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Apparently, Stephen Peters, who scribed the deliciously trashy Wild Things has written a sort of follow-up starring the prior film's Neve Campbell and (the ever campy) Denise Richards. There's little known about the project save the dunderheaded plot involving double crossing, kidnapping, bodyguards and a renouned bank. Sounds like fun to me. I mean, when one sees this sort of film, plot is the last thing on their mind, right?
I would like to wish a very special happy birthday to Miss Elizabeth Berkley who turns 34 today. I'm sorry that Showgirls destroyed any possibilities of future stardom, but in many circles, you're a icon. And what a swan song it was...
If you're in the mood for theory cinema, you'll find just about every argument posited by the best of the eighties feminist thinkers exacted upon 20 years prior in Michael Powell's Peeping Tom. Max is a cinematographer and porn photographer who kills women with a rather ingeniously original method of employment. It is a film which delves directly into just what it is to play voyeur. It is one I highly recommend - especially the Criterion version, whose supplemental features are quite enthralling.
Charlotte Rampling's newest role in Vers Le Sud (Heading South) casts her as a British emigrant/control freak of a professor who, during her lengthy summer months, vacations at an exotic and idyllic resort town in Haiti. Rampling, the haven's self-proclaimed queen bee, is one in a group of regulars who have their pick of the local native boys. It's sexual sightseeing they're after, though the regular balance of things is upset by the arrival of Brenda (Karen Young, herself a facsimile of Rampling). It seems, a few years back, she and her husband took the 15 year old Legba (Ménothy Cesar) under their wing. Then, one unsuspecting night, Brenda yielded to her burning passion of the child and took him on a secluded beach. Now she has returned to reunite with the boy.
Though terrifically critical (at times), director Laurent Cantent (Time Out) allows the viewer to understand the womens' intent. He humanizes them in a way which allows more sympathy than one might expect to find in a story about an impoverished island where wealthy and sexually voracious women have their way with the powerless, penniless men who inhabit it. Vers Le Sud serves as a wonderful document of orientalization and of the internal struggle between personal conduct and private passions(a theme similarly explored in Lars Von Trier's Manderlay). The women comprehend the regression of their gaze, and, as women of culture, this violation of respectable social codes excites them. Brenda could never cum before her Haitian endeavors. Ellen finds all Bostonians dull and trivial. This is true passion - under the sun, in the crystal blue waters, white on black. Taboo.
Vers Le Sud has its remarkably poignant moments, but peppering the film, and in some cases, canceling out the good, some hopelessly trite moves lead to a very heavy handed final act. In a scene which could have come straight out of Crash (albeit, with a far better cinematographer), Legba sits in a shanty's kitchen and looks at the life-worn face of his loving mother who dotes on and chastises him for his shenanigans. Of course, Legba has been saving all of his stud-money for her. It's a bit too simple of a scene for a film which establishes great density in its other climates.
Rampling leaps into her role with a feral gusto while Young leaves a bit to be desired. The physical acting is all there, but her speach is hopelessly theatrical, recalling the weaker moments of Lili Taylor. It's a far better film than either of Cantent's previous ventures and a rather fantastic indictment of culture robbing. But for god's sake, does every black man have to be the purest, nicest angel known to man? I mean, after Crash, I lost all of the remainder of my white guilt. The simpler bits here merely drove the nail in the coffin.
Please allow me to eat my words. The film which I rolled my eyes over (in these pages, even) when it was first announced turned out to be the best summer film thus far. My Super Ex-Girlfriend never takes itself seriously. I mean, with that title, who could (and is surely cause to its economic underachievement). But had Superman Returns been the success it figured it would have been, this would have been one wonderful little parody. Instead, it had to stand on its own, with no Super craze. Stand alone it does. Thurman, who would be breathtaking even if she were cast to play a serial rapist, is exceptional and Luke Wilson is charming as ever. Eddy Izzard drops by for a fun little villianry (though you really kind of want him to be decidedly more juicy) and Six Feet Under's Rainn Wilson is sufficiently shmarmy. That the entire back-story, premise, plot, build-up (basically the whole falafel) is completely absurd is the greatest strength to the film. From the first few bars of its whimsical score, My Super Ex-Girlfriend establishes itself as one of those really fun films we seem to have forgotten about. Director Ivan Reitman adds his hilarious panache for absurd effects in all the right places. Now, if we could just see one black actress in a film like this who isn't (metaphorically, of course) parading about in black face and mammy-ing herself about, this would be flawless entertainment. But then Wanda Sykes would be out of a job.
