Couples Therapy: “The Roses”

Someone out there is spending tons of money publicizing the new British film, The Roses. It was the feature attraction, over Labor Day weekend, at the very popular Century City Mall, and I’ve spotted  elaborate merchandising attempts at my supermarket. Here’s the question: is the film worth all that attention? It’s gorgeous to look at, with Australia’s dramatic sea coast filling in (alas) for Northern California. There’s a opening credit sequence that’s a delight. And the film stars two of Britain’s finest, Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman, as loving spouses who can’t quite adjust to a change in their marital circumstances. Both are lively presences who have a talent for dishing out nasty quips at one another’s expense.

 Moviegoers with long memories (or subscriptions to Amazon Prime) might recall that The War of the Roses, a cleverly-titled novel by Warren Adler, was made into a 1989 battle-of-the-sexes film starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner as marital sparring partners. The highly popular black comedy was cleverly directed by Danny DeVito, who also cast himself as a chain-smoking divorce attorney. Serving as narrator, DeVito takes the viewer back to the meeting of Douglas (as Oliver) and Turner (as Barbara) at an auction for high-end collectibles. Both have a passion for home design (and a special yen for English ceramics), so when they marry and nest in a mansion, décor is very much on their minds. Ultimately, alas, the bloom is off the Roses, and Barbara demands a divorce. Moreover, she demands full custody of their dream house, something Oliver would never willingly grant. Soon nothing—and no one—is safe, including the household pets and Oliver’s prized sportscar. It all builds to a grim conclusion that is a hoot if you enjoy seeing things go smash.

 I’m not sure The War of the Roses has much of a point to make (outside of this: never run over your spouse’s cat). But it’s an uproarious exploration of people at their worst, and we can all use a good bitter laugh from time to time. By contrast, the new British film, The Roses, seems determined to be about something. More precisely, it seems to want to put its finger on how marriages go sour, and when precisely this happens. Theo and Ivy Rose are an English couple who share a snarky sensibility. They’ve moved to Northern California to pursue their creative passions. Theo is a trained architect with a taste for the ultra-modern. Ivy is a chef who has put her professional aspirations aside while raising two children, until Theo buys her a hole-in-the-wall diner she promptly renames “We’ve Got Crabs.” As it turns out, the same natural disaster that scuttles his newest and most innovative design proves to be a boon to her little café. So she’s suddenly famous, and he’s out of work.

 The film then becomes a study of what happens to a marriage in which one partner is thriving professionally while the other is put out to pasture. (I’m certain matters are all the worse because it’s the formerly stay-at-home wife who’s suddenly the Next Big Thing.) The topic is definitely a pertinent one, but this film seems determined to cover lots of territory by bringing in additional plot strands. There are many new characters (the rather baffling children, the horny best friend, the doofus buddy, the sinister attorney) to distract from the central his-and-hers conflict. The irony of the conclusion is well handled, with a nice jab at the “smart house” Theo has designed, but well before that point I was tired indeed of the couple’s overblown spat. 

 

“Prizzi’s Honor”: Where Are They Now?

After The Godfather (1972) and The Godfather, Part II (1974) swept up every honor in sight, Hollywood couldn’t get enough of Italian-American mafioso types. But well before Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas (1990, starring the late Ray Liotta) and TV’s The Sopranos (for six seasons, starting in 1999), came Prizzi’s Honor, directed by one of Hollywood’s oldest and feistiest lions. I’m talking about John Huston, responsible over the decades for such studio gems as The Maltese Falcon in 1941, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre in 1948, The African Queen in 1951, and The Man Who Would be King in 1975. As an actor, he also turned in an unforgettable performance as sinister tycoon Noah Cross in 1974’s Chinatown. Prizzi’s Honor was released in 1985, when Huston was almost eighty. It was his last film but one; he followed it up with a poignant adaption of a James Joyce story, The Dead, made as he approached his own death in 1987.

 Prizzi’s Honor, too, has its somber moments, but it is at base a comedy, if an extremely macabre one. Jack Nicholson, reuniting with Huston a decade after Chinatown, plays a Mafia hitman with a deep loyalty toward his ancient padrone. The latter, Don Corrado Prinzi, is vividly played by a sepulchral-looking, gravel-voiced William Hickey, who earned an Oscar nomination for this role. The body of the film starts, à la The Godfather, with an elaborate cathedral wedding scene in which an overblown bride is joined in holy wedlock to a shrimpy little groom, as a massive group of wiseguys looks on with approval. Nicholson’s Charley Partanna is one of them, cocky and slightly cynical about the world around him, but newly entranced by the unknown blonde in the balcony.

