Archive | Reviews

The Tricks and Treats of ‘Cymbeline’

“Cymbeline” may be the red-headed stepchild of Shakespeare’s plays. Theoretically, it’s got it all: a scheming queen, beheadings, mistaken identities, battlefields, magic potions, a girl passing as a boy. But with a labyrinthine plot, unaccommodating verse, and oddbot allusions to the Bard’s earlier works, it defies categorization, let alone easy analysis. Who but a director like Michael Almereyda – best known for his modish, moody 2000 adaptation of “Hamlet” starring Ethan Hawke – would dare tackle such fare?

I’m glad he did. Shakespearean adaptations are a dime a dozen but most are “as inspired by the play by William Shakespeare” affairs like “10 Things I Hate About You” or Baz Luhrmann’s “Romeo + Juliet” (though the former is a solid 1990s Heath Ledger vehicle). Movies that really honor the playwright’s spirit are rarer birds, and with a languid playfulness, Almereyda has made exactly that. He also has shown us that “Cymbeline” is a play whose time has come again.

Like Almereyda’s “Hamlet,” this film is set in modern times but preserves an unusual amount of Shakespeare’s original speech. It is a study in sly casting, too. With his unhappily darting eyes and small shoulders squared in a leather jacket, Ed Harris is perfect as Cymbeline, the king of a motorcycle gang – as is Milla Jovovich as his second wife, a queen so cruelly beautiful that her tiara doesn’t even seem ironic. (More than any actress of her generation, Jovovich has always seemed born to play cruelly beautiful middle-aged women.) With saucer eyes and the smoothest of skin, Gossip Boy Penn Badgley plays the skate-boarding Posthumous, Cymbeline’s favorite disciple until he falls for Imogene (Dakota Johnson), the biker king’s daughter. Though lovely in a new-millennial-doll sort of way, she widens her eyes and mealy-mouths her dialogue as if nothing more could be required of a third-generation scion of Hollywood sirens (her mother is Melanie Griffith; her grandmother, the swoony Tippi Hedren). Such reacting rather than acting works here, though, as she mostly serves as the object around which all the real action rotates. Continue Reading →

My Lucky Star Memoirs

March may be the least glamorous time of the year. Award season is finally over, spring doesn’t officially start for another few weeks, and the greatest movies of 2015 likely won’t hit theaters for at least a few months. The best cure for what ails the deprived cinephile? Star memoirs. Referred to as “diva lit” by Philadelphia Inquirer film critic Carrie Rickey, film actor autobiographies may not be especially truthful but they’re often juicy and even insightful. Here is a completely subjective bibliography of the best ones around – both in print and out – with a big tip of the hat to helpful colleagues whose bookshelves also buckle under the weight of these dishy tomes.

By Myself by Lauren Bacall
Bacall won a National Book Award for this memoir, and, boy, did she deserve it. A characteristically sly-eyed account of this “nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn” who became Humphrey Bogart’s better half (on and off screen), it captures the magic of Hollywood without pulling any punches. Of her relationship with Bogie, she writes: “When we looked at each other, trumpets sounded, rockets went off.”

Talullah: My Autobiography by Tallulah Bankhead
With tales of entertaining the Wright brothers as a child, cavorting with monkeys as an aspiring actress, and a whole lot of Kentucky bourbon consumption, the screen siren’s memoir is as outrageous as the rest of her persona. Says she: “I have three phobias which, could I mute them, would make my life as slick as a sonnet, but as dull as ditch water – I hate to go to bed, I hate to get up, and I hate to be alone.” Continue Reading →

The Natural Assets of ‘Mozart in the Jungle’

Ever since she warbled “You Belong to Me” in 1979’s “The Jerk,” I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for Bernadette Peters. With her cupid bow mouth and Mae West-on-helium delivery, the star of screen and stage boosts everything in which she appears, even the cruddy 1989 Clint Eastwood vehicle “Pink Cadillac.” So it speaks volumes that the Tony-awarded singer plays one of the few non-musicians in “Mozart in the Jungle,” the Amazon original series about New York’s classical music scene. Just talking about it converts me into an overbearing mother: Dear, you’d look so nice if you stood up straight and brushed the hair out of your eyes. Here is a show yet to capitalize on its natural assets.

A chief asset is the story behind the show: Blair Tindall’s 2005 eponymous memoir. After cutting her losses and getting a journalism degree, the professional oboist wrote this clear-eyed, white-knuckled account of the economic and emotional realities facing classical instrumentalists today. Both bleaker and more libidinous than the show, the book spares nothing and no one – from badly structured arts education initiatives to preening benefactors to the substance abuse, narcissistic injuries, and erotic misadventures of Tindall and her peers. Through her eyes, this seemingly austere subculture is as degenerate as a heroin den; she herself made headlines after dumping two bottles of weed killer in “science guy” Bill Nye’s garden when he left her after seven weeks of marriage. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy