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Written by Sheila Seacroft
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21 10 2005 |
Directed by Laurence Dunmore
 A stunning, in every sense, debut feature by Laurence Dunmore, whose work has so far mostly been in commercials, this film is based on the play by Stephen Jeffreys which wowed the Royal Court in London 10 years ago. While it shows its theatrical roots in a very classy and literary screenplay, its translation to the big screen has been perfectly worked, so that its cinematic qualities hit you in the eye from the very beginning when Jonny Depp as Rochester, his face filling the screen, tauntingly addresses the audience, setting out his amoral and self-hating take on life.
Rochester, accounted by some to be a hugely talented poet, (most of whose work was not published until after his death) is also a clever, nihilistic purveyor of salacious ribaldry and vicious satires on his times, not sparing his former friend, King Charles II. Depp produces a fine performance, showing once more the range of his talent, moving from the cold cynic to the intense lover to the ravaged victim of syphilis who is to die, horribly mutilated by the disease, at the age of 33. His life is set alight by his passionate relationship with the actress Elizabeth Barry (Samantha Morton), whom he coaches to become a star of the stage.
John Malkovich took the role of Rochester onstage in Chicago, and now as well as producing the film he plays Charles II, in a prosthetic nose ("sometimes they let me paint it myself") that is a close relative of Nicole's Virginia Woolf one in The Hours, in a nicely understated performance with none of the mannerisms that sometimes accompany his screen presence.
But the really striking aspect of the film is its look. The C17th is definitely not a place you would want to go. Darkness, dirt, disease and violence are superbly evoked by the use of candlelight for indoor scenes, with a minimum of artificial light used on set. A yellowish greyness pervades, claustrophobic and febrile. For once the costumes and sets of a historical drama really do look lived in, even if that means we can hardly see them very well, and the fetid atmosphere of the streets, inns, and theatres where Nell Gwyn would have sold her oranges is so thick one can almost taste it. Did the sun never shine on Restoration England? There are grim laughs along the way - Rochester puts on a play for the king to entertain the French ambassador that is full of mimicked sex of all kinds and pirouetting around a vast phallus. The king is not amused. And look out for Johnny Vegas, big mates with Malkovich during the filming, apparently, looking totally at home in a greasy wig.
While there's no disputing the power of the experience of watching this film, there remains the nagging doubt - what does it all amount to? Malkovich has said it is a portrait of a great talent that wastes itself. Yes. But quite why is never really explained. Self-hate, or hatred of humanity? And where exactly does his passion for Elizabeth Barry fit in? It's a long, sour journey down the feverish tide of Rochester's self destruction, fascinating and repellent in equal measure.
Seen at Cinema Days, Cineworld, Milton Keynes, October 2005 |
