D. Carol Reed
B&W
Like all right minded people, I love Alec Guinness to bloody pieces. Clearly he was one of the greatest actors Britain ever produced, with a body of cinematic work unmatched by any of his similarly titled peers. One can appreciate why he'd get so phenomenally stroppy with idiot ‘Star Wars’ fans, as – really – who wants such a glorious career boiled down to "Use the force, Luke"? But I can also see that there was something incredible diffident about Alec Guinness. There was, even through his brilliance, an unbreachable reserve. That’s part of the reason why one can’t imagine him successfully playing the lead in a love story (even though he did more than once play the lead in a love story), but it’s also the reason why he actually makes an incredibly good movie serial killer.
Alec Guinness was superb in most roles, but charming, polite but ultimately ruthless killer is clearly one that makes him lick his lips with real relish.
In this blacker than the blackest black British black comedy, we have him as Walter Witkins, an ice cream man who drives his cart from seaside town to seaside town and when he gets the opportunity bumps off young ladies he meets, His murders are ridiculously creepy in their politeness and deference. Walter is so solicitous to make sure that he isn't hurting his victims or causing them discomfort, sometimes even beyond the point he has his hands around their throat and is choking the sheer life out of them. (There’s something fantastically creepy about your killer telling you: “Don’t worry, this will all work out fine. I promise it will all be over in a moment.” as your windpipe is crushed and your eyes roll back in your head.) When we meet him he's had a successful summer with lots of ice creams sold and a fair number of young ladies murdered and the Old Bill – as far as we can tell – nowhere to be seen. Then in one particularly sunny and busy seaside resort he runs into Hayley Mills. She’s all sweetness and innocence, golden curls and childhood purity. But she is not only much older than she looks, she has the habit of knocking off lascivious middle-aged men.
The stage is set for a deliciously deadly duel.
Released the year after ‘Psycho’, this movie is the equivalent of Norman Bates meeting a Marian Crane who is travelling the highways with a dead body in her boot. What’s more, it contains a scene the equivalent of Norman Bates bursting into the shower to find it empty and then starting to wonder why that glass of milk he had earlier tasted so funny. In many ways then this is a more disturbing film than ‘Psycho’, as in the Hitchcock classic we know even on first viewing that Norman is going to be caught. Here we don't know who will come out on top, who will die, who will be captured, or whether the two of them will overcome their differences and set up a magnificent murderous home together. We just get the strange beauty of an old killer and a young killer staring at each other with deadly adoration before doing some genuinely creepy flirting over ice cream cones.
Showing posts with label manic-pixie-dream-girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label manic-pixie-dream-girl. Show all posts
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
Wednesday, 13 August 2014
Over the Threshold (2004)
D. Mike Culumbus
Colour
Nicole Kidman should not be allowed to do comedy.
It’s a fact that should be as clear as the flipping moon by now.
Obviously she’s an extremely good dramatic actress and clearly a very attractive woman (there are blind man in lost tribes of the Amazon who fancy Nicole), but to cast her in a comedy is always huge and regrettable mistake. It’s as if she doesn’t understand the concept of jokes or laughter or punchlines, even prat-falls are beyond her – there’s just something too delicate and restrained about Nicole for her to ever fall over in a funny way. Evidently she thinks she can do it, but that’s because she has watched other people be funny and imagines she can copy them. But there isn’t an amusing, witty or humorous sinew in her whole body, so she just ends up working her way through comic scripts in dead-eyed incomprehension – and that is not good for the health of any comedy project. (For another red headed actress similarly affected, see Moore, Julianne). By all means cast her in drama, let her do big emotional, tragic, scenes with swelling scores that make Oscar voters sit up and salivate like juicy prunes, but just keep her away from comedy. There are some people who can get laughs and there are some who really, really can’t. She is the latter.
Here’s an example, with Nicole playing against Hugh Grant in a culture clash comedy that was actually released in 2004 but feels like it’s been sat on a shelf since about 1958. Giving an early sketch of her white trash role from ‘The Paperboy’, but this time broader and less subtle, NIcole is a Kentucky waffle waitress who is wooed and married by visiting English aristocrat Grant. After the wedding she’s whisked back to England where fish out of water comedy ensues. It’s not a particularly original scenario for a film, is it? And believe me the script does it no favours by being half-baked, underwritten and about an eighth as funny as a 1980’s ITV sitcom.