File this one under insidiously bad ideas. Marilyn Manson has decided that he is a director! Isn't that quaint. His first proposed feature which is being greenlighted by France's Wild Bunch films (who produced Abel Ferrara's as-of-yet-to-find-US-distribution Mary) is none other than the story of Lewis Carroll. With a 4 million dollar shooting budget, it looks like things are a go for Manson. Sadly, Tilda Swinton has signed on(I love her, but she doesn't need to be this daring!). Alice will be played by the unknown Lily Cole. Angelina Jolie, Johnny Depp and Evan Rachel Wood have been other names thrown about, all without contractual commitments. Manson claims this will reinvent contemporary horror to a world more similar to that of Hitchcock or Polanski. From the look of the website, he'll be lucky if its better than Ken Russell's The Fall of the Louse of Usher. Ouch!
There's a lot to be said about the cinema of Francois Ozon. His seemingly bipolar array of tastes, from viscous to camp to (almost)neorealist to back again have caused an enticing and varied expectation which arrives with each new film. 8 Women, perhaps his most thurroughly successful film, offered an unparalleled extreme in postmodern melodrama, which, a few years later, functioned in direct contrast to the starkly realistic film structured around a set theorem: an ill-fated relationship told in in five reverse order sequences: 5x2. Because of his earlier, more tempestuous works(Sitcom, Criminal Lovers and the Fassbinder penned Water Drops on Burning Rocks), he was considered France's enfant terrible. Even his more mundane works avoid pure verite by their almost subconscious acknowledgement of the director's Camp tactics and melodramatic tendencies.
That being said, Ozon's recent works have proven, at least to this eye, lackluster at best. Though commercially successful, The Swimming Pool proved too clever for its own good, and most of the director's signature spunk was absent from the aforementioned 5x2. That his newest offering, which opens in theaters today, Le Temps Qui Reste (literally The Time that Remains but bewilderingly mistranslated as Time to Leave) recommences a dance with death previously meditated on in Ozon's magnificent Sous le Sable (Under The Sand) is a step in the right direction. Where Sable starred the statuesque Charlotte Rampling, in a slightly autobiographic act, Le Temps Qui Reste focuses on a startlingly beautiful and successful homosexual, not too far from Ozon's own age. Portrayed by Melvil Poupaud, Romain is diagnosed with terminal cancer. The film follows the brief remainder of Romain's life, how he chooses to cope with his disease and in whom to look for comfort.
Yet Roman is not your typical, sentimental subject. He's quite a bastard, in truth. His vanity and stubbornness prevent him from connecting to his immediate family and young lover. He confides in his grandmother (cine diety Jeanne Moreau) because, "we are both close to death." And Ozon is at no loss to return the favor, Romain's suffering is obviously self-inflicted - of this we are perpetually reminded. He clings to the glorified memories of a simpler childhood from which he incapable of maturing.
The camera lingers mere inches from its present day subjects (blues and greys) and seldom allows for the distance (freedom) of these nostalgic shots - all golden glowing and spaciously choreographed. The most glorious moment of the film, an amorous shot of Romain and Sascha, windblown and smiling against a clear blue sky, is immediately preceeded by a haunting journey into the lowest fuck den of a Parisian gay bar - more a Dante depth than an architectural one. Memory is never what actually happened but instead glorified in how we recall it - and darker times only brighten those memories held most dear.
Cinematically speaking, Le Temps Qui Reste is both a step forward and back for Ozon. Significantly more mature than his previous works, it is the youthful beastly malevolence which leaves a shadow here, one which I as a viewer miss greatly. In past films, Ozon's presumptuousness brought something to the table. It was endeering. Embracing a more A grade cinema aesthetic, a grain which his earlier films more worked against, Ozon has accomplished a more digestible work of cinema. That the provocation usually ascribed to the filmmaker is absent might by excused by the subject, yet there is an air of daring that seems to be on the back burner for this one. Don't get me wrong, Le Temps Qui Reste is a good film. It is also undeniably a film by Francois Ozon. Yet it is neither a great film, nor is it stand-alone within the canon of this auteur. But I would lose sleep if I did not highly recommend it.
