It’s totally gripping and eerie and surely too adult and atmospheric for TV. One would think for that era, anyway. Denholm Elliott is best known for his role as Dr. Marcus Brody in the Indiana Jones movies, but he was more than capable of going proper convincingly nuts in a Gothic horror.
This is Charles Dickens done right.
Here we are:
It is not scary in any way; I’ve found the state of one of my jobbies to me more terrifying. What often puzzles me upon the viewing of atrocious movies is, did they realise they were making utter rubbish or were they under the impression that a masterpiece was in the works? The lunacy of the script aside, the ‘acting’ here is hysterically bad, with Owen Wilson giving perhaps the worst ‘performance’ of 1999. One does, however, feel some sympathy for the lad given that his dialogue is from the bargain bin.
So badly shot and edited, but hilarious in unintended ways, I would recommended this to film students. We could maybe have a module: ‘This is how not to make a movie.’
Just … wow.
It’s a surreal accident. I’d declare it a masterpiece if it didn’t feature Tara Reid.
P.S. Smashing tits.
Edward Norton was the last zeitgeist of the 20th century.
It sounds risible but it isn’t if you look at the body of work – he somehow captured everything, hit every nail. It was most likely by accident; that or he was incredibly good at choosing projects. He’s not really hit those heights since but the talent remains. He just needs a director to take a chance on him.
This is a sometimes horrifying movie and there are moments you almost have to skip. The film is biblical in its capturing of the transitory nature of happiness. These very real characters are stuck there with no escape. But they have a few wee happy moments. A few. It’s a long time since 1998 but not really, in the sense that someone said to me the Berlin Wall has been down longer than it had been up. You couldn’t make a movie these days with Ed Norton emerging from a cathartic shower with a Big Bertha-sized swastika on his chest. Today, this narrative would have the compulsory strong-willed female, a disabled character, obvious life lessons, and a happy ending. Cinema today is essentially and only social politics.
Derek Vinyard is the pre-eminent example of charismatic authority – everything he says at the dinner table is incorrect but he captivates through the intensity of the delivery. Bloody hell, who got Best Actor (when the Oscars were relevant) over this lad?! I think it was that exasperating Italian bloke who thankfully disappeared from cinema after his Academy Award.
And what the fuck was happening with the director calling himself ‘Humpty Dumpty’? My research is limited.
