The columnist, Tim Stanley, observed recently, 'No wonder males are in crisis: they're invariably portrayed as thick, violent or sex-obsessed' - or all three. So when my wife suggested going to see this film, I thought, 'Oh no, not another tedious anti-man platform!'
Although, on the face of it, this movie, about an author who gains the Nobel Prize as a result of spongeing off his wife's writing ability, doesn't exactly falsify my assumption, the story it offers is a little more nuanced than it might first appear.
One day, Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce on good form) gets the phonecall he's been waiting for all his life. The Nobel Prize committee have awarded him the prize for Literature. With his wife, Joan (Glenn Close), and son (Max Irons) in tow, he is soon on his way to Stockholm and the grand presentation dinner.
We discover that Joe is an ageing lothario, is prone to vanity, and has very little ability to empathise with his son, who is attempting to establish himself as an author in his father's shadow. He also takes his wife very much for granted in a forgetful kind of way. She, meanwhile, becomes increasingly resentful as his big moment nears, struggling to supress her anger and sense of injustice.
By means of a series of flashbacks, in which the Castleman's younger selves are rather unconvincingly portrayed, we learn that Joe is a second-rater, and that it is his wife who posesses the true talent. So a pact is born; he will field the publicity accruing from any literary success arising from the books he has started but which she has developed to a publishable level, while she will be able to live quietly, as she wishes, creating the masterworks - or rather mistressworks - free from the critical gaze of press and public. She presumably never imagined that decades later their efforts would lead to a Nobel Prize. Who would?
At the awards dinner, Joe cannot resist trying to make amends for taking credit where none is due and so ease his guilty conscience, by paying tribute to his wife 'without whom none of this would have been possible' etc, despite her telling him not mention her. At this point we are really wanting Joan to stand up for truth and spill the beans in a shock-horror moment that will not only dish dodgy Joe, but also throw the stuffed shirts of the Nobel bureaucrats into a massive tizzy.
But, disappointingly, nothing happens. Then later, after poetic justice is done by Joe dying from a heart attack, the wife robustly defends him from the gutter pressman (Christian Slater) who has been sniffing around for years in search of dirt on the Great Author. After all, exposing him would also be exposing her own complicity in his game. Much more convenient to keep quiet.
So while none of the main male characters are exactly role models - his son is a bit of an overgrown sniveller and the pressman is reptilian - the wife doesn't come out too well either.
While the performances are strong, the characterisation is perhaps too soft-edged to produce anything really explosive. Joe is not a nice man, but neither is he a really vicious, scheming beast. Similarly, the wife, although wronged, has only herself to blame - as my wife pointed out to me, she paid her money and took her choice to collude both in the misrepresentation of Joe's work and in his dalliances.
Which all leaves one feeling slightly underwhelmed. Even so, actors of this calibre are always worth watching and the movie is still entertaining. It just seems a bit like Joe's unaided writing, somewhat lacking in sparkle. And it won't be winning any prizes, at least not from me.
Although, on the face of it, this movie, about an author who gains the Nobel Prize as a result of spongeing off his wife's writing ability, doesn't exactly falsify my assumption, the story it offers is a little more nuanced than it might first appear.
One day, Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce on good form) gets the phonecall he's been waiting for all his life. The Nobel Prize committee have awarded him the prize for Literature. With his wife, Joan (Glenn Close), and son (Max Irons) in tow, he is soon on his way to Stockholm and the grand presentation dinner.
We discover that Joe is an ageing lothario, is prone to vanity, and has very little ability to empathise with his son, who is attempting to establish himself as an author in his father's shadow. He also takes his wife very much for granted in a forgetful kind of way. She, meanwhile, becomes increasingly resentful as his big moment nears, struggling to supress her anger and sense of injustice.
By means of a series of flashbacks, in which the Castleman's younger selves are rather unconvincingly portrayed, we learn that Joe is a second-rater, and that it is his wife who posesses the true talent. So a pact is born; he will field the publicity accruing from any literary success arising from the books he has started but which she has developed to a publishable level, while she will be able to live quietly, as she wishes, creating the masterworks - or rather mistressworks - free from the critical gaze of press and public. She presumably never imagined that decades later their efforts would lead to a Nobel Prize. Who would?
At the awards dinner, Joe cannot resist trying to make amends for taking credit where none is due and so ease his guilty conscience, by paying tribute to his wife 'without whom none of this would have been possible' etc, despite her telling him not mention her. At this point we are really wanting Joan to stand up for truth and spill the beans in a shock-horror moment that will not only dish dodgy Joe, but also throw the stuffed shirts of the Nobel bureaucrats into a massive tizzy.
But, disappointingly, nothing happens. Then later, after poetic justice is done by Joe dying from a heart attack, the wife robustly defends him from the gutter pressman (Christian Slater) who has been sniffing around for years in search of dirt on the Great Author. After all, exposing him would also be exposing her own complicity in his game. Much more convenient to keep quiet.
So while none of the main male characters are exactly role models - his son is a bit of an overgrown sniveller and the pressman is reptilian - the wife doesn't come out too well either.
While the performances are strong, the characterisation is perhaps too soft-edged to produce anything really explosive. Joe is not a nice man, but neither is he a really vicious, scheming beast. Similarly, the wife, although wronged, has only herself to blame - as my wife pointed out to me, she paid her money and took her choice to collude both in the misrepresentation of Joe's work and in his dalliances.
Which all leaves one feeling slightly underwhelmed. Even so, actors of this calibre are always worth watching and the movie is still entertaining. It just seems a bit like Joe's unaided writing, somewhat lacking in sparkle. And it won't be winning any prizes, at least not from me.