"'Twas beauty killed the beast."

These are the final words of Merian C. Cooper's 1933 version of King Kong, and Peter Jackson uses them to close his long-awaited remake, which was released nationwide last Wednesday. The sentence is uttered by the duplicitous movie producer Carl Denham, overlooking the hulking corpse of Kong, his "eighth wonder of the world," lying dead in the street. The irony is, though the line originates from Cooper's screenplay, Denham's glib observation doesn't hold resonance until Jackson uses it. It took an imitator to find the emotional authenticity in the scene.

Which is not to call Peter Jackson an imitator, or imply his film is a hollow reproduction of the 1933 classic. Quite the contrary, in fact: by bringing Kong to life in 2005, Jackson has accomplished what few filmmakers have dared to attempt—he's eclipsed the original vision so greatly that he's redefined the story itself. Jackson's King Kong is a modern epic of such grandiose proportions that it seems unfair to compare it to the work from which it was inspired. Like a 50-ft. gorilla, it dwarfs everything in its path.

As it has been well publicized by the media, Jackson holds closely to the original storyline, beginning in Depression-era Manhattan. There we meet failed movie producer Carl Denham (Jack Black), his staff (Colin Hanks, et al.), neglected writer Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody), and a down-on-her-luck vaudeville performer (Naomi Watts). All of them are struggling to stay afloat—and Jackson reminds us that they're not alone. The film opens with a montage of familiar images from 1930s New York: bread lines, street performers, and rising skyscrapers that tower over the city. Playing the sequence over in my head, it's accompanied by Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue," like out of a Fidelity™ commercial. It's a loving portrayal of the city; so much goes on in each frame that I almost wanted to stop the projector so I could soak in all the detail of Jackson's visuals, which extend to the far corners of the screen. They simply brim with life.

Film critic Pauline Kael often advised writers to simply make their characters smarter. Whether Jackson, Filippa Boyens, or Fran Walsh are aware of that or not, they seem to have heeded her advice—these are thoughtful, intelligent characters on screen, written from the inside out. This is most evident in Naomi Watts' Ann Darrow, who in previous iterations of the story has leaned far to the right on the bimbo spectrum. Here, she's a talented vaudevillian who can sing and dance, but aspires to work with a social dramatist (ostensibly Adrien Brody's Jack Driscoll). She's also principled: When times get tough and it looks like a role in a burlesque show might be her only way to earn a living, she clenches her fist and refuses to give in. There's a brain under that beautiful mop of blond hair, and Watts lets it show.

It's true that Jackson's film is a bit overlong, at 188 minutes. The only place you can really feel it, however, is during the first hour—on the boat ride from New York to Skull Island, where Denham and his rag-tag band of filmmakers are required to talk and reveal so we can track their character arcs on a piece of graph paper. More than a few members of the ship's crew, and more than few subplots, prove so annoying during this sequence that I wanted to thump my chest in frustration. Of course, it's understandable why Jackson decided to pad this section with such heavy-handed characterization: 1) It ups the anticipation for finally seeing Kong, and 2) It takes advantage of your attention. Because once that overgrown silver back makes an appearance, all subtlety is left at the door.

And what an appearance he makes. Shrouded in darkness for the first few minutes, Kong finally steps into the light on a cliff with his blond love-interest in hand—and it's a sight to behold. As David Edelstein notes in his review, one of the first things you notice when watching Kong is how greatly he differs from his celluloid ancestors. This isn't the lumbering biped with scarlet pupils and curved vampire teeth of '33 and '76. This is truly a gorilla. He communicates with vague yet careful body language. He gallops on all fours. His forearms are muscular and long. His fine motor skills are precise enough to nab a falling blond, but he bumps elbows against the uneven terrain. It's a testament to Andy Serkis (best known as The Guy in the Foam Ball Leotard Who Played Gollum) and the whole visual effects staff that Kong models a real simian so well. The days of third-rate stunt men in bulky gorilla costumes are over.

While it's been well publicized that Kong is a visual triumph, what hasn't been discussed is how the film is an achievement in sound design. Every movement that Kong makes is punctuated by grunts and snarls and sounds of heavy breathing that accentuate his character. And while it might not seem like much, this cornucopia of noise is vital to elevating his character above monsters like Gojira and making Kong a person. With light in his eyes and detailed facial expressions that run the gamut of emotions, from pride to jealousy to sympathy, Serkis—along with everyone on Jackson's CGI team—creates the singular best acting performance in the film. It's just a shame that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is destined to ignore it, mainly because it's progressive and defies categorization. In my not-so-humble estimation, we're about 15 years away from the Academy (willfully or not) changing its guidelines to allow for performances such as this and LotR's Gollum. Actors have been getting Photoshopped for years, sometimes materially changing the audience's perception of the performance (e.g., Gary Sinise as Lt. Dan in Forrest Gump). It's only a matter of time until the plot of Andrew Niccol's S1m0ne becomes something we really have to deal with, and the line between CGI and the Stanislavsky Method becomes entirely blurred.

That said, Jackson's special effects aren't perfect—they oscillate between amazing and disappointing at different points throughout the film. The gorilla is best seen up-close, emoting. The director and his team have mastered the detail of Kong's face, with hair flowing in the breeze and reflections seen in his enormous doll-eyes. The effects fail when not enough contrast exists between object and backdrop; a number of the sequences featuring dinosaurs, for instance, look unfinished compared to scenes with Kong at the center. Luckily for audiences, this isn't the case when Jackson puts his horror background to good use, unleashing an endless stream of digital cockroaches and flesh-eating worms. Memories of these creatures will haunt your dreams in crystal-clear HD. They look amazing.

What makes King Kong great, though, is that the film is so much more than the sum of its special effects. Watts' performance is particularly affecting, making unrequited love between a buxom blond and a giant silver back seem not only believable, but ultimately heartbreaking. It might not be the best performance in the film, but it's strong, especially for a character that is best known for screaming her way through scenes. Jack Black is fine in the Denham role, mixing subtle humor with an escalating level of despicability that doesn't cease. And Adrien Brody is the perfect choice for the doomed Jack Driscoll: While likable, he lacks the swagger (and nose) of a traditional leading man, making it easier for audiences to understand why Watts would choose an ape over a lowly writer.

When considering Peter Jackson's achievement in bringing King Kong to the big screen, it's instructive to think of another computer-generated epic that was released in 2005: George Lucas' Star Wars – Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. While the latter film was seen, in some circles, as a fitting conclusion to the long-awaited set of Star Wars prequels, its alleged greatness is put to shame when compared to Kong—a film that is equally reliant upon big-budget effects and made for "mass consumption." While Lucas' defenders like to brush aside criticisms of poor writing and under-cooked characterization that have been a hallmark of the prequels, it seems that Jackson's film would be a harsh wake-up call. This is what good writing looks like. These are what strong characters look like. This is what an epic looks like. Take note.