The Philadelphia Story

The Philadelphia Story (George Cukor, 1940) "The prettiest sight in this fine pretty world is the privileged class enjoying its privileges."

 

So says Macauley "Mike" Connor (James Stewart), cynical reporter with romantic notions about nobody but himself, as he and photographer "Liz" Imbrie (Ruth Hussey) are given the enviable task of reporting on the biggest marriage event of the season—or should we say "re-marriage season"—the Lord-Kittridge affair, she of the Philadelphia Lords, Tracy Samantha Lord (Katharine Hepburn), to be precise—formerly married to one C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant), an upper class yacht designer—and for her second go-'round, she is marrying George Kittridge (John Howard), a "man of the people" who raised himself from the lower classes to achieve parity (without the legacy or provenance, mind you) of the Main Line of Philadelphia. Newsies Mike and Liz are given permission to "witness" the impending nuptials for a gossip rag (under the subterfuge that they're "distant relatives"), as an arrangement that said tabloid won't be publishing lurid stories about Tracy's father (John Halliday) having an affair with a dancer (of all people). This tit-for-tat has been arranged by a former runner for the mag, that personage being one...C.K. Dexter Haven, the ex (if you'll recall) of the bride-that-was and is to-be. How gauche it all is. How lurid. How delightfully sordid.

The Lord's are trying to manage this hullabaloo without much ballyhoo, thus their agreeing to the limited press coverage. But, they're not going to make it easy for them, no sir. Tracy is determined—with the help of precocious sister Dinah (Virginia Weidler)—to put up a discouraging wall of "airs", acting all hoity-toity...which is just what reporter Connor expects them to be. Tracy sees through their subterfuge just as easily as photographer Liz sees though theirs—just as she also sees through Connor's contempt for them (he protests a bit too much). As a photog' she seems to "read" people better than Connor, which is why she's biding her time with her colleague. She's in love with him, not that he'd ever stop concentrating on himself and his deathless prose to notice.

C.K. is also inserting himself into the affair, much to the delight of the Lords and to the dismay of his ex, Tracy. Their marriage broke up a couple years previously because, as an alcoholic, he did not measure up to her high standards. Tracy is a bit judgey as a rule, and decisively so, which led to tossing Dexter out ("She's generous to a fault" he says, "except for other people's faults") as well as the ostracism of her father from the family (His opinion of her: "You have everything it takes to make a lovely woman except the one essential: an understanding heart. And without that, you might just as well be made of bronze." That one hurts).

Tracy is all too aware of the criticism ("Oh, we're going to talk about me again, are we? Goody."), but she is absolutely sure of her paragoness—reflecting well on the parents as it may have begun, but it has rigored into an expectation that anyone in her orbit should be beholden to the same courtesy. Her stubbornness is so ram-rod straight that it has appeared to reach her spine, as evidenced by her switch-blade dives into pools or even—in the oft-replayed silent opening sequence—when she's face-palmed back into her own home after kicking out Grant's Dexter Haven. It's amazing that she can be so stiff while performing the herculean task of having one's head up their ass.

She may have grown up, but she's still her parents' child—not that that's their fault. She's just stuck in her dutiful child-role despite long having passed its maturity date. Now, even her parents are annoyed with it (by contrast, youngest daughter Dinah—played by the incomparable Weidler—seems to have skipped her childhood to become Thelma Ritter) and wish that "the phase she's going through" was over.

But, it's unlikely, even on the eve of the second of her how-many-future-marriages. The first one didn't work out because from her lofty perch, the faults, owing to his drinking, were all on him. This second has a much-better-manufactured future husband so she glides in with confidence, secure that Kittridge is just as stalwart and inflexible as her own reflection of herself—she's found her spine-mate.

Tracy emerges from a drunken night into the light of a new day

—and reacts to it like a vampire.

But, after a night of pre-wedding jitters—no doubt brought on by her being unable to cope with the intricate machinations of "everything is going according to plan" while confronting the failures of others in her past (like Dexter Haven and her prodigal father, who both have the temerity to judge her ("I'm going crazy. I'm standing here solidly on my own two hands and going crazy!")—she ends up drunk and with the appearance of being in a compromising position and in the vulnerable position of seeing herself being judged rather than judging. 

