How could this many members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences be wrong? I wondered as I rummaged around in my purse for some dental floss.
Once found, the floss gave me the excuse I needed to stay in my seat during this turgid, self-absorbed exercise in shots of rain-splashed car windows and 1950s cloche hats.
Let me place my cards on the table: Cate Blanchett let her lipstick do the acting, while poor Rooney Mara was forced to simply stare, bug-eyed like an extra from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
This was a film without a director, without a point, and with precious little more than a centrally-located mink coat and ugly shoes.
At no time did I believe in any of the male actors, or in any of their dialogue. If there was once a well-written novel by Patricia Highsmith behind this exercise in faded Kodachrome, it could no longer be detected in the film.
Could it be that the reason why a few of my woman friends liked it was that it was about lesbian liberation? That it suggested that woman, even in the darkest 1950s, could find solace in each other’s arms? Yes, but it was a lackluster, boring film. Message or no message, it was unbearable.
Blanchett smoking cigarettes was one of the most self-conscious, studied, mannered acts I’ve ever seen in film. Tossing back martinis during the day does not make her a role model of feminist freedom. It wasn’t even believable. I simply failed to find the film in this commercial for tightly-coiffed hair and bourgeois interior decoration. But I did manage to consume a bag of popcorn and then floss afterwards.
