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★½☆☆☆
28 March 2017
A movie review of THE PARTY. |
“Tickle an aromatherapist and get a fascist,” April (Patricia Clarkson)
What is the point of this movie? There is the definite whiff of inanity emanating. It feels like ages since director Sally Potter made something of note - perhaps YES from 2004? One must not be too harsh, as she constantly tries to push herself and the cinema form. THE PARTY though has the vibe of a rushed first draft. The title refers to a party of the dinner and political variety, and ham-fists the former and delivers little of substance to the latter – all the more disappointing in our turbulent times. Why make the runtime just 71 minutes?
What is the point of this movie? There is the definite whiff of inanity emanating. It feels like ages since director Sally Potter made something of note - perhaps YES from 2004? One must not be too harsh, as she constantly tries to push herself and the cinema form. THE PARTY though has the vibe of a rushed first draft. The title refers to a party of the dinner and political variety, and ham-fists the former and delivers little of substance to the latter – all the more disappointing in our turbulent times. Why make the runtime just 71 minutes?
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Who does not love the screwball romantic comedies of the 1930s? THE PHILADELPHIA STORY, HIS GIRL FRIDAY, BRINGING UP BABY, etc. Is THE PARTY an attempt to emulate the rat-a-tat dialogue of one of the most sublime subgenres? Instead of overlapping lines of brilliance, the characters hysterically verbally harangue each other artlessly. Bar Patricia Clarkson's choice put-downs, this is woeful. The setting of never leaving a suburban home creates here an uninteresting narrative constraint.
Opening on Janet (Kristin Scott Thomas) pointing a gun at the camera distraught, THE PARTY jumps back in time to how she reached a tipping point. Unfolding perhaps in real time, there is now 70 minutes to understand her fervour. Guessing the twist, I dismissed my prediction as too fatuous an outcome, but low and behold it came to pass. As the closing credits rolled, my head was held metaphorically in my hands.
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A seven hander:
April (Patricia Clarkson),
Gottfried (Bruno Ganz),
Martha (Cherry Jones),
Jinny (Emily Mortimer),
Tom (Cillian Murphy),
Bill (Timothy Spall) and
Janet (Kristin Scott Thomas).
A quality cast of thesps wasted. They hold back secrets from each other and let them slip out at inopportune moments. These revelations clang rather than zing. Contrast brill Icelandic comedy, COUNTRY WEDDING, or a Neil LaBute play.
The point of the gathering is a celebration for Janet’s promotion to Shadow Minister for Health. One assumes it is for the Labour Party. Why is more not made of this? There is a cursory mention of a dire need for her presence to save the British National Health Service, and that’s about it. Husband Bill spends most of the film in a drunken trance. Gottfriend is an aging hippie aromatherapist used as a verbal punching bag by the script/April. Tom is in finance and tediously, hyperactively runs around the abode with a loaded gun. Etcetera, Etcetera. All are given an irritating trait (not in thoughtful/arresting ways), and a tiresome backstory.
Over-the-top, substandard, obvious theatrics.
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