May I first say what a fine addition this movie will make to Lifetime's library of theatrical motion pictures. Ah, how I look forward to seeing this garbage every three months for the rest of my life on 'television for women'. P-yooo, what a stinker! I knew I was in trouble when James Horner's score started a whole minute before the credits--I had to endure endless logo reels from Universal, Dreamworks (a real bladder-buster) and Imagine before the credits even began. And what's the first credit card on screen? Universal Dreamworks Imagine present! Talk about ego!
To paraphrase a character in the movie, both Ron Howard's treacly direction and Akiva Goldsman's simplistic script are both WITLESS and OBVIOUS. This is nothing you haven't seen a thousand times before on a Sunday night on CBS. Whatever quality this movie may possess rests solely on the shoulders of Russell Crowe. His dedicated performance is the glue that holds this gooey mish-mash together from start to finish. (Though, I must confess, I won't lose any sleep if Denzel Washington wins the Oscar this year.) Crowe rises above the mostly temporarily-tepid talents of everyone around him to make every scene he's in at least appear to be trenchant. I can only guess that it is Crowe's unflinching energy throughout that is giving life to the ridiculous critical attention this movie as a whole has attained in recent months. Yet when Crowe is off the screen, we remember just how stuck we are in yet another TV disease-movie-of-the-week. Regarding Jennifer Connelly's performance, oft-lauded of late, let me say this: I'll be the first to admit that both she and her role fit like a hand-in-glove; which is to say, how fortunate it was of Ron Howard to find a two-dimensional actress to portray a two-dimensional character.
Anachronisms abound in this movie, particularly in the dialogue. And where did that huge budget go? A couple of Packards and an old Olivetti? And for some reason, the makeup has been nominated for an Oscar. What braniac on the makeup staff forget to fill in Adam Goldberg's huge earring holes? (I guess his character likes to play pirates on the weekend.) But the most egregious faults of this film lay in Goldsman's cheesy love-conquers-all approach and outrageous alteration of the facts. A disclaimer at the end of the movie states that "...a number of incidents have been fictionalized...". A number?! Not "some". Not "a few". But "a number"? Okay, how about...uh...82? That's a number. That the producers would purport for a moment that this movie bears anything close to the truth is a crime in itself. And the attitude that hand-holding, bear-hugs and doe-eyes is a valid treatment for a severe mental illness is an insult to one's intelligence. They would have you believe that WUV cures EVERYTHING: schizophrenia, typhoid, lupus, psoriasis, herpes, dandruff, you name it.
That this movie would even for a moment be considered a potential member of a pantheon of pictures which includes "On The Waterfront", "The Godfather" or "Lawrence of Arabia" is terrifying to imagine. Any one of the other four Best Picture Oscar-nominees this year is superior in every respect to this emperor-with-no-clothes. I'm not kidding--if this dreck wins, I'm off movies for the rest of my life.
To paraphrase a character in the movie, both Ron Howard's treacly direction and Akiva Goldsman's simplistic script are both WITLESS and OBVIOUS. This is nothing you haven't seen a thousand times before on a Sunday night on CBS. Whatever quality this movie may possess rests solely on the shoulders of Russell Crowe. His dedicated performance is the glue that holds this gooey mish-mash together from start to finish. (Though, I must confess, I won't lose any sleep if Denzel Washington wins the Oscar this year.) Crowe rises above the mostly temporarily-tepid talents of everyone around him to make every scene he's in at least appear to be trenchant. I can only guess that it is Crowe's unflinching energy throughout that is giving life to the ridiculous critical attention this movie as a whole has attained in recent months. Yet when Crowe is off the screen, we remember just how stuck we are in yet another TV disease-movie-of-the-week. Regarding Jennifer Connelly's performance, oft-lauded of late, let me say this: I'll be the first to admit that both she and her role fit like a hand-in-glove; which is to say, how fortunate it was of Ron Howard to find a two-dimensional actress to portray a two-dimensional character.
Anachronisms abound in this movie, particularly in the dialogue. And where did that huge budget go? A couple of Packards and an old Olivetti? And for some reason, the makeup has been nominated for an Oscar. What braniac on the makeup staff forget to fill in Adam Goldberg's huge earring holes? (I guess his character likes to play pirates on the weekend.) But the most egregious faults of this film lay in Goldsman's cheesy love-conquers-all approach and outrageous alteration of the facts. A disclaimer at the end of the movie states that "...a number of incidents have been fictionalized...". A number?! Not "some". Not "a few". But "a number"? Okay, how about...uh...82? That's a number. That the producers would purport for a moment that this movie bears anything close to the truth is a crime in itself. And the attitude that hand-holding, bear-hugs and doe-eyes is a valid treatment for a severe mental illness is an insult to one's intelligence. They would have you believe that WUV cures EVERYTHING: schizophrenia, typhoid, lupus, psoriasis, herpes, dandruff, you name it.
That this movie would even for a moment be considered a potential member of a pantheon of pictures which includes "On The Waterfront", "The Godfather" or "Lawrence of Arabia" is terrifying to imagine. Any one of the other four Best Picture Oscar-nominees this year is superior in every respect to this emperor-with-no-clothes. I'm not kidding--if this dreck wins, I'm off movies for the rest of my life.