 That luscious lady in lavender is played by Kathleen Turner, just three years after she’d burst onto the screen as the dangerous Matty Walker in Body Heat. Svelte and blessed with an seductively throaty voice, she couldn’t be more enticing. Of course Charley is smitten, but the surprise is that she seems to be enraptured by him as well. Their coupling plays out both in New York and L.A. (lots of amusing shots of a now-defunct airline heading right to left, then left to right, across the screen). But who is this mysterious blonde, and what’s her game? The audience figures it out before Charley does. (He’s not too smart. She likes that in a man.) 

 Tension builds, as Charley’s love for Irene starts to interfere with his obligation toward the honor of the Prizzi family. All is resolved in a conclusion you won’t soon forget. This was a movie that was adored by critics, but perhaps less so by squeamish audiences. Though nominated for eight Oscars, including Best Picture, it won only for Anjelica Huston’s supporting-actress turn as  Maerose Prizzi, the Mafia princess spurned by Charley and itching for revenge. Sweet revenge for Anjelica too: the talk had been that she was cast in the film only because she was Huston’s daughter and Nicholson’s girlfriend. Turning in a seethingly angry performance, she fooled them all.

 John Huston, of course, is long gone now. Jack Nicholson, once Hollywood’s favorite man- about-town, has not been on screen in a dozen years, and rumors fly abut his physical and mental state. Turner’s still working, notably in TV’s The Kominsky Method opposite Michael Douglas, but her svelte shape is long gone and her husky voice is now almost a baritone. Happily, Anjelica too remains active, though a lot of her recent work is in voiceover. Time is cruel in the entertainment biz.

 

 

Romancing the Lost City (or Do Romance Novelists Have More Fun?)

A recent airline trip gave me a good excuse to catch up with The Lost City,  a much-touted new action comedy in which a reclusive romance novelist finds herself south of the border, fighting off bad guys and finding true love. Starring Sandra Bullock and Channing Tatum, with assists from Daniel Radcliffe (as a weird baddie) and Brad Pitt, it makes a running joke of the low-cut and sparkly fuchsia jumpsuit in which the heroine is kidnapped, and in which she eventually finds herself sprinting through tropical rainforests and plunging down waterfalls. There’s also fun in the fact that Tatum’s character, initially a cover model in a Fabio-like long blond wig, turns out to be less a dashing swashbuckler and more a sensitive guy with a crush on his favorite author.

 The whole thing was enjoyable airplane viewing, but it made me think back to the original film that successfully blended Latin American adventure with comedy and romance. Of course I mean 1984’s Romancing the Stone, starring Michael Douglas (who also produced) and Kathleen Turner.  Both were near the start of their acting careers at the time. Douglas, son of Kirk, was best known for starring as a homicide inspector in TV’s The Streets of San Francisco and for producing (but not appearing in) the Oscar-winning One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He began as simply the producer of Romancing the Stone, before deciding to take on the role of the film’s gutsy though slightly goofball vagabond hero.  Turner had leapt into the public consciousness as bad-girl Matty Walker in Body Heat(1981). and was mostly being typecast as a femme fatale. Romancing the Stone gave her a chance to stretch as a dreamy, introverted romance novelist who finds herself in over her head after being summoned to the jungles of Colombia. Another member of the cast is Danny DeVito, Douglas’s former roommate and longtime pal, as an inept rogue also vying to find the priceless emerald that is the film’s McGuffin.

 A young Robert Zemeckis directed with a light touch, just one year before he became a big man in Hollywood following the release of Back to the Future. But for me the essential part of the team was the film’s screenwriter, Diane Thomas. Thomas enjoyed a Cinderella sort of career in Hollywood, but one lacking a happy ending. She was working as a Malibu waitress, and studying screenwriting through the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program (which employs me to this day) when she managed to slip a copy of Romancing the Stone to Michael Douglas. He read it, loved its razzle-dazzle spirit, and the rest is movie history. The film’s success led to other projects, including the chance to write an Indiana Jones sequel for Steven Spielberg. Alas, in 1985 she was riding with boozy friends on Pacific Coast Highway in the Porsche gifted to her by Douglas when a terrible accident ended her life. For years, UCLA Extension hosted a student screenwriting competition in her memory.

 Is Romancing the Stone better than The Lost City? That’s hard to say, story-wise. It has no shocking pink “disco-ball” glitter garb, no Fabio-lookalike, and no outrageous Daniel Radcliffe, though it does boast a  plethora of crocodiles. Perhaps the big difference between the two is that the earlier film doesn’t seem to be trying quite so hard to give us a rollicking good time. Still, I’m not sure Douglas is right in saying that Romancing the Stone invented a genre that had never before been tried. Maybe it's worth mentioning The African Queen?