And despite rapt descriptions of her as a "marvelous distant queen" or "the golden girl," this paragon of taste, breeding and virtue who could walk into any room and do so with style can never manage to do it with "grace", and when her weak night of drinking has her stumbling through what feels like a "perp walk" under scrutiny, she learns a little of what she's been dishing out...and doesn't like the taste of it. But, you can't have a hangover without some shame in the mix. And despite the bleery eyes, she starts to see things more clearly.

This was Hepburn's project—she'd been labeled "box-office poison" after films like Mary of Scotland and Bringing Up Baby and Holiday bombed (despite the last two eventually gaining reputations of being cinema classics for decades) and helped writer Philip Barry to create it and make it a hit on Broadway. Then, as she owned the rights to it, she personally took it to M-G-M and its head, Louis B. Mayer, to have it made with the director of her choosing (Cukor) and maybe with Spencer Tracy and Clark Gable as the leads. Mayer substituted Grant and Stewart who were more readily available and the deal was made. The movie was her first box-office hit in a couple years. But, there was a little bit of a price to pay for its success.

 

It was the first of Hepburn's movies where she had to have a serious  "comeuppance" moment. Oh, her Jo March in Little Women had to suffer loss and rejection before she achieved any path-way to true happiness, and in her breakout film-role in Stage Door she had to suffer another character-changing tragedy in order to make her "complete" and deserving of success, but here the knives are out for Hepburn's "tall poppy" to be "dead-headed" and reduced from imperious competence to crumbling vulnerability.

And that's apparently what audiences liked. Katherine Hepburn seemed to always have to be "taken down a peg" for the customers, even in her many movies with Spencer Tracy (their first pairing, Woman of the Year, had its ending changed and re-shot to end with a humiliating kitchen scene due to the negative remarks on preview cards by female audience members). She wasn't allowed to maintain her dignity, or achieve some sort of parity with her male co-star, but, to insure commercial success, she had to have her characters' weaknesses and failures made manifest and her dependence on male supremacy made apparent despite any evidence that was shown before that she could act independently from her own efforts. Katherine Hepburn, the actress, having already been shown the consequences of bad box-office reputation, conceded the point that emancipation wasn't "a thing" in the make-believe world of the movies and "played the game." Sometimes (like in Woman of the Year) it was grating and and embarrassing. In The Philadelphia Story (which, remember, she helped develop), it's a little easier to digest and becomes the crux of the movie.

It's not a bad lesson to learn, either. Everybody in the movie (unless they've been humbled in some way) is a little "judgey" and before things play out, minds are changed instead of made up and calcified into permanent prejudice. Everybody bends a little bit without the fear of snapping holding them back. Things become malleable, negotiable...why, it almost becomes the euphemism of "polite society". It's why the use of the term "yar" in the film is so apt. "Yar" (in sailboats or yachts) means "easily maneuverable" but it can also be "agile, quick, nimble"—something C.K. Dexter Haven always aspires to. The mast must be sturdy and strong, sure, but it's the sail that gets you anywhere. You just have to bend with the wind.

No Strings Attached

Written at the time of the film's release...

"Turning Natalie Portman Into a Girl"
or
"That 'Flippy' Thing You Did?  Good Call."

"SUCH a chick-flick!" said one of the young women sitting in front of me at the conclusion of No Strings Attached, the new rom-com with Natalie Portman (who exec-produced, as if you didn't have ENOUGH reasons to hate her) and Ashton Kutcher.  This one might be the most negligible film in the 12 month span which will see her in five new movies (based on previews, I think Thor might actually be the weakest link), having a kid, getting married, and probably winning an Oscar (Geez, Nat,' over-achieving much?).

And, yeah, total chick-flick, but one with a tiny spin to it, although it still falls into the "happily-ever-after" formula they've followed since the days when we innocently worried that Doris Day might lose her chastity to Rock Hudson. No such worries here. There's a lot of hay-rolling in this one, body-double or no, although we see more of Kutcher's tush than hers (for a change). Virtue is not the issue here, but "true love,"* now permanently split, I guess, from sex (not that they really got along).

