As it happens, the good folks at Sony chose not to invite me to the advance screening of the new romantic comedy Anyone But You, obligating me to schlep out on my own to see it in what would ultimately would prove to be an example of insult added to total fucking tedium. Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell play a pair of impossibly attractive people who meet cute one day in a coffee shop, spend a fantastic, if sex-free, night together and then act so idiotically towards each other the next morning—for no other reason that the screenplay by director Will Gluck and Ilana Wolpert requires it—that they just as immediately loathe each other. Alas, her sister and his best friend, it later transpires, are about to get married and this leads to a destination wedding in Australia where, for reasons both too complicated and bone-headed to get into, they find themselves compelled to pretend that they are actually into each other after all. You can probably fill in the blanks from this point on, almost certainly with more wit and insight than this monstrosity is able to generate during its seemingly interminable running time. (At the screening I attended, the guy sitting next to me started yakking on his phone halfway through and I found myself letting it pass—partly because he was dressed like Santa Claus and partly because his conversation was slightly less irritating than anything going on up on the screen.)
Look, I am all for the simple cheeseball pleasures that can be found in a decent rom-com and the notion of watching the undeniably charismatic likes of Sweeney and Powell going through the genre paces in a wide array of largely revealing outfits is not necessarily a bad idea. Unfortunately, virtually everything else on display here is one very bad idea after another. Although the screenplay is theoretically meant to suggest, however vaguely, Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing—right down to naming the bickering central characters Bea and Ben—what ensues feels like the kind of thing that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey might have rejected during their heyday as an onscreen team for not being up to the literary standards of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Dates or Fool’s Gold. (The writing is so dire that when the two leads find themselves singing Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten” in order to stave off airsickness—don’t ask—that constitutes the best writing in the film.) On paper, Sweeney and Powell seem like an ideal pairing but even their talents wind up being overwhelmed by the inanity on display and they generate few sparks in their scenes together. (Having delivered one of the year’s very best performances in the powerful drama Reality, it is both amusing and depressing to see Sweeney subsequently give one of the year’s very worst here.)
Frankly, the only thing that is likely to keep most viewers from bolting for the lobby is the promise of nudity from the two leads suggested by the ads and even that proves to be a master bait-and-switch in the end. Other than the sprightly presence of model Charlee Fraser as a former flame of Powell’s—she has little to do but looks smashing while doing it—this is basically a cinematic dead bulb that is just a waste of time and energy for all involved. In recent months, many have noted the near-disappearance of that one-time cineplex stalwart known as the rom-com and have wondered if the genre that once kept Meg Ryan and her ilk in clover was gone for good—after watching Anyone But You, my guess is that if the genre were to die off for good, few would mourn its passing if it meant no longer having to endure anything along those lines again.
The films of prolific French filmmaker Francois Ozon have encompassed everything from hard-hitting dramas to offbeat comedies to those that defy most common genre parameters and his latest, The Crime is Mine, tilting more towards the lighter side of things. This time around, he has adapted a 1934 play by Georges Berr and Louis Verneuil that is set in 1935 Paris and revolves around struggling actress Madeline (Nadia Tereskiewicz), who, as the story begins, is facing both unemployment and imminent eviction. Things soon get worse when she barely escapes the casting couch clutches of a lascivious producer (Jean-Christophe Bouvet), only to discover that she is now the prime suspect in his murder. She is innocent, of course, but after seeing how the media and the public have seized upon recent cases involving female killers, hits upon a brilliant plan with her roommate, the equally struggling lawyer Pauline (Rebecca Marder)—she will falsely confess to the shooting and Pauline will defend her in court on the basis that she was merely defending her virtue, both gambling that the jury and the public will be sympathetic to their claims. The ploy works, the two find themselves now newly successful and celebrated and it is at this point that things get really complicated in ways that I will leave for you to discover.
This description may make the story sound like a clone of Chicago and while there are some undeniable similarities between the two, The Crime is Mine goes off in much different and ultimately more rewarding directions. While the tone of Chicago was of a mostly cynical variety (one that wound up curdling somewhat in its long journey from the stage to the screen), Ozon maintains a cheerier and more likable tone throughout, aided in large part due to the likable performances and undeniable rapport between the two leads that keeps things merrily bobbing along. At the same time, the film does have some interesting things to say beneath its seemingly fluffy surface—the courtroom defense that Pauline lays out for her friend is a thoughtful and proudly feminist stab at the heart of the patriarchy that lends an undeniable contemporary edge to the period trappings. The film also benefits mightily from a late-inning appearance from the great Isabelle Huppert in a performance that, like the film itself, navigates a fine line between drollness and campiness that is an utter delight to watch. Unlike the majority of the bloated Oscar bait currently hitting multiplexes, The Crime is Mine is a smart and well-crafted work that is a joy to watch and marks another fascinating entry in one of the most eclectic of contemporary filmographies.
As was the case with his first two films, Martha Marcy May Marlene and The Nest, Sean Durkin’s The Iron Claw is an examination of dark family dynamics and the extremes to which they can push those caught up in them. This time around, the focus is on the real-life story of the Von Erich family, a professional wrestling dynasty that began with patriarch Fritz (Holt McCallany) and reached its apotheosis with the ring triumphs in the early 80s with the ring accomplishments of his four sons—Kevin (Zac Efron), David (Harris Dickinson), Kerry (Jeremy Allen White) and Mike (Stanley Simons)—before it all fell apart in a series of tragedies so profound and unthinkable that many, including the family itself, felt as if they were suffering from a genuine curse. (The family’s eldest son, we learn, died in a freak accident at the age of six, giving further credence to the notion of a curse.) As his beloved brothers begin to fall around him, Kevin becomes increasingly taken by the notion that anyone bearing the Von Erich name is doomed to a bad end, an idea that inevitably drives a wedge between him and his own wife (Lily James) and young child and threatens to consume him as it has the rest of the family.
The film is well-crafted and contains a number of strong performances—especially the one delivered by Efron—but when it was over, I found myself curiously unmoved by the while enterprise. Part of this might stem from the fact that I have never had any real fascination with the subject of pro wrestling, I suppose, but I think it is more than that. Despite the fact that this is the most straightforward and streamlined narrative that Durkin has utilized to date (so streamlined, in fact, that the screenplay eliminates another Von Erich brother who also met a tragic end), I never quite managed to connect with the presentation of the dark and twisted family dynamic in a way that would have allowed me to fully register the heartbreaking developments. One key flaw is Durkin’s decision to put the focus of the story squarely on Kevin, allowing the others to essentially fade into the background until it is time for them to meet their miserable fate. Another problem is that while Durkin does introduce the notion that the so-called “curse” is merely a way for the family to deal with mental health issues that they are unwilling or unable to acknowledge—they would rather deliver piledrivers than go into therapy—he never really deals with that idea in a satisfactory way, preferring instead to simply offer up one misery after another. The Iron Claw has been made with undeniable skill and I wouldn’t necessarily advise against seeing it, especially if you are a fan of the sport in question, but those coming into it cold are likely to find it a cold and depressing work that fails to offer up enough insight to make it worth enduring.