Wow! I thought summer was over. With the dreadful disappointment of the Pirates follow-up and the dull reception of Superman Returns, I though I was going to have to wait for a bunch of pretty actresses to get really ugly just in time for Oscar season, but, low and behold, the coming weekend brings a slew of promising films for my (and of course, dear reader, your) viewing pleasure. First off, we've got the much delayed Heading South. Having recently seen the director's previous film, Time Out, I must say I'm not bursting, but Charlotte Rampling's enough for me. The story is that of a Haitian resort where British women go to escape and indulge in the studly Haitian men. It has been called "searing" and dreadful, so I'll let you know what I think.
I also must admit that, though I critized it at the beginning of the season, I am actually rather looking forward to My Super Ex-Girlfriend. I think both Uma and Luke Wilson are understatedly assured comedians. We shall see...
A rather ridiculous sounding film with Hellen Mirren called Shadowboxer comes out tomorrow. I had the opportunity to see this one a few months back but sadly had to decline in order to see Orlando Bloom sink his way through the as-of-yet-released (and for good reason) Haven. It's the story of a terminally ill hit woman who enlists the aid of Cuba Gooding Jr. to finish one last job. With cameo performances by Macy Gray and Stephen Dorff, how can one say no to this bizarre mingling of what would seem to be Lifetime and TNT original movies.
And finally, Francois Ozon's Time To Leave hits screens tomorrow. I'll post a lengthier review of it then. For now, let's just say that it is a wonderfully crafted look into the human condition and how we value (what would have been a more apt and literal translation of the film's french title) the time that remains.
I missed Clean the new film from Olivier Assayas when it was in theaters. A story about a junky rocker who strives to regain custody of her child would not seem to be my cup of tea. Well, maybe if it were on Lifetime... Well, the DVD came out yesterday and it comes highly recommended. Not only did it garner the Best Actress prize Cannes (Maggie Cheung) but it got critically acclaimed in nearly every spot I read on it. More to come on that after I watch it.
Also, and though I know it's typically cinfile of me, I would like to recommend the new Film Noir Classics Collection:Volume 3 boxset if only to see actress/auteur Ida Lupino in action. She's really something. In this set, she is paired with director Nicholas Ray (who would later yield such tempting treats as Rebel Without a Cause and one of my personal favorites Johnny Guitar, in which Joan Crawford plays a cowboy, of course). Lupino is at her best in Roadhouse, which will probably never see a DVD release.
Through the haze of freshly squeezed Strawberry-Lemon-Lime vodka cocktails (hey, it's summer), Cote D'Azur (or if you're French, Crustacés et coquillages which literally translates to Shellfish and Seashells) proved the perfect accompany piece to a sweltering hot lazy afternoon. Afterall, this is a French vacation sex romp which, however much you may expect from the French in terms of serious ("Pure") cinema, they seem to also frequently deliver with an admirable ease. As it hit cinemas under the moniker of "gay," I was not unjustly suspicious. Imagine my surprise to find this charming little gem.
Sensually assured Beatrix (Valeria Bruni Tedeschi from Ozon's 5X2 and Le Temps Qui Reste), her rather stifled husband and their two, quite adolescent children spend a summer at his dead grandmother's summer house on thMediterraneanan. The son, Charly, an ambiguously sexual enfant sauvage with a gay best friend, spends his time abusing himself in the shower. The daughter, Laura, is so busy fucking her biker boyfriend that she literally disappears half way through the film. The parents think Charly is gay, and really, so do we. He's not, however, and his meanderings in the dark cruising zones (following his ami) unearth a family secret (of course!) which turns the whole family upside down - though, surprisingly, not in a bad way.
Directed by the same duo which brought us The Adventures of Felix and My Life on Ice, Cote D'Azur is a casually assured piece of filmmaking, more fun than anything else. The writing is tight and witty. Hillariously humane moments like Beatrix's pot-adled confessed adoration of airplanes induce surprising fits of laughter. That the whole thing seldom rises above romp, and therefore never forces itself to deal with great consequence is a certainly a plus in my mind. I mean, this is a movie whose concept of realism includes musical numbers. Now, having our nation's cinematic roots in the musical, one wonders why so few American pictures break out into song and dance. It would surely have made Crash a little more bearable.
Cote D'Azur comes greatly recommended from this critic. It's smart and sassy. And the closer you can get to my method of viewing - freshly squeezed alcoholic beverage, sweltering heat, fan on high - the better! I couldn't picture the film any other way.
