A torrid affair
Tits, ass and tears dominate the screen in The Affair of the Necklace
REVIEW
THE AFFAIR OF THE NECKLACE
Starring Hilary Swank, Jonathan Pryce, Simon Baker-Denny and Brian Cox
Directed by Charles Shyer
Opens Friday, January 18
Plaza Theatre
Based on real events....
Hilary Swank plays the dispossessed Countess Jeanne de la Motte Valois, who is determined to restore honour to her family name and regain her estate. When the Court of Versailles refuses to authenticate her lineage, the Countess enlists the help of her estranged husband, Nicolas de la Motte (Adrien Brody), her male courtesan, Retaux de Villette (Simon Baker-Denny), and foreign mystic Count Cagliostro (Christopher Walken) to help in her scheme to recover her birthright. Collectively, they swindle the powerful Cardinal de Rohan (Jonathan Pryce) into buying a massive diamond necklace which he thinks is intended for Marie Antoinette. The plot succeeds, but not for long – the perpetrators are caught and tried, the Royal Family's excesses become public knowledge, nobles are disgraced, let them eat cake, violence, revolution, guillotine, etc., yawn, is that the time?
Swank (sporting big hair and big cleavage) gives a pretty embarrassing performance as the opportunistic Countess, with whom we're expected to sympathize because, uh, she's attractive and her eyes tear up when she thinks of how her family was wronged (shown in fiery flashbacks, of course). She's also a ruthless liar and a thief, but for some reason she is presented here as a victim. This is possibly the most destructive historical flub of the film, because it makes a whiny dullard out of a potentially fascinating character and denies her the more accurate role of villain surrounded by villains.
Much of the fault lies with director Charles Shyer, whose leap from cosy, contemporary Father of the Bride to Political Intrigue in Snug Corsets seems ill-advised. Shot in Prague and Versailles, the film is opulent and beautiful in the manner of Dangerous Liaisons or Elizabeth, but with a mediocre script and what seems to be a lack of concentration and creativity, Shyer ends up with a ponderous Harlequin romance in which a couple of bodices are actually honest-to-god ripped.
The actors have nothing to do except peek at each other from beneath scarlet cowls, or fondle carved figurines whilst discussing cunning strategies. Typically, the actors speak in English accents – you know, to prove that the characters are Authentic 18th Century Francophones – and so we are subjected to Swank's Kevin Costner-awful BBC diction. Situations and characters are hyperbolic to the point of ridiculousness, and, as usual, corruption and decadence are indicated through sex, silk and violence. The power-crazed Cardinal de Rohan appears alongside his dangerous soothsayer, Count Cagliostro, in a spectacularly gratuitous orgy scene. It's practically self-parody – you really can't have Caligula and Rasputin in the same movie without throwing in some ninjas as well.
Why the Countess aspires to be part of this nonsense is anyone's guess. Tears, tits and ass do not a human drama make, and Shyer should learn to respect his audience – or at the very least his actors. |
