(David Slade, 2005)
A young girl meets an older man, initially through the internet, and subsequently in real life. She's gonna tie him up and have his nuts for ear-rings 'cause she's convinced he's a kiddy fiddler. But he says he isn't. So is he or isn't he? Oooh, the suspense! Actually, the initial stages of the film build up an incredible sense of foreboding, but when it all kicks off, it isn't really as gory and horrific as I'd hoped, and the twists and turns near the end utterly sapped my patience. Still, as a film that consists largely in one long dialogue between two characters, it was very well scripted and acted.
Showing posts with label H. Show all posts
Showing posts with label H. Show all posts
20 August 2007
05 January 2007
The Hours
(Stephen Daldry, 2002)
This is strange. A biopic of the final days of Virginia Woolf intercut (rather overenthusiastically, it has to be said) with two entirely fictional stories apparently bearing no more meaningful a relation to Woolf than that they involve certain themes (e.g., lesbianism, illness, suicide) relevant to both her life and her novel, Mrs. Dalloway. The question is: why? A straightforward biopic of Woolf wouldn’t necessarily have been as interesting (especially in terms of narrative structure) but would at least have been possible to interpret. Similarly, a biopic of Woolf intercut with a screen adaptation of Mrs. Dalloway could have formed a more coherent whole (and offered some structural complexity, especially in those scenes where we see Woolf making decisions about the direction of the novel’s plot). But a biopic of Woolf intercut with two distinct yet thematically similar fictions? I understand the idea, but I really don’t see the justification for it. It just seems so arbitrary, like if Oliver Stone had intercut The Doors with an independent fictional piece about a man who happens to enjoy drug experimentation, writing quasi-mystical poetry, and getting his cock out.
The Hours is a decent, well-made, well-acted film. It just left me with a bad aftertaste; the sour flavour of unwarranted randomness.
The Hours @ IMDb
This is strange. A biopic of the final days of Virginia Woolf intercut (rather overenthusiastically, it has to be said) with two entirely fictional stories apparently bearing no more meaningful a relation to Woolf than that they involve certain themes (e.g., lesbianism, illness, suicide) relevant to both her life and her novel, Mrs. Dalloway. The question is: why? A straightforward biopic of Woolf wouldn’t necessarily have been as interesting (especially in terms of narrative structure) but would at least have been possible to interpret. Similarly, a biopic of Woolf intercut with a screen adaptation of Mrs. Dalloway could have formed a more coherent whole (and offered some structural complexity, especially in those scenes where we see Woolf making decisions about the direction of the novel’s plot). But a biopic of Woolf intercut with two distinct yet thematically similar fictions? I understand the idea, but I really don’t see the justification for it. It just seems so arbitrary, like if Oliver Stone had intercut The Doors with an independent fictional piece about a man who happens to enjoy drug experimentation, writing quasi-mystical poetry, and getting his cock out.
The Hours is a decent, well-made, well-acted film. It just left me with a bad aftertaste; the sour flavour of unwarranted randomness.
The Hours @ IMDb
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