But, and this is the "neat twist," it is Portman's Emma Kurtzman, who has commitment issues, not, as is typical, the male of the species. "I'm not really an affectionate person," she blandly tells her camp-buddy Adam (they keep "meeting-cute" throughout their lives, which in movie terms means they're destined to be together (Hell, they're in a romantic comedy—of course, they're destined to be together!). But, when both are "available," they have a brief encounter (clocked at 45 seconds), that puts Emma in mind that, rather than suffering through that whole "relationship thing" that they become "friends with benefits," casual sex partners available at the drop of a text message.

Then, in a Hawksian role-reversal, which, as in His Girl Friday, makes the original premise snap into focus a little better, it is Kutcher's TV-assistant director who wants something more, as in commitment, from which Portman's Emma wrinkles her nose, rolls her eyes and turns on her heel. It gets complicated. It gets messy. It gets resolved.

This sounds like a dreadful premise, but for all the "R"-rated language and suggestiveness (though never veering into "bro-mance" crudeness), and the seemingly-required "safe" arc of the storyline,** it is a clever and funny movie in the particulars, thanks in no small part to Elizabeth Meriwether's clever screenplay, a less-leaden-than-usual direction by Ivan Reitman, and a splendid ensemble above and below the title. Incidents and details seem fresh and buoy you up, disguising the fact that there may be some clockwork mechanism behind the face, and the cast makes the most of these moments, making it all play fast and a little loose (with the exception of Kevin Kline, who is just a little practiced and arch as Kutcher's never-grown-up father, but that could be explained away as he's an actor). Portman manages to make her "stick-in-the mud" Emma stiff and likeable simultaneously, and is only too happy to sacrifice her dignity in scenes (she has a great drunken wobble-walk in high-heels that's priceless), and Kutcher—who gets a lot of stick for just being Ashton Kutcher—doesn't take himself so seriously that he avoids turning winsomeness into weakness. Both's comic timing makes for a good chemistry, despite the obstacles their characters regularly throw between each other.  In the end, it is two people's trip to normalcy in a chaotic world that seems to want to either crush them or ignore them, and only by narrowing their focus to each other can they achieve the specialness they think they deserve.

* ...and, coincidentally, Cary Elwes, Westley from The Princess Bride, is in this, although discretely disguised behind a nerdlinger beard, so he doesn't pose a realistic threat to Kutcher.

** One of these days I have to finish that post on Judd Apatow.

Drive-Away Dolls

"Personal Effects"

or

"We Didn't Deserve...this Commodification."

It's been a few years since the Coen Brothers, Joel and Ethan, made a film—the last one was the western anthology The Ballad of Buster Scruggs (and Other Tales of the Western Frontier) back in 2018. That was for Netflix, and one wondered if they were tired of the business grind of securing funding and distribution deals developing theater-ready product. Buster Scruggs was episodic and eclectic, and it felt a bit like the Coen Brothers' version of The White Album, showing their strengths, but also their divisions, which seemed invisible in their one movie-one story efforts. 

 

The Wisdom of the Tribe (although one hates to credit any Entertainment Press with "wisdom") had always been that Ethan wrote and Joel directed, but the two contributed to each others' jobs so much that there was no clear demarcation line about who did what. They even shared editing duties (using the name "Roderick Jaynes" as a mutual nom de tranche).

So, it was a bit sad to hear that they were going to have a trial separation; one doesn't take this talk too seriously—how many times has Soderbergh quit and how many "last films" has Quentin Tarantino made? But, it seemed like the Coens meant it. Joel made a stark version of The Tragedy of MacBeth--that emphasized stagey minimal sets and maximum shadows, the better to appreciate the performances, especially of Denzel Washington and his wife, Frances McDormand. For his part, Ethan Coen hunkered down with his wife Tricia Cooke to produce a documentary, Jerry Lee Lewis: Trouble in Mind.* Now, they've made a film of a script the two had been writing since 1999, Ethan directing and Tricia editing.

