I’ve never been more impressed with Judi Dench. As Barbara Covett, the actress is hoary and vicious, her personality blinded by a nonexistent love with Cate Blanchett’s Sheba Hart. But she’s also someone who’s downright vulnerable and pathetic, a pitiable presence who’s built a life on cunning, unstoppable obsession. Every scene is humanity torn assunder as Covett pursues Hart, meets her family, and witnesses her fall victim to an unthinkable temptation; when Covett confronts Hart and hears her confession, she uses the moment to her advantage, plotting madly. From there on, only self-destruction can—and does—follow.
Patrick Marber’s screenplay is written dangerously and within an inch of its life. Any minute it risks becoming a farce, a mockery of its own subjects, and even lets one foot dangle over the cliff’s edge by adding a handful of poorly-included jokes. But the film succeeds with absoluteness, thanks almost solely to Dench. She allows herself to become Barbara Covett, submitting her regal face and personality to the miserable poison that is her character. Cate Blanchett remains an almost sad, stagnant presence until the second half, when she explodes into a fury of emotion, and Bill Nighy as Richard, her older husband, is deserving of much credit, despite being forgotten by most critics. On top of that, Philip Glass’ score is solemn and intrusive—both compliments—and the cinematography, which alternates between steady and frenzied, sets the mood perfectly.
I must admit that in one scene, as Richard and Sheba are fighting—an occurrence Barbara refers to as the “opera”—Richard flies into a rage, shouting, and spits unintentionally across the room; it speaks to the intensity of the moment, the conviction of the actors and, for someone who loves realism in film, tops off an incredible picture.
by Adam Balz | Source: Fox Searchlight 35MM Theatrical Print
08 Jan 2007 3:09 PM | Submit Comment