So we have comedy yokels, sniffy aristocratic relatives, cheerful barmen, flirty antique dealers, a brassy would-be mistress for Grant, and – as counter-balance – a sleazy aristo interested in the delectable Nicole. The jokes are asthmatic and seemingly riddled with hay-fever in the English sunshine, so Grant does what he always does in these situations and starts to flail wildly in an attempt to make things funny just through a kind of polite mania. It results in him playing every scene slightly too loud in an attempt to bring life to them, but really he just sucks all the fun away in his desperation. Yet because Nicole just doesn’t understand comedy and doesn’t understand that this won’t work, she starts to imitate him, as if believing that since Grant does know about comedy this must be the way to do it. And so we have both of them horribly over the top, both of them waving their arms and bulging their eyes, until the two of them are caught in a despairing and terrible death spiral of unfunniness.
It’s terrible to watch, and on a blog where I’m supposed to be recommending obscure films I have to say that you should avoid this one like a virulent plague-zone. I just bring it forth as Exhibit A in why Nicole most absolutely, totally and certainly shouldn’t do comedy.
Colour
Nicole Kidman should not be allowed to do comedy.
It’s a fact that should be as clear as the flipping moon by now.
Obviously she’s an extremely good dramatic actress and clearly a very attractive woman (there are blind man in lost tribes of the Amazon who fancy Nicole), but to cast her in a comedy is always huge and regrettable mistake. It’s as if she doesn’t understand the concept of jokes or laughter or punchlines, even prat-falls are beyond her – there’s just something too delicate and restrained about Nicole for her to ever fall over in a funny way. Evidently she thinks she can do it, but that’s because she has watched other people be funny and imagines she can copy them. But there isn’t an amusing, witty or humorous sinew in her whole body, so she just ends up working her way through comic scripts in dead-eyed incomprehension – and that is not good for the health of any comedy project. (For another red headed actress similarly affected, see Moore, Julianne). By all means cast her in drama, let her do big emotional, tragic, scenes with swelling scores that make Oscar voters sit up and salivate like juicy prunes, but just keep her away from comedy. There are some people who can get laughs and there are some who really, really can’t. She is the latter.
Here’s an example, with Nicole playing against Hugh Grant in a culture clash comedy that was actually released in 2004 but feels like it’s been sat on a shelf since about 1958. Giving an early sketch of her white trash role from ‘The Paperboy’, but this time broader and less subtle, NIcole is a Kentucky waffle waitress who is wooed and married by visiting English aristocrat Grant. After the wedding she’s whisked back to England where fish out of water comedy ensues. It’s not a particularly original scenario for a film, is it? And believe me the script does it no favours by being half-baked, underwritten and about an eighth as funny as a 1980’s ITV sitcom.
So we have comedy yokels, sniffy aristocratic relatives, cheerful barmen, flirty antique dealers, a brassy would-be mistress for Grant, and – as counter-balance – a sleazy aristo interested in the delectable Nicole. The jokes are asthmatic and seemingly riddled with hay-fever in the English sunshine, so Grant does what he always does in these situations and starts to flail wildly in an attempt to make things funny just through a kind of polite mania. It results in him playing every scene slightly too loud in an attempt to bring life to them, but really he just sucks all the fun away in his desperation. Yet because Nicole just doesn’t understand comedy and doesn’t understand that this won’t work, she starts to imitate him, as if believing that since Grant does know about comedy this must be the way to do it. And so we have both of them horribly over the top, both of them waving their arms and bulging their eyes, until the two of them are caught in a despairing and terrible death spiral of unfunniness.
It’s terrible to watch, and on a blog where I’m supposed to be recommending obscure films I have to say that you should avoid this one like a virulent plague-zone. I just bring it forth as Exhibit A in why Nicole most absolutely, totally and certainly shouldn’t do comedy.
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
Statuesque (2007)
D. Bertrand Shore
Colour
The most decorative part of ‘Mad Men’ these days is Jessica Paré. I mean that both in the sense that she's lovely to look at, but also she’s the lady the programme clearly has the most lascivious interest in. Yes there’s Christina Hendricks and her bosom, and there's the trim figure of January Jones - but Jessica Paré is the actress most likely to strip down to her underwear, or a bikini, and have the camera linger licking its lens-like lips over her shapely form. Obviously the thing with having a young trophy wife is that she should be attractive and willing to show herself off, but it's not only Don who enjoys her, it's the show itself. In fact we’re all guilty, as she's put there on camera for the audience to ogle and – yes – we duly ogle. And as much as I love ‘Mad Men’, I can't help thinking that her character suffers a little through her being so decorative, as sometimes she's not there to add weight to a scene, she’s just there to appear in her bra and knickers.
