The last few weeks have been tough, and I knew only Obi-Wan Kenobi in silver pants or Ewan MacGregor showing his naughty bits would get me in the
holiday spirit. So I viewed "Velvet Goldmine" and got both. This much-talked about film by unpredictable writer-director Todd Haynes (whose last film, "Safe," was about a woman who was
allergic to her suburban life) suffers from a severe coherence problem which the glorious, foolish foppery on screen can't disguise. Haynes audaciously nabs the structure of "Citizen Kane" to
tell the whatever-happened-to story of British glam rocker Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers), whose infatuation with American bad-boy rocker Curt Wild
(Ewan MacGregor) may be the key, and starts it off by imagining Oscar Wilde, the father of all fops, as an alien delivery. A film can only be marvelous or a mess after such a ballsy opening and "Goldmine" is, unfortunately, the latter. The story loosely follows the adventures of David Bowie (who turned down requests to use his music), his wife Angie and Mick Jagger when Bowie was creating the Ziggy Stardust persona and glam personified the androgynous freedom of the 70s. It's your classic doomed love story with marriage, bisexuality and artistic compromise thrown in for good measure.
Why Mandy Slade
(Toni Collette, best known for "Muriel's Wedding") exists is a mystery, unless Haynes wanted a female character to wear
Sandy Powell's phenomenal clothes
(this reviewer has her heart set on a slinky halter-top pantsuit done up in tiger stripe, and the beaded leopard-print cheongsam....) She tops her brilliant designs for "Orlando" in this eye-popping extravaganza of wigs, boots, prints, colors, glitter, feathers, and all that glitters. If she doesn't win an Oscar, there is no justice in Movieland
[ed. note: she did win for "Shakespeare in Love"]. The none-too-interesting perspective of Mrs.
Slade, tossed in for 'Citizen Kane' symmetry, is just one useless and confusing plotline. The other is the enterprising journalist
Arthur Stuart
(Christian Bale), who has a way-too-intimate link to Mssrs. Slade and Wydle. Yawn, yawn. Bale does his best to look interesting, but his character is bland as a biscuit without gravy and he's not asked to do much except gaze longingly at the leads.
To his credit, it would be impossible for any actor to draw attention next to the Rhys-Meyers' peacock Slade (whose character only comes to life in conjunction with Wild) and the ferocious intensity
of MacGregor's Curt Wild (modeled on Iggy Pop). MacGregor puts on a loose-wire, balls-to-the-wall (literally) performance in Wild's first scene, the likes of which have probably never before been
delivered by a non-rock star. His on-stage explosion (the only characterization that does his wild thrashing justice) is amazing for its unselfconsciousness and completely out-of-control fever
pitch. Most eerie is MacGregor's uncanny resemblance to Kurt Cobain. It's downright creepy to watch MacGregor towards the end of the film as the drug-ravaged Wild, his dynamic presence,
raw-nerves performance and vacant blue eyes chillingly like Cobain's.
Rhys-Meyers projects the cool assurance of a Bowie-esque performer, all angular body language and calculated posturing, and
looks damn comfortable in some truly ridiculous outfits. He's meant to be an unknowable cipher, and he is. This is too bad for the film, because the doomed relationship between Wild and Slade
(based on Bowie and Jagger's love connection) generates the movie's only emotional heat.
Haynes is aiming for a surreal tale that unfolds a central mystery with a bang. He whiffs, big
time. Mystery requires structure, and surreal movies (such as the famed 'Un Chien Andalou') are fine for inspired imagery but can only communicate jokes. Haynes seems to have forgotten that
films dealing with different time periods have to look and feel different, and the similarity between the photography and the characters (why does Wild look exactly the same ten years later?) kills this
device. Insistent restaging of music videos and performances drags like hell: too many and all at the same pace. It's visual overkill. The only piece that stands out is the Wild-Slade
collaboration, largely because of MacGregor's manic energy. Haynes also falters in trying to film an entire movie in the arch, distant mocking manner of glam-rock. Glam-rock was always artificial
and superficial -- two qualities that make for great music videos and tedious films.
Film elicits more questions than it answers: what the hell is Mandy Slade's purpose, except to allow Colette
and Rhys-Jones to meet up in real life? (Angie Bowie was the one who put Bowie in a dress) why does Slade think performing in a dress is a good idea? why is Slade so lonely? what's
Wild's attraction to Slade? why doesn't Slade-in-the-present look anything like the original Slade? What was the dry cleaning bill for this crowd? These are niggling, workmanlike issues that
should either be explained or never surface.
Photography is middling at best --this film cries out for the artificial neon-punch of Wong-Kar-Wai collaborator Christopher Doyle's lush work
(check out the 'Psycho' remake for his latest endeavors). Serviceable lighting just will not do for such a flamboyant story. Camera work is similarly uninspired and hackneyed. Several
shots cribbed from 'Citizen Kane' serve to point up the extreme dullness of the film's original shots. Especially irritating is the home-movie-voyeur longshot used for Wild and the journalist on
the roof. Puh-leeeeeze. An out-of-focus blonde head bobbing about in the distance? Yawn. More close-ups of MacGregor real estate, please.
All that aside, it's worth renting for
the astonishing costumes and MacGregor's performance. His agonized Wild is the heart of the film, and it's too bad the movie didn't center around the relationship between Slade and Wild. This
might have fallen prey to the cutting-room floor, as intriguing shots of the two in bed seen in promotional materials never materialize on screen. More's the pity. What could have been a poignant
love story with great clothes is a tangled mess with great clothes. Also noteworthy is a scene with Wild and Slade as dolls, referencing the director's first big break: his short "The
Autobiography of Karen Carpenter" starring Barbie, never shown in the US thanks to unauthorized use of Carpenter's songs. Gotta give the guy credit for cohones. Best for fans of Ewan "I Have a
Very Large P****" MacGregor. That was the headline of a British article about the gifted Scot. Wink wink, nudge nudge -- say no more! gotta see more?
Visit The Velvet Goldmine Tribute Page
for a terrific collection of stills, flyers and pix. |
