Posts
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Poor, poor Alan Moore.
Alan Moore is probably the most celebrated and definitely the most critically acclaimed graphic novelist of our times, and with good reason. His stories, dark and intricate, sardonic and exquisite, can easily hold their own against any fiction that takes itself more seriously due to its lack of graphic media. They are so entertaining and have such widespread appeal that three of his titles have already been made into films: From Hell (grossly underrated and utterly enjoyable, the best Jack the Ripper mythos ever contrived), The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (a godawful travesty, all traces of wit and vitality wrung out of the original story, leaving behind a dumbed-down, unpalatable mess), and V for Vendetta (well-crafted and badass, redeemed the Wachowski Brothers after those totally unsatisfactory latter two installments of the Matrix trilogy).
But alas, Mr. Moore has enjoyed no aspect of these movie projects, has neither seen them nor reaped any royalties. How could that be? one might ask. Has the poor man been contractually duped?
Nay. Condemnation. Disavowal. These are Mr. Moore’s stances. He will have nothing to do with the films made of his work. He has given his royalty rights to the illustrator every time, and he will not even deign to view them. But why such self-depriving madness? Perhaps he is simply a purist, completely devoted to his beloved graphic novel medium. Perhaps he is a pompous ivory tower snob, disdainful of any peon’s attempt to adapt his masterpieces. I cannot claim to know. All I know is, while one can almost see his point of view when considering the previous films, I feel truly sorry for him when it comes to Watchmen. If he is unwavering in his convictions, he’ll never know what he’s missing.
Poor, poor Alan Moore.
For Watchmen is, in my humble opinion, a triumph in almost every way, and one cannot imagine my relief that this is the case. Alan Moore’s Watchmen, fantastically illustrated by Dave Gibbons (lucky recipient of Moore’s portion of the royalties and option rights for the film, this time), is the author’s magnum opus. It is widely considered the greatest graphic novel of all time. Time magazine named it among the 100 greatest English language novels since 1923. All this acclaim is certainly deserved. The first time I read it, it blew my nineteen-year-old mind in a way few books have, before or since. I was giddy yet terrified when they announced it would become a movie. For more than a year, I awaited it with bated breath.
It. Was. Awesome.
Set in an alternate 1985 in which costumed heroes are outlawed, one man’s atomic powers make up most of America’s Cold War defense, and Tricky Dick Nixon is serving his fifth term in the White House, Watchmen follows a disbanded team of retired, semiretired and illegally active masked crime-fighters. When one of their number, the Comedian, is murdered, they begin to suspect that someone is taking out costumed heroes, perhaps getting them out of the way in order to prevent them from interfering with more sinister plans. Events unfold and interweave with not a thread left dangling, finally drawing all characters and plot lines together in a Gordian knot that is solved with such an exhilaratingly frightening slice that one is left both stirred and transfixed.
Zac Snyder, adaptor and director, has won my undying respect. His last effort, 300, was the movie that coined the praise “awesomely ridiculous and ridiculously awesome”. It made me a little nervous to learn that he would be taking on the Watchmen project, fearing that he might be a one-trick pony and would give it the same over-the-top, testosterone overdose treatment. When I finally saw it, I realized his gift as a comic book director. He has such respect for the purity of the original work, and an amazing ability to capture the atmosphere of these stories, from essence to ambiance. His love for the graphic novel as a medium is suffused into his films, much to their benefit.
Of all the adaptations of Moore’s work thus far, none have displayed such a brilliant grasp of the author’s point of view. Although 2 hours and 42 minutes long, it never drags, and they did a fabulous job conveying that much material without overloading or shortchanging someone who hasn’t read the novel. It suffered neither omission no dilution of any crucial aspect of the story, even when changes (prominent but few) were made; in fact, I think that the changes they made, dare I say it, actually almost improved upon the original. It was not rushed unnecessarily, which so often makes character developments so unbelievable; the pacing was impeccable.