Drive-Away Dolls—or as its titled in the movie, Henry James' Drive-Away Dykes—is basically, a road movie with serio-comic violence. It tells the tale of a Mutt-and-Jeff lesbian duo—uptight, repressed Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan) and free-spirit Jamie (Margaret Qualley)—who take a break from their normal lives and relationship break-ups and the up-coming turn of the millennium ("Y Not 2k?") to go birding in Tallahassee. That's the original idea, although Jamie road-maps it out to visit every dyke bar en route. Then, there's the mode of transportation: they use a drive-away service, which gives them a car for a one-way trip as long as they deliver it to the destination on time.

Sounds great. But, the guy at the service gives them the wrong car. After they drive off, "Chief" (Colman Domingo) shows up with two goons, Arliss (Joey Slotnick) and Flint (C.J. Wilson) looking for it, and upon hearing that it's gone telephones his boss for instructions. Those turn out to be "beat up the service guy and find those girls," which would be easy if Jamie hadn't mapped out such a circuitous route from Philadelphia to Florida. So, while Arliss and Flint begin investigating several wild goose chases (and coming out the worse for it), Jamie and Marian take their meandering time and, inevitably, don't show up at the agreed-drop-off point on-time.

Perhaps if they knew what was in the trunk of the car they're driving they'd be a little more responsible (well, Marian, anyway), but a blow-out along the way forces them to look for a spare and what do they find?

Well, I ain't sayin' (so no spoilers here), but it's a member in the long line of McGuffins and Whats-its in movies from Kiss Me Deadly, Repo Man and Pulp Fiction (well, the last two filching it directly from Kiss Me Deadly) and we've already seen one guy (Pedro Pascal) get killed for it in a prologue at the beginning of the film. And it's what Arliss and Flint and Chief and the guy on the other end of the phone are after and they'll do anything to get it back. Thus, intrigue, threat of danger, and mystery.

But, really, not really. Just from my description you can tell that Drive-Away Dolls hallmarks quite a few Coen Brothers traits—the contrasty duos (but without Steve Buscemi, this time!), the ginned-up danger, the what's-it-all-mean empty space that's supposed to be wrapped up tidily at the end. Except for the lesbian angle, it's a little bit rote, and more-than-a-bit familiar while still striving be be out-RAGE-ous...think along the lines of past Coens like Burn After Reading or Intolerable Cruelty, or even The Ladykillers, where there's something about it that just doesn't gel, although you know they're throwing everything but Joel's kitchen sink at it.

And that may be the issue. There's a formality to Joel Coen's direction that just isn't here—a rigor amidst the dishevelment—that cements things into a cohesive package that feels of a piece. Brother Ethan just ratchets up the lampoonery as if he was trying to goose the material with false energy. Compound it with Cooke's editing whimsy with some graphic transitions that are a bit too Tarantino-cute on top of it all. It doesn't pay off. And there's maybe a couple flash-backs too many, although the out-of-left-field psychedelic sequences (with cameos by Miley Cyrus) associated with the contraband aluminum suitcase ultimately seem more essential the more one thinks about it.

It sure tries hard (and the actors, which also include Beanie Feldstein and Matt Damon, give above and beyond, with Qualley and Viswanathan the stand-outs as the fast-talking and the dead-panning hub around which everyone revolves) but Drive-Away Dolls, even with its pedal to the metal, never quite achieves the anarchic spirit it so desperately wants to convey.

The word is that the Brothers are re-uniting to make a horror movie. I get shivers just thinking about it.

* I've seen it, but won't write about it much. It consists of archival footage of Lewis performances and interviews, edited by Cooke in a fairly tight summation of his life and career. But, interestingly, it has little editorial point of view, other to note at the end that Lewis lived longer than his musical  peers, two of his kids, and a couple of his seven ex-wives...and that, he was a self-taught piano player...even re-teaching himself after a 2019 stroke. Amazing, given his instinctual, visceral keyboarding.

Love in the Afternoon (1957)

Love in the Afternoon (Billy Wilder, 1957) Light Billy Wilder film from the effervescent days when he was directing Audrey Hepburn at the start of her career.

