The BFG

It feels like a ghost of 1980s wonder haunting a 2016 landscape. When I first sat down to watch The BFG, I did so while nursing a cup of peppermint tea that had gone tragically lukewarm, and strangely, that tepid temperature felt like the perfect companion for this movie. It’s a film that doesn't want to burn you or freeze you; it just wants to wrap you in a slightly damp, oversized cardigan and tell you a bedtime story.

Coming out in the middle of the 2010s, this was a weird beast. We were deep into the "Phase Three" dominance of the MCU, where every movie had to set up four sequels and feature at least one city being leveled. Then along comes Steven Spielberg, reuniting with screenwriter Melissa Mathison for the first time since E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, to give us a movie where the primary conflict involves catching glowing lights in jars and the climax features a breakfast with the Queen of England. Most modern blockbusters treat silence like a disease; Spielberg treats it like a sanctuary.

The Gobblefunk of Greatness

The real reason this film has transitioned from a "box office disappointment" to a genuine cult favorite for families is Mark Rylance. Coming off his Oscar win for Bridge of Spies (another Spielberg joint), Rylance delivers a performance-capture turn that should have changed the way we talk about the technology. He doesn't just play a giant; he plays a weary, linguistic poet who seems to be made of cauliflower and heartbreak.

His "Gobblefunk"—that delightful Roald Dahl nonsense language—doesn't feel like a gimmick. When he talks about "human beans" or "whizzpoppers," it feels like a man who has lived alone for so long that his thoughts have started to ferment. I found myself leaning into the screen just to catch his mumblings. Opposite him, young Ruby Barnhill as Sophie manages to avoid the "precocious movie kid" trope. She’s stern, slightly bossy, and exactly the kind of orphan who would tell a twenty-four-foot giant to tidy up his cave.

The chemistry here is what carries the film through its slower stretches. In an era where "adventure" usually means a CGI chase through a collapsing tunnel, the adventure here is often just two people talking in a house made of giant ship parts. Janusz Kamiński, Spielberg’s long-time cinematographer, ditches his usual gritty, blown-out lighting for something that looks like an oil painting lit by fireflies. It’s gorgeous, even if it occasionally feels like you’re looking through a light layer of gauze.

A Quiet Giant in a Loud World

There is no escaping the fact that The BFG is paced like a turtle on a Sunday stroll. For some, this was the film’s undoing. I remember the social media discourse at the time—people were frustrated that "nothing happened." But looking at it now, in a world of frantic TikTok edits and "content" designed to spike your dopamine every six seconds, the slowness of The BFG feels rebellious.

The middle act, set in Dream Country, is a masterclass in visual storytelling. There’s no dialogue for long stretches, just the BFG and Sophie hunting dreams reflected in a shimmering lake. It’s pure cinema, but it’s a type of cinema that felt out of place in the 2016 theatrical market. It’s probably why it struggled against the louder, more frantic The Secret Life of Pets at the box office. The film’s second half is basically a high-budget episode of The Crown with more flatulence.

Speaking of which, the scene at Buckingham Palace is where the movie either wins you over or loses you forever. Seeing Penelope Wilton (as the Queen) and her corgis deal with the explosive after-effects of "Frobscottle" is a sequence that feels both incredibly high-brow and aggressively low-brow. It’s classic Dahl, and Rebecca Hall and Rafe Spall play the bewildered royal staff with such straight faces that you can’t help but giggle.

The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

The behind-the-scenes trivia for this one is bittersweet. This was Melissa Mathison’s final screenplay before she passed away, and you can feel that "finality" in the script. It’s a movie about saying goodbye to childhood and find a place to belong. Interestingly, Mark Rylance wasn't even the first choice; at one point in the long development history (which started in the 90s!), Robin Williams was considered for the role. While Williams would have been manic and brilliant, Rylance brings a stillness that makes the film feel more like a fable and less like a comedy.

To bring the giants to life, Spielberg used a "simul-cam" process developed for Avatar, allowing him to see the digital giants in his viewfinder while filming the live-action Ruby Barnhill. This helped the eyelines feel real, which is why the scale works so well. When the "bad" giants—led by a delightfully thuggish Jemaine Clement as Fleshlumpeater and a snarling Bill Hader as Bloodbottler—toss the BFG around like a ragdoll, you genuinely feel the weight and the peril.

Ultimately, The BFG is a film for the collectors—the people who want to own a piece of "prestige" fantasy that doesn't feel like it was designed by a committee. It’s a movie for people who miss when Spielberg made us look at the sky with our mouths open. It might not have the "instant classic" status of Jurassic Park, but it has a soul, and in the current era of assembly-line IP, that’s worth its weight in snozzcumbers.

While it occasionally sags under its own whimsy, the film remains a technical marvel and a deeply moving swan song for the writer of E.T.. It's a reminder that even in an age of superheroes, there’s still room for a gentle giant who just wants to blow dreams through a trumpet. It’s a quiet, shimmering achievement that I suspect will only grow in stature as more people discover it on a rainy Tuesday with their own lukewarm tea.