As soon as I heard David Lynch’s Inland Empire would not be premiering in Cannes, any urine-sodden embers of interest I had in this self-congratulatory blingfest were extinguished. However, from afar matters remain amusing. The poor reception given to a risible film from a pointless potboiler mentioned before in these pages was encouraging, but will mean little to knuckle-draggers at the Odeon.
What was better was the judicious use of “Boo” at a criminally overrated dynastic daughter of a Holywood waster. I remember eating stale popcorn while confined in the dark, watching the celluloid spack that it is Godfather Part III and noticing a particularly wooden performance from a dark haired, nose based actrice. Nepotism was in the house, as emerging dazed from a blizzard of Bolivian and dubious winemaking, Francis was ensuring the family business had an auteristic future. Later on, she celebrated Scarlett Johansson’s rear and Bill Murray’s deadpan skills in a piece based on the idea that, hey, Japan is really rather different and being there can seem lonely. It slid across the critical radar inoffensively like a tiny rubber cockroach on some imaginary Gozilla set.
Now she has combined period drama with post-punk, casting underfed, aging prom queen Dunst as Marie Antoinette, the misunderstood fun loving inbred who partied to the end, not smelling the fecal writing on the wall for a Regime that had outlived any kind of relevance in a world of reason. All concerned must have been assured of the brilliance of the project. The dichotomy of modern music and sensibilities in a period setting, edgy director, teen friendly cast and punky marketing would have had the focus group creatives as erect as an ill advised ‘astroturf’ web marketing campaign. Who would have expected an instant chorus of mockery to spoil the party? Like a bunch of monkey turds inserted amongst the Maltesers at an office function. Hopefully in the end a few fewer gimps will burn cash to see it when it emerges like a gilded, uncool cloud of flatus in the Autumn.
In the end, the judges continued the tradition of mistaking cack-handed propaganda for art and awarded old Stalinist Ken Loach the prize for his rant on the Irish Civil War. Of course, for Ken a Civil War can be confusing as it usually involves two sides with competing political claims (as well as atrocities to their name). This doesn’t work well with a tabloid binary worldview coupled to a comic book reading of Marxism. For Ken, a much better idea is to tell the story of plucky Celts fighting off genocidal Brits. Never mind the complex tragedies of Home Rule or the fact that De Valera’s legacy is that of a blood-soaked clown unable to accept the Treaty on offer as the best solution on the table, the whole thing is extremely good v. very bad much like Iraq in the eyes of the rump hard left. Put your plastic shamrock away please, Ken, as to sensible eyes this guff has less complexity than the average paramilitary mural.
A dramatist would see a tragic and bloody divorce, much like the partition of India. A polemicist sees only victims and villains, alongside a chance at export markets. One just hopes that the yoof will see it is a melodramatic romp and not even the smallest glimmer of history. Or drama.
If it is neither arthouse nor grindhouse it is nothing of value.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
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