This one had me smiling immediately with Maurice Chevalier's opening narration—"Zis is the city, Paris France"—echoing Jack Webb's "Dragnet" opening. Chevalier plays a private detective, Claude Chavasse, specializing in "matrimonial work," and lately the case-work has been dominated by one subject, American millionaire Frank Flannagan (Gary Cooper), who is cutting a wide swath through the world's female population, both married and unmarried divisions. The work has turned Chavasse into a cynic about the paths of love—he's gumshoed too many of them—in marked contrast to his daughter, Ariane (Hepburn), a cello player (hold that image in your head for a moment), still wide-eyed at the prospect of romance, and fascinated with her father's work, something he does his utmost to discourage.

When she gets wind that a cuckolded husband (John McGiver, hyperventilating amusingly in fine comic fashion) plans on breaking in on his wife's tryst to ventilate Flannagan, she steps in from the balcony to insert herself into the situation. This leads inevitably (in the movies, at least) to an affair between the elder lothario and the young ingenue, one that she manipulates by trying to talk a competitive game in conquests. The situation is ripe with comic possibilities, which Wilder exploits every chance he gets, even using Flannagan's moving musical accompaniment (the final assault is preceded by a four piece rendition of "Fascination").

Much has been made of Cooper's age in the film, and it is an issue. Cary Grant was supposed to be Flannagan (Wilder had been trying to entice Grant into one of his films for years) but when a deal wasn't reached,* Cooper, who at 56 was Grant's senior by three years, was hired. Cooper is an odd fit, as opposed to younger men like, say, Gregory Peck (as in Roman Holiday) or William Holden (in Sabrina), but Wilder works around it, initially, keeping Coop' in shadow to emphasize his "mystery man" status, and Cooper's early performance is, interestingly, boyish and somewhat immature.

And that's the point. Flannagan is a man-child, used to getting everything he wants. And Ariane has her choice between younger men—immature and unsophisticated—and Flannagan—sophisticated but immature. All it takes for him to grow up is a level of commitment, something he's avoided his whole life by having a train to catch. Both character arcs feel complete and satisfying, even though it is the "7-10 split" of May-December romances, and one feels a little creepy watching them make out.

And a little guilty, in the same way that it was tough to watch the denouement of Wilder's Sabrina. Okay, it's charming that she likes the old guy, but if he really was thinking this through, with all this new-found maturity, wouldn't he be thinking about her, and what she has to look forward to in a life with him (which can be summed up in one word..."short")?

And then, one considers Wilder, and the blithe, darkly cavalier sensibility that he brought to the movies, moral though his stand-point might be. One can imagine Wilder, the guy who ended Some Like It Hot with "Nobody's perfect," with a similar tag for this movie: "Aren't you concerned about the age difference?"  "If she dies, she dies..."

*  At this point, Grant was getting concerned about his age and being paired with young actresses ("robbing the cradle, again" is how James Stewart summarized the situation late in his career), but his misgivings must have subsided enough to co-star with Hepburn in Charade for Stanley Donen six years later.

I Love You, Phillip Morris

"The Many Lives and One Life-Term of Steven Russell"
or  

"Hold me, Kiss me, Make me Write Bad Checks..."

 

I can see why Jim Carrey wanted to do this, although the box-office returns might not be up to the block-busting weekend standards his films are used to. The writing team of Glenn Ficarra and John Requa (who also directed) had previously written one of the most ribald Christmas movies ever made—Bad Santa (they also wrote the first Cats & Dogs, but let's not stray there). For anyone who doesn't like Christmas movies, Bad Santa was a tonic, a mean-spirited slash & burn of every sentiment and cliche associated with the Holiday. It's so black-hearted that, to this day, it is tough for me to watch a Christmas movie now with any sort of innocence, so caustic and toxic is that movie. That it ended up with a jaded heart of gold somewhere amidst the bloody gristle was an astonishing accomplishment, and made me anticipate what they might foist on the innocent audience next.

Their latest, I Love You, Phillip Morris, has the proverbial "something to offend everybody." And it is relentless in its attempt to shock. That the story is, essentially, true (and chronicled in the book "I Love you, Phillip Morris: A True Story of Life, Love and Prison Breaks" by Steve McVicker, about the mis-adventures of Steven Jay Russell) only proves the adage that truth is stranger than fiction. Especially when the truth involves a lot of fiction. The writer-director team only have to find punch-lines in the various scenes in order to push it into the comedy realm. Absurdism rules. Love will do that to you.

