The narration is the movie’s secret weapon. It’s the joke you don’t see coming. It’s the grown-up in the room who winks at you while everyone else is dancing.
Without Hopkins, the movie would be just a weird Jim Carrey circus. With him, it becomes a classic oddball. It’s a David Lynch version of a Dr. Seuss story.
So next time you watch it, close your eyes for a moment. Let that rich, dark voice wash over you. Hear the rumble of “Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store.”
Remember: The man who played a monster is telling you about a monster who finds his heart. It’s poetry. It’s bizarre. It’s the best thing about the 2000 Grinch.
Now, go watch it again. Listen for the Hopkins-ian pauses. Count the dramatic sighs. Marvel at a choice that makes no sense and perfect sense all at once. That’s the magic.
And if you ever meet Anthony Hopkins, thank him. Thank him for being the grumpy, majestic narrator we never knew we needed. He made Christmas weird again. And we love him for it.