I guess though the actress is used to it as earlier in her career she appeared in this strange portmanteau spin on the mythic legend of Pygmalion. In a role which must have sounded distinctly weird when her agent described it to her, she plays an ancient Greek statue in a fusty old museum, which actually comes to life when someone sees her and most desires and needs it. So older divorced businessman Elliot Gould gets to take her – her wearing only a slip of a dress – to an event in an art gallery, where he gets to show her (and her lovely, slim legs) off to his workmates who think he's more ancient than a dinosaur fart. Gould to be fair though doesn't require any more than a quick smack on the lips from his Greek goddess. Heather Graham though is a nervous bi-curious girl who has had her heart broken by too many men and needs some company. A girly afternoon of course becomes something hotter and heavier (Heather Graham is another highly objectified actress, with filmmakers seeming to adore pressing her against other girls); while finally Joseph Fiennes overacts horrendously as a mad theatre director who needs a night of sheer naked passion to unleash his genius.
This ridiculously over-qualified cast elevates it above what it really should be, which is of course porn. Indeed the audience most likely to gravitate towards this might be a tad disappointed, as when things do get steamy it’s all decidedly soft-core. Without a doubt though it’s a highly sexist film, and at the centre of this sexism is Jessica Paré – who is simply there to be ogled and lusted over through every frame. She’s literally a doll that comes to life, a perfectly carved pieced of marble which springs into existence when somebody is sad and needy enough to desire her soft and feminine touch. Once alive she can be dressed however the beholder wants, and then undressed on demand. In no way is she a real character, certainly not a real woman and, really, the whole thing is a tad depressing.
Of course it's seedy, of course it's objectifying – but is it really so massively different to Mad Men's approach to the actress?
Colour
The most decorative part of ‘Mad Men’ these days is Jessica Paré. I mean that both in the sense that she's lovely to look at, but also she’s the lady the programme clearly has the most lascivious interest in. Yes there’s Christina Hendricks and her bosom, and there's the trim figure of January Jones - but Jessica Paré is the actress most likely to strip down to her underwear, or a bikini, and have the camera linger licking its lens-like lips over her shapely form. Obviously the thing with having a young trophy wife is that she should be attractive and willing to show herself off, but it's not only Don who enjoys her, it's the show itself. In fact we’re all guilty, as she's put there on camera for the audience to ogle and – yes – we duly ogle. And as much as I love ‘Mad Men’, I can't help thinking that her character suffers a little through her being so decorative, as sometimes she's not there to add weight to a scene, she’s just there to appear in her bra and knickers.
I guess though the actress is used to it as earlier in her career she appeared in this strange portmanteau spin on the mythic legend of Pygmalion. In a role which must have sounded distinctly weird when her agent described it to her, she plays an ancient Greek statue in a fusty old museum, which actually comes to life when someone sees her and most desires and needs it. So older divorced businessman Elliot Gould gets to take her – her wearing only a slip of a dress – to an event in an art gallery, where he gets to show her (and her lovely, slim legs) off to his workmates who think he's more ancient than a dinosaur fart. Gould to be fair though doesn't require any more than a quick smack on the lips from his Greek goddess. Heather Graham though is a nervous bi-curious girl who has had her heart broken by too many men and needs some company. A girly afternoon of course becomes something hotter and heavier (Heather Graham is another highly objectified actress, with filmmakers seeming to adore pressing her against other girls); while finally Joseph Fiennes overacts horrendously as a mad theatre director who needs a night of sheer naked passion to unleash his genius.
This ridiculously over-qualified cast elevates it above what it really should be, which is of course porn. Indeed the audience most likely to gravitate towards this might be a tad disappointed, as when things do get steamy it’s all decidedly soft-core. Without a doubt though it’s a highly sexist film, and at the centre of this sexism is Jessica Paré – who is simply there to be ogled and lusted over through every frame. She’s literally a doll that comes to life, a perfectly carved pieced of marble which springs into existence when somebody is sad and needy enough to desire her soft and feminine touch. Once alive she can be dressed however the beholder wants, and then undressed on demand. In no way is she a real character, certainly not a real woman and, really, the whole thing is a tad depressing.
Of course it's seedy, of course it's objectifying – but is it really so massively different to Mad Men's approach to the actress?
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Ms Honesty (1995)
D. Michael
Lehmann
Colour
What’s even weirder than hanging a film around the shoulders of this guileless child woman who everyone loves, is that some of these ‘truths’ are really just a matter of taste (the clothes someone wears, for example), and when they aren’t immediately accepted with good grace, Ms Honestly has something of a meltdown. There are two such scenes in the film, both of which see Ms Honesty ranting and raving about the flaws of the person opposite her, furious that her opinion isn’t being immediately accepted. To be fair, Ms Aniston does manage to portray a truly psychotic bitch really well, but the film clearly doesn’t see her behaviour in those terms. Instead this ranting and raving is a good thing, a sign of at how intensely passionate she is.