The film begins with Steve Russell (Carrey) flat-lining in a hospital bed, his life passing before his eyes, and thus, too, through the projector aperture. His normal life turned upside-down when he learns that he's adopted, he starts living his life as a non-person, as one who doesn't exist. But, existing with a 163 I.Q. means you have a lot of time on your hands to think things up to do. It's a bit like the wondrous aspect of Groundhog Day—what would you do with the time you have if every day had a "Reset" button at the end? Steve Russell has his own "Reset" button, and just one life to live, so he spends it as a completely self-absorbed unit, grabbing at the possibilities of life by any means necessary, including lying, cheating and stealing. A complete sociopath, the only thing limiting him is what he hasn't learned to get away with yet. He starts as an ordinary family man, becoming a policeman, a church organist and living a lie. Then a near-fatal car-crash at a crossroads snaps him into an epiphany: he's going to live the life he's always wanted out in the open, as long as how he does so stays in the background. He openly leads a gay lifestyle, leaving his wife and child, bankrolling everything through frauds of one type or another, until it all lands him in prison.   

Then, the real fun begins.

For the secret of Steven Russell is to find the weak links in society's infrastructure and take advantage of them. In prison, he meets and falls in love with Phillip Morris (Ewan McGregor), who might uncharitably be called a 'weak link"—as he "sees the good in everybody," and for Russell, that's finding his soul-mate, easy to admire and easy to be false to. 

 
So much lying, deception, robbing, stealing, impersonation and chicanery goes on in this film that, finally, it is a bit numbing. By the time Russell pulls off his biggest deception (and it's a doozy, not only in the difficulty of pulling it off, but in the harm that it can inflict), nothing surprises...or shocks. So much time has been spent in the red-line of your sensibilities, that your meter emerges pretty much pegged. It's going to take a lot of time looking at puppies in order to Brillo the sourness out of your skull. 

Except...I Love You, Phillip Morris is kind of sweet. Despite being a lying sack, Steven Russell is a pretty devoted guy, going to extremes for those he loves, and...yes...even dying for them. It's horrifying. But, its heart is in the right place.  Ficarra/Requa can be counted on to find the silver linings in the dark clouds, as well as peeing in the punch-bowl. Every scene has a 90° swerve on what its about—sweet to sour, darkness to light. One of my favorite scenes has Phillip bribing a cell-neighbor to play "Chances Are" (Johnny Mathis, natch')—because the thug has the only cassette player—so that he and Steven can dance and snuggle in the cell they share. We watch as they dance slowly in silhouette, the song warbling through the cell-block until the guards yell "lights out" and start screaming at the thug to turn off the music, which he refuses to do. Pretty soon, there's a small riot outside the cell as the guards run in en masse, beating and tasering the yelling music-provider, merely heard in the background, as we focus on Steven and Phillip lost in their dance and each other—the world has gone away.

Nice. Creepy and violently funny, but nice. And smart. And tells you all you need to know about Steven and Phillip's devotion. The film-makers got their act down, but the yin and yang of extremes don't help Carrey and MacGregor, who struggle to maintain a consistent tone in their characters scene-to-scene. At times, Carrey is so arch you wonder how anyone could be conned by this cartoon character, and MacGregor veers from teeth-jarringly sweet to pathetically whiny. But, when the comedy turns to drama, the two seem to snap into place to make it work...as a real scene, which tends to nullify the comedy that has gone before. It's a tightrope-walk to be sure, but there's an awful lot of nervous-making swaying going on.

I don't say this very often, but this is one of those movies you worry about recommending because there is so much material that could give frail audiences "the vapors," but if you steel yourself—maybe get a speeding ticket on the way to the theater, pay your taxes that day—you might have a darkly good time.

The Real Steven Russell (I think)



Mirror, Mirror

Don't Trust Anyone Over Four Feet
or
"No, Snow!  Don't Mess with Traditional Story-Telling!  It's Been Focus-Grouped, and It Works!!"

I approached Mirror Mirror with some trepidation. It's the sort of movie that curdles my gray matter—taking a traditional fairy-tale and updating it for modern audiences, with anachronisms, modern slang and catch-phrases, a fractured fairy-tale denying its origins and playing "hip." Also, it's a Julia Roberts vehicle and I don't "buy" Roberts in anything but comedic roles (which this one is).

