter “Lord of the Rings” Jackson and their respective crews from DreamWorks and Weta have apparently embraced this aspect of the character in their new collaborative adaptation, not bothering to give Tintin an origin story, a girlfriend, parents, or even a last name. But it’s a sad moment when, not two minutes into the film, they very obviously jettison Hergé’s gloriously clean artistic style, revealing Tintin to the audience as a street artist’s caricature straight from the books, only to immediately dismiss it and send the young man into an absolute cacophony of computerized detail and texture. Where the original artwork put hyper-stylized people into realistically rendered backdrops with little differentiation of emphasis between the two, the practice is not served so well in this new medium. The wild levels of information Jackson’s Weta animators have crammed into every frame of this movie quickly becomes difficult and eventually impossible to take in. As a wise man once said, when everything is important, nothing is.

Rated R

Over the years, David Fincher has shown himself to be a director of risk, invention and vision, often taking on projects of surprising, and sometimes confounding, subject matter. Risk doesn’t always equal success, however. For every “Fight Club” there’s a “Panic Room”; for each “Zodiac,” there’s a “The Game.” Let’s just give “Alien3” a pass, it was his first feature, after all. But his ability to adapt difficult material, from the surreal “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” to the hyper-real “Social Network”—each of which landed three Oscars apiece — has placed him in the circle of rare Hollywood directors allowed by the studios to choose their own assignments, with hundreds of millions of dollars thrown at their decisions.

At first glance, re-adapting Stieg Larsson’s wildly popular first novel, which already was made into a solid, if made-for-television-quality film in its native Sweden, might appear to be a pretty safe bet. Involving corporate malfeasance, sexual deviance, moral obscurity, Nazis, ne’er do wells and serial killing, the story touches on a good number of themes that apparently, for better or worse, remain close to Fincher’s heart. The problem, though, is that it would seem his heart just wasn’t really in it.