 |
| Cute,
but not charming: (l-r) Parker and McConaughey in Failure
to Launch. |
Hollywood,
We Have a Problem
By
Laura Leon
Failure
to Launch
Directed
by Tom Dey
In
the sparkly new romantic comedy Failure to Launch,
Sarah Jessica Parker plays Paula, a transition specialist
whose métier is getting grown children out of their parents’
houses. If Paula resembles Carrie Bradshaw in more than a
few ways, it can be excused, as writers Tom J. Astle and Matt
Ember use the similarities to humorous effect. Another homage
to Parker’s other work references her many ads for hair-care
specialists Garnier Nutrisse; it’s amusing parody when many
of the characters, including romantic interest Tripp (Matthew
McConaughey), note, “Great hair!”
That said, Failure to Launch isn’t so much all about
Parker or her famed television counterpart, but a fair-to-middling
stab at re-creating the ’30s screwball comedy. Paula is hired
to “launch” their son by Tripp’s parents, Al (Terry Bradshaw)
and Sue (Kathy Bates), who love their boy but have grown tired
of his care and feeding. For his part, Tripp enjoys the obvious
benefits of living at home, including packed lunches and laundry
services courtesy of Mom, but also uses the situation as a
crutch to get him out of relationships that are veering toward
the serious. “You live with your parents?” intones
more than one incredulous, soon-to-be-history gal pal.
Of course, Paula and Tripp develop real feelings for each
other, which complicates her professional ethics and his avowed
bachelor status. A series of sometimes amusing, often outrageous
(killer chipmunks?) vignettes illustrating Paula’s ability
to mesh with Tripp’s boyhood friends—Ace (Justin Bartha) and
Demo (Bradley Cooper)—indicate just how difficult it will
be for him to give her the heave-ho. A comic subplot involving
Paula’s cantankerous roommate Kit (Zooey Deschanel) adds a
little grit to the overall bubbly nature of this easy concoction.
Still, numerous questions linger. How exactly do 30-something
playboys finance their expensive and usually extreme hobbies?
Why, exactly, are Paula and the much younger Kit roommates,
let alone friends? And why, oh why, must the filmmakers give
Tripp a sob backstory, instead of just letting him be a charming
moocher? Parker and McConaughey have an easy, sexy rapport,
which makes one wish all the more that this were a better
movie—perhaps one that used the naturally comic material,
rather than countless farfetched set pieces, to garner laughs.
Restoration
Hijinx
The
Libertine
Directed
by Laurence Dunmore
Early in his life—at least earlier than he’s presented in
The Libertine—John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, must’ve
been a boon companion indeed. His abduction and ravishment
of a beautiful heiress got him sent to the tower, but she
later accepted his proposal of marriage. Rochester was also
a gallant naval officer, a notorious seducer, and most famously,
a sharp-tongued wit with a taste for the shockingly profane.
The nihilistic wreck of The Libertine, however, is
just past his glory days and beginning to rot from alcoholism
and syphilis. Johnny (Johnny Depp), as he’s called by high-
and low-born alike, returns to London after being exiled to
his country manor by his friend and sometime nemesis, King
Charles II (John Malkovich). Johnny soon grows bored of his
circle of London degenerates, especially George Etherege (Tom
Hollander), who is writing a comedic play based on Johnny’s
daring impertinence.
Unable to maintain his passion for his devoted wife (Rosamund
Pike), Johnny comes down with a feverish attraction for the
actress Lizzie Barry (Samantha Morton). Be cause he feels
detached from life, he explains to her, her artifice on the
stage will be his substitute for real emotion. In the film’s
most improbable bit of business, Lizzie becomes the reigning
deity of the theater due to Johnny’s overwrought tutelage.
Adapted by Stephen Jeffries from his stage play, The Libertine
is stagy in a way that puts its characters in constant high
dudgeon. And despite its shades of political and philosophical
in trigue, the film is an unexpurgated downer. However scintillating
the real Roch ester may have been, the verse he spouts here
makes him sound like a Restoration frat boy on spring break
to Bath. And the Earl’s biting disdain for his privileged
existence is hard to sympathize with, though he does show
a populist streak by hiring a ruffian, Alcock (an amusing
Richard Coyle), as his manservant. Alcock—and yes, the name
is punned to the last letter—is a breath of fresh air amid
the film’s spoiled-rotten dandies and opulent bawdy houses.
The Libertine does its heavy lifting through the reactions
of the other characters to Johnny’s supposedly liberating
attitude.
There are great and pithy speeches from his despairing wife,
devout mother, treacherous friends, and most memorably, from
the astute king (in contrast to Rupert Everett’s amusingly
foppish Charles in Stage Beauty, Malkovich nails the
king’s shrewdness and forbearance). But there’s nothing noble
or rebellious about Johnny’s self-destruction, and the film
dwells for a depressingly long time on his slide into ruin
and degradation. Filmed in grainy textures and sickly tints
meant to mimic candlelight, the visual funk becomes equally
dispiriting. Taking his cue from the noble mind overthrown
in Hamlet, Depp plays Johnny with admirable conviction,
but this sodden Libertine is mostly much ado about
nothing.
—Ann
Morrow
|
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