Remember that one title which you caught on TMC or saw at some friends house on an weary and obscure bootlegged VHS dub? Do you give up when a quick trek to Amazon.com finds you empty handed? Apart from those blatantly illegal bootleg Now-In-Theaters DVD's strewn over a blanket, sold on streetcorners, there is an e culture of slightly more legitimate "non- official" DVD distribution venues who solely labor for "educational purposes". These are the sorts of places which have that obscure Nicholas Ray western or the British cut of that David Lynch movie. And though I have never, never used any of these sites, I think I'll dedicate this post to those website which might aid in the further education - beyond what the studios figure will make money. And while I don't condone the artists not getting money for this, the people who helm these sites are providing a service, however illicit.
In the Noir and Western department, Cinemacom would seem to be your best bet. I have never conversed with these fellas, but they seem to more than know what they're doing. The provide full cover art for their DVD-Rs, too - which, for this type of distribution is quite rare!
In the avenue of broad range, random auteurism, there's Super Happy Fun. Recommended by Village Voice critic J. Hoberman, this allegedly public domain distribution site has a plethora of semi-obscure titles, old and new. What's more, if sleaze cinema is your thing (sorry, but it's not mine), their links page will assuredly shoot you in the right direction.
For the artier works which may have eluded legit distribution (as the market doesn't really necessitate them), Subterranean Cinema is your last hope. Though I know someone who was none too pleased with the quality of one of their offerings, there are some instances where this is your only choice - well between having and not. Great selection, though you have been warned
Euro Sinema? Try Luminous European Cinema Imports. They have an uncut widescreen version of Ken Russell's infamous Huxley adaptation, The Devils and Polanski's little known What?.
For those of you with Region Free DVD players (the prices are the same and owning one opens up all sorts of alternatives to Hollywood viewing) might I suggest with great admiration Raro Video. They're the even better (some times) Italian answer to Criterion Collection. All of their stuff is bilingual, so don't let the Italianness scare you away. They are the only people to have "officially" distribute the Warhol films (though the Warhol museum would contest that statement).
And, when all else fails, there's always ebay, which really gets better as the days grow longer.
Parker Posey is one of those actresses you either love or you hate. Enthusiastically laboring under the former, I am completely in favor of a restart to her career. After a longish break from acting (well, she was still active, though not as prolifically as in the decade past) she seems to be returning to the limelight, with bit parts in large-budget action fare and starring roles in a few upcoming Indie romantic comedies. Her career began with such independent hip flicks, so it would seem a rather astute career move. However, as such productions seem significantly less assured than they used to, it could prove disastrous(with security in the big-budget co-star roles).
Opening in theaters tomorrow, The Oh in Ohio is one such wilted offering. An idea which, to some, must have seemed marvelous on paper proved exceptionally lackluster in actuality. Starring Posey and a dumpy Paul Rudd as a washed up high school teacher, the film totes guest appearances by Liza Minelli (as the vagina worshipping masturbation guru), Heather Graham (as a lesbian sex store clerk) and Danny DeVito (as Wade the pool guy), everyone involved seems to be making cameo appearances, which is rather detrimental when it comes to our leads. Posey doesn't really know what to do with the successful and uptight Priscilla, who has never achieved sexual climax. Her shoe-string budget "haute couture" wears her, rather than the ensembley challenged control wielded by the moll/bitches she recently become accustomed to playing (see Blade Trinity and Superman Returns). Similarly, the concept of "normalcy" seems lost on Posey in Priscilla's more frigid moments. It is when she discovers the joy of sex toys, however, that Posey "unleashes the beast." Her all night hedonistic first encounter with a vibrator is hilarious, as is a business meeting where an inappropriately placed beeper causes her climax before a group of business men.
These moments are rare, however and the rest of the film is stale and tedious. Taking long overdue cues from American Beauty and Election, laced with some $0.99 Sex and the City, the film never really amounts to anything at all - having seen those films oh so long ago. Rudd is completely uninspired and has shed all of his Clueless charm. It's a Parker vehicle, without a doubt. But there's little good that can come from a vehicle as haphazardly assembled as this.