The myriad of characters deserves so excellent a portrayal as this, for they, more so than the events around them, are the central focus of the story. Each hero has become one for different reasons, and each has their own idea of justice and how best it should be dealt. It is the first truly character-driven comic book movie I’ve seen, and they all have an affecting and provocative humanity rarely seen in the genre. Every actor was amazingly cast, most a dead ringer for the illustrations, and it was refreshing to see a cast containing almost no super-recognizable names and faces.
Visually and stylistically, for the most part it was beyond reproach.. We’ve gotten far enough away from 1985 that a movie set therein is now practically a period piece, which means it can be stylish when given the treatment of retrospective. (Imagine that: 1985--- and it’s aesthetically pleasing, somehow! Genius!) Costumes were superb, and even where they made big changes from the original design, they retained the original feel. Together with the sets, the costumes mostly keep the silhouettes of the eighties but pared them down, giving them a sleek modernism: the palate is mostly subdued, all the better to let bold primaries pop, and distracting tacky patterns have been weeded out. The visual effects were very good, nearly seamless, and even where they were less than perfect, it was not enough to break the spell. I guess Snyder had more material to cover and less time to kill with Watchmen than he did with 300, since the slow-fast-slow motion is kept to an acceptable minimum.
The graphic novel already read like the storyboard for a movie, and it appears that they used this to their advantage, because the editing and cinematography are brilliantly evocative of the panels. And although I’ve heard some people deriding the soundtrack, calling it trite, obvious, and unoriginal, in my opinion, the choices were perfect. Sometimes nostalgic (liking Simon & Garfunkel is not an intellectual crime), sometimes adorably ironic (see if you can catch which Tears for Fears song is playing in Adrian Viedt’s lobby), and sometimes thrilling (who can knock Mozart’s Requiem?), many of them are songs directly quoted in or incorporated into the original novel itself, and these choices are just another way of paying homage. Watchmen is Alan Moore’s simultaneous criticism of and cynical love letter to American culture and society, and he chose his musical references accordingly.
There may be some people who would complain about all the extra gratuitous violence and sex (the love scene is truly, graphically, ridiculously over the top, but he had to trump Leonidas fucking his wife good-bye somehow, right?), but I don’t associate with those kind of people and I don’t know anyone who does. If you like T&A, blood blood blood, explosions aplenty, complex characters, marvelously cohesive plots and thrills galore, then this movie is definitely for you. If you are not interested of partaking of all these delights on the big screen, you’d best stay at home, sip some tea, and read some classic literature while trying to pretend you aren’t the least bit curious to see how good this movie is.
Poor, poor Alan Moore.
Poor, poor Alan Moore.
Alan Moore is probably the most celebrated and definitely the most critically acclaimed graphic novelist of our times, and with good reason. His stories, dark and intricate, sardonic and exquisite, can easily hold their own against any fiction that takes itself more seriously due to its lack of graphic media. They are so entertaining and have such widespread appeal that three of his titles have already been made into films: From Hell (grossly underrated and utterly enjoyable, the best Jack the Ripper mythos ever contrived), The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (a godawful travesty, all traces of wit and vitality wrung out of the original story, leaving behind a dumbed-down, unpalatable mess), and V for Vendetta (well-crafted and badass, redeemed the Wachowski Brothers after those totally unsatisfactory latter two installments of the Matrix trilogy).
But alas, Mr. Moore has enjoyed no aspect of these movie projects, has neither seen them nor reaped any royalties. How could that be? one might ask. Has the poor man been contractually duped?
Nay. Condemnation. Disavowal. These are Mr. Moore’s stances. He will have nothing to do with the films made of his work. He has given his royalty rights to the illustrator every time, and he will not even deign to view them. But why such self-depriving madness? Perhaps he is simply a purist, completely devoted to his beloved graphic novel medium. Perhaps he is a pompous ivory tower snob, disdainful of any peon’s attempt to adapt his masterpieces. I cannot claim to know. All I know is, while one can almost see his point of view when considering the previous films, I feel truly sorry for him when it comes to Watchmen. If he is unwavering in his convictions, he’ll never know what he’s missing.
Poor, poor Alan Moore.
