A marvelous 10-car pileup of ostentatious art direction and dated fashion shows in search of reason for being, the sophomore effort from writer-director-hyphenate Madonna is a fascinatingly bad collision of good intentions and decent craftsmanship. By virtue of her near-indestructible pop icon status, everything Madge does automatically becomes a semiotics exercise, and so we’re left to ponder W.E. —a heartfelt, deeply personal and wildly self-indulgent vision issued from within an ivory tower. It’s like a costume drama hijacked by a Freudian confessional.
F. Scott Fitzgerald said there are no second acts in American lives. But there are plenty of second acts in movie careers, and the one that’s tickled me most lately is AARP-aged, Oscar nominee Liam Neeson’s sudden ascension to B-movie badass icon.
So when I see Sandra Bullock, staring out a skyscraper window at the smoldering towers, leaning into camera for an over-orchestrated, glycerine-tear-eyed closeup, I’m no longer thinking about the movie I’m supposed to be watching. I’m wondering why that sanctimonious twat needs to intrude on my awful memories just to try and win another Oscar.
The story follows the deceptively simple structure of two high-falutin’ sets of parents in an upscale Brooklyn neighborhood, forced to hash things out after their pre-teen kids have an unfortunate after-school altercation that ends with a couple missing teeth.
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