I ask you, really?
Surely freaking out completely when someone doesn’t immediately agree with you (or even does agree with you, but has decided they are not going to alter their life just over one woman’s opinion), is surely the behaviour of someone mentally ill. No sane and rational person would feel the need to start screaming abuse at someone they knew (or didn’t know) just because that person doesn’t happen to share their opinion. It’s what a lunatic would do, an insane person, a – to use one of my dad’s West Country expression – barnpot.
And yet the film sets it up as somewhat charming, easily forgivable – enviable even. Ms Honesty just cares too much; is so passionate and only says these truths because they are in the other person’s interests (even when they’re clearly not) and besides she‘s as cute as the twenty-five year old Jennifer Aniston – so what’s not to love? And that’s the true message of this film, that Ms Aniston is really pretty and her character is the ultimate manic pixie dream girl we should all adore. But it didn’t work on me. I just felt the urge to scream and pelt her with rotten fruit.
The plot – such as it is – sees Ms Honesty (is the title supposed to be a pun btw?) telling some home truths to her friend, Jason Lee. When these aren’t immediately accepted, she freaks out and tells him every bad thing about himself. They fight for a few weeks, then they calm down, realise that they’re in love with each other and live happily ever after – Ms Honesty keeping up with her honest ways.
Meanwhile the audience is left giddily disorientated and throwing up in corner.
If you want to know the real truth, this is one of the most disturbing and blood-boiling pieces of celluloid it has ever been my misfortune to witness.
Colour
One of Jennifer Aniston’s first wild flails at turning her distinctly
small screen charms into cinema success, was this oddly conceived, frustrating
and actually quite infuriating little number. Ms Aniston plays Ms Honesty
(Tracey Honesty, if you’re on familiar terms) who has a compulsion to always
tell the truth. It doesn’t matter what the circumstance, how politic is it, or
what offence she might cause, Ms Honesty cannot keep her honest mouth shut. Now
an eight year old knows why a white lie exists, yet the fact that Ms Honesty
doesn’t know and is so brutally honest is seen by the film as a loveable quirk.
Her friends all adore her and her unfiltered opinions, strangers on the street
are charmed by her frankness and her life glides by on a stream of happiness.
What’s even weirder than hanging a film around the shoulders of this guileless child woman who everyone loves, is that some of these ‘truths’ are really just a matter of taste (the clothes someone wears, for example), and when they aren’t immediately accepted with good grace, Ms Honestly has something of a meltdown. There are two such scenes in the film, both of which see Ms Honesty ranting and raving about the flaws of the person opposite her, furious that her opinion isn’t being immediately accepted. To be fair, Ms Aniston does manage to portray a truly psychotic bitch really well, but the film clearly doesn’t see her behaviour in those terms. Instead this ranting and raving is a good thing, a sign of at how intensely passionate she is.
I ask you, really?
Surely freaking out completely when someone doesn’t immediately agree with you (or even does agree with you, but has decided they are not going to alter their life just over one woman’s opinion), is surely the behaviour of someone mentally ill. No sane and rational person would feel the need to start screaming abuse at someone they knew (or didn’t know) just because that person doesn’t happen to share their opinion. It’s what a lunatic would do, an insane person, a – to use one of my dad’s West Country expression – barnpot.
And yet the film sets it up as somewhat charming, easily forgivable – enviable even. Ms Honesty just cares too much; is so passionate and only says these truths because they are in the other person’s interests (even when they’re clearly not) and besides she‘s as cute as the twenty-five year old Jennifer Aniston – so what’s not to love? And that’s the true message of this film, that Ms Aniston is really pretty and her character is the ultimate manic pixie dream girl we should all adore. But it didn’t work on me. I just felt the urge to scream and pelt her with rotten fruit.
The plot – such as it is – sees Ms Honesty (is the title supposed to be a pun btw?) telling some home truths to her friend, Jason Lee. When these aren’t immediately accepted, she freaks out and tells him every bad thing about himself. They fight for a few weeks, then they calm down, realise that they’re in love with each other and live happily ever after – Ms Honesty keeping up with her honest ways.
Meanwhile the audience is left giddily disorientated and throwing up in corner.
If you want to know the real truth, this is one of the most disturbing and blood-boiling pieces of celluloid it has ever been my misfortune to witness.
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