For Watchmen is, in my humble opinion, a triumph in almost every way, and one cannot imagine my relief that this is the case. Alan Moore’s Watchmen, fantastically illustrated by Dave Gibbons (lucky recipient of Moore’s portion of the royalties and option rights for the film, this time), is the author’s magnum opus. It is widely considered the greatest graphic novel of all time. Time magazine named it among the 100 greatest English language novels since 1923. All this acclaim is certainly deserved. The first time I read it, it blew my nineteen-year-old mind in a way few books have, before or since. I was giddy yet terrified when they announced it would become a movie. For more than a year, I awaited it with bated breath.
It. Was. Awesome.
Set in an alternate 1985 in which costumed heroes are outlawed, one man’s atomic powers make up most of America’s Cold War defense, and Tricky Dick Nixon is serving his fifth term in the White House, Watchmen follows a disbanded team of retired, semiretired and illegally active masked crime-fighters. When one of their number, the Comedian, is murdered, they begin to suspect that someone is taking out costumed heroes, perhaps getting them out of the way in order to prevent them from interfering with more sinister plans. Events unfold and interweave with not a thread left dangling, finally drawing all characters and plot lines together in a Gordian knot that is solved with such an exhilaratingly frightening slice that one is left both stirred and transfixed.
Zac Snyder, adaptor and director, has won my undying respect. His last effort, 300, was the movie that coined the praise “awesomely ridiculous and ridiculously awesome”. It made me a little nervous to learn that he would be taking on the Watchmen project, fearing that he might be a one-trick pony and would give it the same over-the-top, testosterone overdose treatment. When I finally saw it, I realized his gift as a comic book director. He has such respect for the purity of the original work, and an amazing ability to capture the atmosphere of these stories, from essence to ambiance. His love for the graphic novel as a medium is suffused into his films, much to their benefit.
Of all the adaptations of Moore’s work thus far, none have displayed such a brilliant grasp of the author’s point of view. Although 2 hours and 42 minutes long, it never drags, and they did a fabulous job conveying that much material without overloading or shortchanging someone who hasn’t read the novel. It suffered neither omission no dilution of any crucial aspect of the story, even when changes (prominent but few) were made; in fact, I think that the changes they made, dare I say it, actually almost improved upon the original. It was not rushed unnecessarily, which so often makes character developments so unbelievable; the pacing was impeccable.
The myriad of characters deserves so excellent a portrayal as this, for they, more so than the events around them, are the central focus of the story. Each hero has become one for different reasons, and each has their own idea of justice and how best it should be dealt. It is the first truly character-driven comic book movie I’ve seen, and they all have an affecting and provocative humanity rarely seen in the genre. Every actor was amazingly cast, most a dead ringer for the illustrations, and it was refreshing to see a cast containing almost no super-recognizable names and faces.
Visually and stylistically, for the most part it was beyond reproach.. We’ve gotten far enough away from 1985 that a movie set therein is now practically a period piece, which means it can be stylish when given the treatment of retrospective. (Imagine that: 1985--- and it’s aesthetically pleasing, somehow! Genius!) Costumes were superb, and even where they made big changes from the original design, they retained the original feel. Together with the sets, the costumes mostly keep the silhouettes of the eighties but pared them down, giving them a sleek modernism: the palate is mostly subdued, all the better to let bold primaries pop, and distracting tacky patterns have been weeded out. The visual effects were very good, nearly seamless, and even where they were less than perfect, it was not enough to break the spell. I guess Snyder had more material to cover and less time to kill with Watchmen than he did with 300, since the slow-fast-slow motion is kept to an acceptable minimum.
The graphic novel already read like the storyboard for a movie, and it appears that they used this to their advantage, because the editing and cinematography are brilliantly evocative of the panels. And although I’ve heard some people deriding the soundtrack, calling it trite, obvious, and unoriginal, in my opinion, the choices were perfect. Sometimes nostalgic (liking Simon & Garfunkel is not an intellectual crime), sometimes adorably ironic (see if you can catch which Tears for Fears song is playing in Adrian Viedt’s lobby), and sometimes thrilling (who can knock Mozart’s Requiem?), many of them are songs directly quoted in or incorporated into the original novel itself, and these choices are just another way of paying homage. Watchmen is Alan Moore’s simultaneous criticism of and cynical love letter to American culture and society, and he chose his musical references accordingly.
