I swear this the last time I'll spend time and money on any movie which has a differential of 50 degrees awful(!) between the critics' and audience's ratings at Rotten Tomatoes.
The audience (44%, positive) is always right. The critics (94%, not a typo) are always wrong, but I am supposing the latter likes to reward their friends in high places.
It is practically inconceivable that a movie could be more zzzzz than The Favourite (British spelling, por favor) or that dreadful cat movie, but this one had made it to the Top Three list.
Delete from this pathetic re-run of bedsheets, Julianne Moore singing songs in her car (please! One or two scenes were okay, but 45?), the same dancing scenes (like we ain't never seen smoky dancing scenes?), and breasts (a new record for most! A man wrote and directed Gloria Bell, surprise!), and you're left with nuthin' much, save men are cads.
Who knew?
We need to spend 90 minutes of movie time to learn that?
Why, Miss Moore, age 58, would stoop to this level, I suppose, rests on the articles that appear several times yearly bemoaning the lack of acting parts for aging females. What else is she supposed to do?
Maintain some class, that's what!
Maintain some class, that's what!
Dear Readers, take my words for it and ignore the paid critics in this sad tale, one critic who compares Moore to "wrap[ping] herself in the role like a soft shawl." Yup, a "soft shawl" all right, one that's been picked up in the nursing home and used for rags after it was mistakenly dragged through the mud when it was dropped in the unpaved parking lot when Aunt Fanny stumbled and fell out the car door as her belongings were gathered for her residency in the death house. That's how good this movie is. And not a comedy!
patricialesli@gmail.com
patricialesli@gmail.com
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