Philadelphia Weekly

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

Directed by Bharat Nalluri
B-

Reviewed by Matt Prigge Opens Fri., March 7

In The Hudsucker Proxy Jennifer Jason Leigh busted out a Rosalind Russell imitation so spot-on, so faithful in reproducing the distinct motormouth dialogue style of '30s screwball comedy, it threatened to alienate everyone born after 1939. Now it's Amy Adams' turn.

Audiences seemed fine with her starry-eyed Broadway routine in Enchanted. But as a blustery American singer and actress vying for starring roles and social ascent in the '30s-London-set Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, Adams is a more terrifying force of nature. She bulges her eyes, huffs up a storm, races through her lines and generally suggests she's been fed the same pills as were the young Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.

Her co-star is Frances McDormand and no, McDormand doesn't try to keep up. Doing her best with an uncomfortable-sounding British accent, McDormand plays a frumpy but resourceful governess who cons her way into becoming Adams' "social secretary." What does that entail exactly? Essentially lying when Adams' can't.

This isn't a Jeeves and Wooster setup; Adams is crafty, not stupid, and is just barely maintaining the illusion of a fabulous lifestyle while balancing three different men. McDormand is simply an extra well-compensated hand, frantically pulling wild fibs from her ass. The two make an unexpectedly moving pair--not just an act of sisterhood, but of class solidarity, even in a world of bursting champagne bottles and designer scarves.

None of the sequences or incidents in Pettigrew are particularly engaging. But the actors keep it lively--not only Adams but also helium-voiced wonder Shirley Henderson as a ruthless ice-queen social-climber.

McDormand, alas, spends the majority of the movie simply looking lost, but that's partly the point. Pettigrew may be ultra-super-mega fizzy, but there's an undertow of melancholy, even despair. The film is even set on the cusp of WWII, blitzkrieg bombers occasionally flying over to briefly disrupt the merrymaking, while a lovely exchange finds McDormand chatting with a wealthy but sad-eyed fashion magnate (the insanely ubiquitous Ciar�n Hinds) about what they lost in the last war.

Somehow these moments don't upset the fluffy tone, at least until the very last couple minutes when Pettigrew finds an ending that's at once magical and bittersweet--a reminder that entertainment doesn't always have to be braindead.

The Witnesses

Directed by Andr� T�chin�
C

Reviewed by Sean Burns Opens Fri., March 7

Unyieldingly pleasant and way too fussy for its own good, Andr� T�chin�'s The Witnesses takes a breezy backward glance at a shocking, tumultuous time, presenting those inexplicable and horrific initial stages of the AIDS outbreak in 1984 as a weirdly wistful memory piece.

The French screen goddess Emmanuelle B�art narrates, also starring as a children's book author somewhat shocked to discover, after finally giving birth to a little tyke, that she doesn't particularly like kids. Not even her own. Her husband Mehdi (Sami Bouajila), a rough-around-the-edges vice cop, is too busy trying to sort out the unspoken rules and resentments of their open marriage to much bother with the baby, especially now that he's suffering some unfamiliar yearnings for a sinewy young houseguest named Manu.

Played with one-note wide-eyed idealization by Johan Lib�reau, Manu arrived at the unhappy couple's summer beach house as the guest of Michel Blanc's Adrien, one of those sad-eyed middle-aged men who tend to surround themselves with younger boys. Ever the perfect gentleman, Adrien is even kind enough to watch over the lad's belongings while he's off cruising public gardens.

Before long Manu is sneaking away for flying lessons (tee-hee) with Mehdi, but the romantic roundelay comes to a crashing halt once the youngster starts sprouting lesions and everybody must get tested. Self-hating Mehdi takes out his rage on hookers and homosexuals, while Adrien loses himself altogether, nursing the dying Manu while spearheading medical research about this unknown vicious disease. B�art finally figures out how to write a book that isn't for children, and strangely none of this sturm und drang even comes close to making an emotional dent.

Irrepressibly tidy, right down to the mirror-image prologue and epilogue, The Witnesses contains exactly one heated emotional exchange, and coasts for the rest of its running time on improbably mellow and thoughtful chats between these exceedingly well-mannered, hyperarticulate folks. Illicit sex and ghastly demises lose their sting, buried somewhere beneath the film's bright primary color scheme and conversational tone.

Where's the grit? Where's the sweat? Where's the rage at the unfairness of this seemingly random and inexplicably cruel fate that either killed or otherwise traumatized an entire generation of gay men?