There may be some people who would complain about all the extra gratuitous violence and sex (the love scene is truly, graphically, ridiculously over the top, but he had to trump Leonidas fucking his wife good-bye somehow, right?), but I don’t associate with those kind of people and I don’t know anyone who does. If you like T&A, blood blood blood, explosions aplenty, complex characters, marvelously cohesive plots and thrills galore, then this movie is definitely for you. If you are not interested of partaking of all these delights on the big screen, you’d best stay at home, sip some tea, and read some classic literature while trying to pretend you aren’t the least bit curious to see how good this movie is.
Poor, poor Alan Moore.
* * * * * out of * * * * *
Dystopia. Drug-laced milk. Menagé a trois. Fashionably coordinating hoodlums, classical music, and ultraviolence. Stanley Kubrick’s darkly marvelous A Clockwork Orange may not be everyone’s favorite, but it will always hold great appeal for us quirky, hip young things. We get an attractive, charismatic antihero in Alex DeLarge, unforgettably portrayed by young Malcolm McDowell, a smirking deviant who spouts highly quotable Russo-Cockney slang and who has a penchant for Beethoven. He and his droogs, dressed to the nines and hopped up on narcotics, have a malicious itch to scratch, a soulless thirst for depravity and destruction. They slake that thirst with ultraviolence, which includes gang rumbles, assault on the elderly, theft, rape, and murder. In essence, we delight in all the elements which shocked and outraged the generations before us, and if we didn’t watch it in defiance of their moral values, we’d watch it simply because, from script to sets to costumes to soundtrack, it’s so damn stylish.
Children of a desensitized and over-psychoanalyzed age, we empathize with Little Alex as he goes from thrill-seeking reprobate to convicted murderer to insincerely reformed prisoner who, in an effort to trick the system and gain early release, agrees to undergo experimental psychological treatment. The Ludovico Method “cures” Alex by conditioning him to be physically ill at the contemplation of violence or, as a cruel side-effect, upon hearing his beloved Ludwig Van. With his dearly-bought freedom he finds he is disenfranchised, displaced, and disillusioned. Deprived of all that once gave him joy, he is victimized and brutalized by the world he once had on a blood-soaked string. But never fear, O my brothers. In the manner of any good story about essential badness, all’s miraculously well that ends well for our Little Alex.
There’s moral issues in there somewhere, about the nature of goodness and freewill and blah blah blah. The book is much better for all that. The appeal of the film is the mirror we fancy it holds up to us: cultured, intelligent youth with a devil-may-care attitude and a lust for extreme overindulgence, punished by society for defying its laws yet ultimately glorified by it for doing so. A Clockwork Orange will always be adored by we vain young intellectuals. So here’s to violence, sex, drugs, and Beethoven rolling back over. Horrorshow.
(This review to appear, edited by Jim Ridley, in a forthcoming issue of the Nashville Scene! Keep your eyes peeled, true believers!)
Dystopia. Drug-laced milk. Menagé a trois. Fashionably coordinating hoodlums, classical music, and ultraviolence. Stanley Kubrick’s darkly marvelous A Clockwork Orange may not be everyone’s favorite, but it will always hold great appeal for us quirky, hip young things. We get an attractive, charismatic antihero in Alex DeLarge, unforgettably portrayed by young Malcolm McDowell, a smirking deviant who spouts highly quotable Russo-Cockney slang and who has a penchant for Beethoven. He and his droogs, dressed to the nines and hopped up on narcotics, have a malicious itch to scratch, a soulless thirst for depravity and destruction. They slake that thirst with ultraviolence, which includes gang rumbles, assault on the elderly, theft, rape, and murder. In essence, we delight in all the elements which shocked and outraged the generations before us, and if we didn’t watch it in defiance of their moral values, we’d watch it simply because, from script to sets to costumes to soundtrack, it’s so damn stylish.
