Colette (15.)
Directed by Wash Westmoreland.
Starring Keira Knightley, Dominic West, Fiona Shaw, Eleanor Tomlinson, Aiysha Hart and Denise Gough. 112 mins.
The costume drama is generally graded in terms of tastefulness and, if nothing else, I think the aesthetics of the almost perfect flatline of tedium Colette achieves, deserve appreciation. It is an archetypal British costume drama in that it is about a writer; characters have affairs; nothing much happens; and it isn't going to let a little thing like being set in France interfere with its essential Britishness.
We start off in Burgundy in the 1890s where a 20-year-old country girl Colette (Knightley in pigtails) is romanced by Parisian bon vivant and intellectual Henry Gauthier-Villars (West.) Known by his pen name Willy, he is a kind of highbrow Katie Price, employing a gang of ghostwriters to churn out articles, features and novels under his name and direction. Colette marries him, grows tired of the Parisian social scene and eventually finds herself one of his little helpers, turning out a series of books about her upbringing. These Claudine books become wildly successful - under his name. Predictably this, along with Willy's compulsive adultery, leads to discord and Colette takes the only honourable course open to her: she starts to perform on the stage and becomes a lesbian.
As a woman who successfully challenged life in a patriarchal society, the story of Colette's rise to fame and preeminence (after the second world war she would be nominated for the Nobel prize) chimes with contemporary concerns but modishness doesn't make a film worthwhile. As a costume drama, it fails to really deliver on most of the things that are expected of it. The acting is solid but not inspired, the period detail is nice but not thrilling, and the overall feel is that of dull competence. Most of all it takes characters that are debauched and rebellious and makes then terribly respectable. It de-Gallics them. The only pleasure perhaps is indulging your inner Farage imaging just how put out the French will be at having Keira Knightley play one of their great literary heroines.
Directed by Wash Westmoreland.
Starring Keira Knightley, Dominic West, Fiona Shaw, Eleanor Tomlinson, Aiysha Hart and Denise Gough. 112 mins.
The costume drama is generally graded in terms of tastefulness and, if nothing else, I think the aesthetics of the almost perfect flatline of tedium Colette achieves, deserve appreciation. It is an archetypal British costume drama in that it is about a writer; characters have affairs; nothing much happens; and it isn't going to let a little thing like being set in France interfere with its essential Britishness.
We start off in Burgundy in the 1890s where a 20-year-old country girl Colette (Knightley in pigtails) is romanced by Parisian bon vivant and intellectual Henry Gauthier-Villars (West.) Known by his pen name Willy, he is a kind of highbrow Katie Price, employing a gang of ghostwriters to churn out articles, features and novels under his name and direction. Colette marries him, grows tired of the Parisian social scene and eventually finds herself one of his little helpers, turning out a series of books about her upbringing. These Claudine books become wildly successful - under his name. Predictably this, along with Willy's compulsive adultery, leads to discord and Colette takes the only honourable course open to her: she starts to perform on the stage and becomes a lesbian.
As a woman who successfully challenged life in a patriarchal society, the story of Colette's rise to fame and preeminence (after the second world war she would be nominated for the Nobel prize) chimes with contemporary concerns but modishness doesn't make a film worthwhile. As a costume drama, it fails to really deliver on most of the things that are expected of it. The acting is solid but not inspired, the period detail is nice but not thrilling, and the overall feel is that of dull competence. Most of all it takes characters that are debauched and rebellious and makes then terribly respectable. It de-Gallics them. The only pleasure perhaps is indulging your inner Farage imaging just how put out the French will be at having Keira Knightley play one of their great literary heroines.