But the other choice was to see Wrath of the Titans, for which I had no desire (Really? They're trying to make a franchise out of that one?) and so it was the "Snow White" knock-off, even though the prospect seemed rather Grimm.

It did have one thing going for it, however. Even though produced by Brett Ratner, it was being directed by an inspired choice—Tarsem, who vaulted from R.E.M. music videos to The Cell,* then rebounded with a fine film no one bothered to see, The Fall. I'd passed on his Immortals last year (though I plan to watch it on video sometime soon, now that it's out), but, as Tarsem can do some visionary work, he just might be able to pull it off.

It might well have been lame in any other hands, but the director's spectacular design sense, not only for sets and costumes, but also how to frame them for maximum effect is combined with a breezy comedy style that is never idle, and never hangs for a laugh, so that not only is the frame full, but the soundtrack as well, with one overhanging punch-line that crowds through before each cut.

And yes, it's anachronistic, with such a polyglot of styles that it goes beyond, say, Terry Gilliam-madness into a Moulin Rouge!-ish goofy slap-dashery in which nothing is sacred except the movie's own internal rules of play, stopping just short of the Python-line of anarchy.  There is no single accent in place to latch onto geographically, except for some Anglo-Saxonisms—indeed, Arnie Hammer's Prince Alcott of Valencia, is pure American, but does it with such Ivy-League bravado that you accept he's a prince.

And this variation of the story has just enough "Hamlet" mixed in—Ms. White (an Audrey Hepburn-esque Lily Collins—Phil's kid) is the daughter of The King (Sean Bean**), who is murdered (unbeknownst to all) by his new step-wife The Queen (Roberts), who then rules the Kingdom into the ground, while White awaits taking the throne on her 18th birthday (that is, if the Queen ever permits it). Instead, she spends it going out to see what's become of her Father's legacy and is distressed to learn there's no singing and dancing in the streets (as she remembers) but begging and poverty instead. This causes a political debate in the family, leading to Snow being banished by The Queen to be dispatched by her lackey Brighton (played with Costello-ish consternation by Nathan Lane).

Along the way, we meet the handsome Prince (Hammer, who is aggressively great here, better than his Winklevoss twins in The Social Network, and decidedly better than being cocooned in make-up for J. Edgar, one thinks though that he is doomed to play scions), who is accosted by highwaymen...who just happen to be The Seven politically incorrect Dwarves (Napoleon, Half-pint, Grub, Grimm, Wolf, Butcher, and...Chuck, played with gruff zeal distinctively, by Jordan Prentice,Mark Povinelli, Joe Gnoffo, Danny Woodburn, Sebastian Saraceno, Martin Klebba,and...Ronald Lee Clark, all threatening to steal the show, as well—"beats workin' in a mine," as one of them says).  Before long, everybody's path is crossed once or twice, along with swords and stars in lovers' eyes.

Thing is, in its cartoonish way, it works in live-action, as well as when Disney goes sassy these days with classic tales, and, given the edge by Tarsem's crack sense of timing and way of knowing no bounds in design and camera moves (and Alan Menken's Mickey-Mousing*** score doesn't hurt in that regard, either) the effect is somewhat the same.

Walked in loathing the idea and walked out kinda lovin' it. Pretty happy about that, given the Grimm prospects. Seems fair, if not the fairest of them all.

The music video in the End Credits, which shows how Tarsem throws things 

in from left field, as in this "Bollywood" style sequence.

*
Another example of Tarsem's work—a cheeky gladiator themed Pepsi commercial, 

featuring Enrique Eglesias, Beyonce, Britney Spears and Pink, with the music of Queen.

** Is there something in Sean Bean's contracts that stipulates that any character he plays not make it to the last reel? The last movie I saw where one of his characters survived was The Martian.

*** © Disney Corporation. I use this in the musical definition of the term (not in its "common, inferior" usage) where the music follows the action on-screen precisely, as in notes that follow foot-steps, say. And now this joke is a bit ironic as, this year, Mr. Mouse is in the public domain. So, now, I can make that animated cartoon of "Maus" starring Mickey.