Children of a desensitized and over-psychoanalyzed age, we empathize with Little Alex as he goes from thrill-seeking reprobate to convicted murderer to insincerely reformed prisoner who, in an effort to trick the system and gain early release, agrees to undergo experimental psychological treatment. The Ludovico Method “cures” Alex by conditioning him to be physically ill at the contemplation of violence or, as a cruel side-effect, upon hearing his beloved Ludwig Van. With his dearly-bought freedom he finds he is disenfranchised, displaced, and disillusioned. Deprived of all that once gave him joy, he is victimized and brutalized by the world he once had on a blood-soaked string. But never fear, O my brothers. In the manner of any good story about essential badness, all’s miraculously well that ends well for our Little Alex.
There’s moral issues in there somewhere, about the nature of goodness and freewill and blah blah blah. The book is much better for all that. The appeal of the film is the mirror we fancy it holds up to us: cultured, intelligent youth with a devil-may-care attitude and a lust for extreme overindulgence, punished by society for defying its laws yet ultimately glorified by it for doing so. A Clockwork Orange will always be adored by we vain young intellectuals. So here’s to violence, sex, drugs, and Beethoven rolling back over. Horrorshow.
(This review to appear, edited by Jim Ridley, in a forthcoming issue of the Nashville Scene! Keep your eyes peeled, true believers!)
* * * * out of * * * * *
When I asked my father if he'd like to see this movie with me, he replied, "Well, I don't much like the man" (meaning humorist Bill Maher) "and I don't much care for his opinions, either. So, no, I don't think I'll enjoy it much." He went on to say that he has no time for those who make fun of others simply for having faith, which is, I admit, the main point of the documentary. As a loving daughter and one who had a charismatic Christian upbringing, I would be inclined to agree; I was taught to believe that the exploration of other religions was dangerous (I had to enjoy "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" on the sly as a child due to the fear that it would indoctrinate me with "Eastern philosophies") and that the questioning, let alone the mocking, of the faith in which I had been brought up was downright sinful. However, as an intelligent and inquisitive young woman who has long since thrown off the shackles of ignorance, and as a modern-day Marco Polo of religious exploration, I was obviously intrigued by the concept of Religulous. Maher and director Larry Charles scoured the earth and found the excessively, obsessively devout to ask them for an explanation. Why do they, how can they, believe all the things they believe? And if they can even begin to provide such an explanation, how can they possibly justify all the hatred, intolerance, oppression, misery, and bloodshed spawned by religious adherence?
Maher and Charles set out with two goals: to expose the ridiculous in modern (and almost exclusively Western) religion, and to create a call to arms to the non-religious among us. They succeeded on both accounts.
As a documentary, it is masterfully entertaining, and, for those mercifully lacking in delicate sensibilities, laugh-out-loud hilarious nearly throughout. Bill Maher, host (is that the correct title for the "star" of a documentary? Maybe film school would have been a good idea after all) and credited writer, takes the stance of the sardonic agnostic; when asked to define his faith, he repeatedly states, "I don't know". But he does manage to stifle the sarcasm enough (when he's not interviewing) to convey his genuine incredulity that anyone can claim to know anything as far as faith is concerned, much less practice all the absurdity and injustice carried out in its name. In his interviews, however, sarcastic disbelief prevails, as he almost seems to be conspiratorially nudging some of the interviewees, saying, "C'mon, now, you can tell me, you don't really believe this nonsense, do you?" However, while his questions are definitely leading, rather than directly poke fun at his subjects, he lets them make themselves ridiculous with their responses. (My personal favorite is Arkansas Senator Mark Pryor's entire segment. He drops some of the most Dubbya-esque abuses of both intelligence and the English language I've heard since, well... Dubbya.) Not all the subjects make fools out of themselves, however, the most refreshing of these being the two Vatican priests who consent to talk to him. (He's been on the Vatican's shit list for a while now, as evidenced by their forcible ejection from the Holy City by the Swiss Guard.) Both make such thoroughly sensible yet unapologetic arguments that even Maher is taken by pleasant surprise.