Ahhh Reese. Before the Legally Blondes and Sweet Home Alabama, before the Academy award, there was a delightful little nugget called Freeway. A trek over to IMDB found it the film of the day, and rightfully so. Freeway is one of those B movies chocked full of quotables. "You was gonna do sex to my dead body?" "Oh, yeah right, I shot hima whole bunch of times!" and my personal favorite, "My dick may not function but I have not lost my smile." Of course, if you have Oliver Stone rewrite the little red riding hood fable and add in supporting cast by Kiefer Sutherland, Dan Hedaya, Amanda Plummer, Brittany Murphy and Brooke Shields (channeling her inner Elizabeth Berkley) and you've got yourself a grade A B flick. If you haven't indulged, I cannot urge you enough. This film alone made me applaude her Oscar earnings.
For someone who can talk non-stop about nearly anything, every now and again something comes along that needn't be expanded upon, that doesn't really need extrapolation. Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest is one such movie. The new Pirates offering is bad. It is boring and bad. But I'm not going to attempt to dissuade you. You've probably already seen it. Having already taken in 132 million dollars in its opening weekend, Pirates, for what it strives, is a winner. What seems secondary these days is good writing, social consciousness, and good old movie magic. It's not there. And what better vehicle to stir up some good old movie magic like a swash-buckling pirate caper? A good picture is no longer a goal. Just money.
Let me inform you, also, Captain Jack is not back. Captain Jack, a bit of a fluke to the first film, sauntered out of a joyless ride adaptation, drunk and fay with a little more than suggested homosexual impulses and a cowardice to match no other. What on earth was he doing in this calculated CGI world? That was the thrill of The Black Pearl. Here, his random characterizations, improvised suggestives and smarmy witticisms are as calculated as the CGI cracken which threatens all those who take to the high seas. Lines slide off of Depp's tongue but, well... the wind is just not in his sails (sorry, I couldn't help it). His originally subversive and perverse humor is replaced by that which you would expect from any PG-13 Disney picture: dick jokes and homophobic double entendres. I don't assume word here will ward you off of this venture. Seeing naff reviews didn't stop me. I thought they could do no wrong, if Depp was down. Sadly, he wasn't.
Remember Conan the Destroyer? Well, you kind of should. It is racist in an almost unforgivable way. (I mean Grace Jones is literally a spear chucker) If it weren't for the film's obvious whole fucked up 80's economy theme (not to mention the coke) that makes the whole thing an okay idea, warts and all. It's bad, but it I mean, that's its reponsibility as a film. It's a Conan flick, for Christ's sake. And sure, I'm a Grace Jones whore, though and through. Her entire career as a personality can be summed up in her all-too-brief yet unforgettable scenes. The effects are charmingly quaint and the whole fabrication aesthetic is one of the last moments in Hollywood when sets were hand crafted and actually existed in reality. When all else fails, regard, and realize that this man now holds a position in the US government.
Few films have emerged from the last half decade that I truly consider to be great films. There are a handful who have proven to rise above these rather prudent times. Sebastien Lifshitz's Wild Side is one of the most moving and impeccably constructed films I can recall seeing in a non-revival theater in ages. If the title comes new to you, it is probably because this near unmarketable film had such a harshly limited run that I nearly missed it. (I had seen it the prior year at a film festival and had been yearning to partake once more) The film tells the loose story of a romantic/familial partnership of three French societal outcasts. Stephanie, a pre-op transexual, Djamel an Arab prostitute and Mikhail an illegal Russian immigrant who emigrated to avoid the draft. When Staphanie's mother begins to die, Stephanie must return to her provincial home town where her lifestyle is not met with such acceptance as is found in Paris. Wild Side is a film presented as is. There are no heavy hands with which to morally evaluate characters or actions, neither are there firm hands to guide us through the narrative, as each sequence follows its predecessor more like pieces to a puzzle than a standard progressional flow. It may be difficult for some viewers, but the film's visual magnificence is enough to floor anyone. As a bonus perk, the titles
So tomorrow finally sees the limited theatrical release of Strangers With Candy which I had the priveledge to attend a preview screening of a couple weeks ago. While it did not live up to the terribly high expectations I held for the film, neither did it disappoint. Strangers With Candy, the show, had about 10 jokes, but they were damn good ones. Embarrassing scenarios repeated themselves with varying results. Mostly, they proved to be some of the more reverent moments of TV history. We see those same jokes played out here, this time on the big screen. They are still funny, but without a serial progression, the film loses something in translation. Scenes of Jerri in prison are funny because those who have followed the show already know Jerri Blank. We know her reputation and are finally treated to the "before" which was always merely alluded to.
