"He's not a director, he's a confectionist," said filmmaker Alex Cox on the great Steven Spielberg, referring to the man's clear penchant for sentimentality. Spielberg's sentimental touches don't irk me as much as they might irk other people - not when they're dealt in small doses (and usually they are). Still, if there's one movie in the director's filmography that showcases the man at his very worse - as the embodiment of this "confectioner" character, in fact - it's Hook.
Ask anybody who saw Hook as a kid what they think of it, though, and the answer's always the same. They think it's wonderful. They think it's amazing, and brilliant, and magical. When it comes to nostalgia-based viewings, of course, one could definitely argue the case that so many "terrible" children's movies are still enjoyed by adults because they saw them as kids.
But whereas I find a lot of those films are defendable (Home Alone to Jingle All The Way), this one is not. And thanks to the nostalgia, so many have been duped into believing this is a good movie, and can't see it for what it actually is: a sickly sweet, stilted mess... directed on Spielberg autopilot.