Larry Charles, whose most recent, most famous, and most controversial work (until now?) was 2006's Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, brought the same chuckling irreverence from that mockumentary to this film, although obviously toned down a bit by the presence of a non-fictional host. Religulous is well-paced and engaging, mostly due to Charles' comedic directoral magic. He leaves in all the right details to highlight the opposition they face and their bold defiance of spiritual "authority", such as pointing out the infidel status of the entire crew, himself (a Jew) and Maher (50% Catholic, 50% Jewish) included, that was being allowed to film inside the Dome of the Rock, where Jews are strictly forbidden entrance. Charles' sly wit behind the scenes makes the documentary into a genuinely diverting experience and not just another pedantic bore.
Although the film held few surprises for me as far as the ludicrous extents to which people take their religious fanaticism, it could prove quite enlightening for anyone who hasn't necessarily been exposed to this unconventional flipside and who is willing to take the opportunity to rethink some things. The documentary makes the quite relevant point that for something so fundamentally mythic and subjective, we sure do let religion make quite a mess of things. As Maher points out, the Non-Religious are this country's largest minority, and he calls out for them to wise up, rise up, and make some much-needed change in a world gone higher power-mad. One can only hope that there are enough people willing to give over two hours of their life to Religulous to be enormously entertained, to have their thoughts provoked, to hear the call and decide for themselves how best to heed it.
When I asked my father if he'd like to see this movie with me, he replied, "Well, I don't much like the man" (meaning humorist Bill Maher) "and I don't much care for his opinions, either. So, no, I don't think I'll enjoy it much." He went on to say that he has no time for those who make fun of others simply for having faith, which is, I admit, the main point of the documentary. As a loving daughter and one who had a charismatic Christian upbringing, I would be inclined to agree; I was taught to believe that the exploration of other religions was dangerous (I had to enjoy "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" on the sly as a child due to the fear that it would indoctrinate me with "Eastern philosophies") and that the questioning, let alone the mocking, of the faith in which I had been brought up was downright sinful. However, as an intelligent and inquisitive young woman who has long since thrown off the shackles of ignorance, and as a modern-day Marco Polo of religious exploration, I was obviously intrigued by the concept of Religulous. Maher and director Larry Charles scoured the earth and found the excessively, obsessively devout to ask them for an explanation. Why do they, how can they, believe all the things they believe? And if they can even begin to provide such an explanation, how can they possibly justify all the hatred, intolerance, oppression, misery, and bloodshed spawned by religious adherence?
Maher and Charles set out with two goals: to expose the ridiculous in modern (and almost exclusively Western) religion, and to create a call to arms to the non-religious among us. They succeeded on both accounts.
As a documentary, it is masterfully entertaining, and, for those mercifully lacking in delicate sensibilities, laugh-out-loud hilarious nearly throughout. Bill Maher, host (is that the correct title for the "star" of a documentary? Maybe film school would have been a good idea after all) and credited writer, takes the stance of the sardonic agnostic; when asked to define his faith, he repeatedly states, "I don't know". But he does manage to stifle the sarcasm enough (when he's not interviewing) to convey his genuine incredulity that anyone can claim to know anything as far as faith is concerned, much less practice all the absurdity and injustice carried out in its name. In his interviews, however, sarcastic disbelief prevails, as he almost seems to be conspiratorially nudging some of the interviewees, saying, "C'mon, now, you can tell me, you don't really believe this nonsense, do you?" However, while his questions are definitely leading, rather than directly poke fun at his subjects, he lets them make themselves ridiculous with their responses. (My personal favorite is Arkansas Senator Mark Pryor's entire segment. He drops some of the most Dubbya-esque abuses of both intelligence and the English language I've heard since, well... Dubbya.) Not all the subjects make fools out of themselves, however, the most refreshing of these being the two Vatican priests who consent to talk to him. (He's been on the Vatican's shit list for a while now, as evidenced by their forcible ejection from the Holy City by the Swiss Guard.) Both make such thoroughly sensible yet unapologetic arguments that even Maher is taken by pleasant surprise.