The film follows Jerri's release from the state penitentiary and, in an attempt to revive her comatose father (Dan Hedaya), restarts her life from the very moment it went awry - namely Highschool. But shedding 30 some odd years of debauchery and drug addiction becomes more of a challenge that it initially seemed. The original crew is reassembled, mostly. Of course Steven Colbert and Paul Dinello (who also serves as a rather unsteady Director) revive the melodrama of their homosexual affair, though both seem strangely preoccupied. (Dinello's distraction can be pinned on directing, but what for Colbert?) As is usual, Greg Hollimon's Principal Onyx Blackman (you guessed it, he's a tall, deep-voiced black man) nearly steals the show and supplies the best chemistry when pitted against (not with) Jerri. The countless celeb cameos are mostly throw away. Sarah Jessica Parker's grief counselor is a new high in low, as is her hubby, Matthew Broderick, as Colbert's arch nemesis.
Priceless are the moments like the final sequence in which Sedaris dances around in Bali drag while Megawatti Sucarnaputri, in black face with painted-on white beast fangs, writhes in a cage. The film, like the show, is never one to cower in the shadow of political correctness. Quite the converse. The message of the film turns out to be "We're all racist, Think about it. I didn't." and really, wasn't that all that Crash was trying to tell us. I'm not sure whether I want to call Strangers With Candy a parody or a alternative to Crash, but for God's sake, at least the film has the balls to just be, without leading us through every moment. There is an equivalent amount of misses as there are hits in this mostly impeccably written script. A lot of the spunk is gone from the original. But still, when likening it to everything else out there, it's a hell of a good time.
Big Glam fan? Toni Colette whore? Wanna know where Jonathan Rhys Meyes came from? Wanna see Ewan McGRegor's dick? If you answered yes to any of these questions, and have not already indulged, might I recommend a rather convaluted glam flick Velvet Goldmine. And I actually mean that in a good way. The film is a fictitous recounting of a relationship between Iggy Pop and David Bowie. Both become so estranged in their fabricated personas that they (and the film's narrative) get lost in the grandioseness the theatricality. I've been thinking about it a lot since seeing Brothers of the Head, and for those of you who have seen it (there are a lot of haters) I suggest you give it another chance thinking about just that. What you are looking at is the performer's own self-image running amok on camera. In that way, this in one of the better rock and roll pictures ever made. It only helps that it is made by my honey, Todd Haynes, who made my all-time favorite film [Safe].
The Libertine is, amoung other things, a textbook example of our time's conservativism. One would think that a movie called The Libertine would be a little randy or perhaps even erotic, but neither is the case in this absurd mess of a picture. On DVD tomorrow, this farcical film is the best comedy to come out this year (its distribution was delayed considerably) so far. Might I suggest gathering up some of your more cynically minded friends and sitting down for a good drinking game with this stupidly made flick. Depp, who parodied his dramatic acting style with Captain Jack Sparrow, attempts to return to Drama only to find that that caracter at which we laugh is based on his only form of delivery. One cannot help but snicker. So snicker you should. Most movies these days are merely mediocre. Bombs haven't been this good in a while.
I rented Sunday, Bloody Sunday just to watch Glenda Jackson, whom I think of as one of the few truly Great film actresses. I could watch her do anything. Her majesty just radiates from her otherwise humble countenance. The film concerns a bisexual (before the term existed) boy who flits from a relationship with Jackson's Alex and Peter Finch's Daniel. Whenever the dreaded thing known as responsibility enters his life, he exits. It is a film of its very particular time and place. Oozing all of the thematic and stylistic tropes fundamental to British cinema of the early Seventies, the film is a good one, but does not stand out like Women in Love, say. Of course, the representation of a homosexual love affair was bold and startling for its time, though now it seems sadly censored and pales in the complexity of the heterosexual relationship. Though celebrated for Finch's "audacity," Jackson is the real reason to watch the film. Her intellectual (and tortured poor little rich girl) performance is really a treat. Look out for the irredeemably sexy Jon Finch as one of Daniel's tricks. Mmmmmmm... A very interesting bit of trivia that alter the entire film's reception: Alan Bates was initially slated to play Daniel, but was to busy filming The Go-Between. In the original screenplay, Daniel was written far younger. And I must admit, this would have made a far more dynamic film.
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