Larry Charles, whose most recent, most famous, and most controversial work (until now?) was 2006's Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan, brought the same chuckling irreverence from that mockumentary to this film, although obviously toned down a bit by the presence of a non-fictional host. Religulous is well-paced and engaging, mostly due to Charles' comedic directoral magic. He leaves in all the right details to highlight the opposition they face and their bold defiance of spiritual "authority", such as pointing out the infidel status of the entire crew, himself (a Jew) and Maher (50% Catholic, 50% Jewish) included, that was being allowed to film inside the Dome of the Rock, where Jews are strictly forbidden entrance. Charles' sly wit behind the scenes makes the documentary into a genuinely diverting experience and not just another pedantic bore.
Although the film held few surprises for me as far as the ludicrous extents to which people take their religious fanaticism, it could prove quite enlightening for anyone who hasn't necessarily been exposed to this unconventional flipside and who is willing to take the opportunity to rethink some things. The documentary makes the quite relevant point that for something so fundamentally mythic and subjective, we sure do let religion make quite a mess of things. As Maher points out, the Non-Religious are this country's largest minority, and he calls out for them to wise up, rise up, and make some much-needed change in a world gone higher power-mad. One can only hope that there are enough people willing to give over two hours of their life to Religulous to be enormously entertained, to have their thoughts provoked, to hear the call and decide for themselves how best to heed it.
The Duchess
* * * out of * * * * *
I was plenty excited to see The Duchess, even despite the ubiquitous, bony presence of Keira Knightly (whom I like in a guilty pleasure capacity at best). I am obsessed with period pieces, especially of the late-eighteenth century variety. This one had a lot to offer in the way of indulgent escapism: gorgeous costumes (probably a shoe-in for the Academy Award in that category, like Marie Antoinette before it), lavish sets, aristocrats enmeshed in their sublimely complicated and constricting ettiquette while engaging in political, social, and sexual intrigue. I knew that it's title character, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, was a close personal friend of two of my favorite figures from the era, Marie Antoinette and her own favorite, the Duchesse de Polignac, and I therefore expected a delightful, fun-filled romp akin to the aforementioned Marie Antoinette, bursting with decadence and gaiety and over-indulgence, tempered with measured doses of reality and humanity. Alas, in this respect I was to be disappointed.
A fun-filled romp it was not, instead taking a decidedly more serious tone that I am sure was meant to be poignant and profound but came off (to me, at least) as dreary and depressing. It was too obvious in its Oscar aspirations, although Knightly's performance is admittedly her best to date and, depending on her competition, may well get a Best Actress nomination. In the way of Oscar-hopefuls, the story is a tragic one: Georgiana, at a very tender age, catches the eye of the wealthy and powerful Duke of Devonshire (played by the always incredible Ralph Fiennes, delightful as ever in a snobby, hatred-inspiring role) and is wedded to him after only a few brief encounters. Thus she is thrown into a marriage devoid not only of love, but of caring, compassion, or even humanity. The Duke makes it quite clear that she exists only to produce him an heir, a feat which she finds exceedingly difficult, while tolerating all of his licentious affairs, a feat which she finds nearly unbearable when he makes her closest friend, Lady Elizabeth Foster (played by Hayley Atwell, a prettily plump relief from Knightly's skeletal figure), his live-in mistress. To cope, Georgiana throws herself into her passions for gambling, fashion, and politics. Her political doings include future Prime Minister Charles Grey (Dominic Cooper, who performed admirably but I could have gone for better eye candy), and therein lies her husband's ridiculously hypocritical contention and the cause of all her proceeding misfortune.
It wasn't bad by any means, and it did have the power to move me emotionally, even after I left the theatre, which is impressive even if what it moved me to was a mild yet permeating sense of dis-ease that was only alleviated by watching a more uplifting film at home. I was intrigued to discover that Georgiana was an ancestor of Princess Diana; one can draw all sorts of interesting parallels between the lives and trials of the two English it-girls. All in all, the film did what it set out to accomplish, which was to give a sympathetic and sometimes captivating portrayal of a historical figure little-know in today's popular culture. Hopefully it will help to further immortalize the iconic aristocrat, and it will almost definitely have an even more desirable effect, as far as I'm concerned, in spawning ever more big-budget, opulent period piece escapisms.
