The Wife (15.)
Directed by Bjorn Runge.
Starring Glenn Close, Jonathan Pryce, Max Irons, Christian Slater, Annie Starke and Karin Franz Korlof. 100 mins.
This is a boring film about writers. Which is another way of saying it is a film about writers. Unless it's about the exciting things the writer did first before sitting down at their desk to write it up, or it's Barton Fink, all films about writers are boring. The Wife though is a boring film about a celebrated American Jewish writer who wins the Nobel Prize. So much of it takes place in Stockholm. In the middle of winter. At an awards ceremony.
Being a film about writers there is a lot of literary criticism going on. Everything is judged and everything has a But. This work shows promise, but: the characters are wooden; the dialogue is trite; the plotting predictable; the dramatic events too telegraphed; the whole thing is cliché ridden. Which is pot calling the kettle black seeing as that is exactly the case with the film.
Pryce, with a big white beard, is the great writer, Close is the loyal and supportive wife and Irons is the son who struggles in the great man's shadow. Her initial thrill of the Nobel slowly gives way to resentment and reflection about the sacrifices and compromises she has had to make to enable her husband's success. Her contribution is often noted, but never fully understood.
Other than being a boring film about writers, The Wife is also one of those film where the point is already made before you go in, and the drama is sitting there waiting for the point you know is going to be made, to be made. The narrative's direction is obvious but at least the slow reveal in scriptwriter Jane Anderson's adaptation of the novel by Meg Wolitzer means we are never quite sure how far the final destination will be. The quality of the acting, especially Close and Pryce, means that even though the film has been rattling around the festival circuit since this time last year it is generating a low-level Oscar buzz. Its condemnation of the publishing world as a boy club chimes with the current mood, even though publishing seems to be a much more female centred activity in the 21st century and the era of celebrity intellectual white male writers trying to turn out the Great American Novel is long over.
Directed by Bjorn Runge.
Starring Glenn Close, Jonathan Pryce, Max Irons, Christian Slater, Annie Starke and Karin Franz Korlof. 100 mins.
This is a boring film about writers. Which is another way of saying it is a film about writers. Unless it's about the exciting things the writer did first before sitting down at their desk to write it up, or it's Barton Fink, all films about writers are boring. The Wife though is a boring film about a celebrated American Jewish writer who wins the Nobel Prize. So much of it takes place in Stockholm. In the middle of winter. At an awards ceremony.
Being a film about writers there is a lot of literary criticism going on. Everything is judged and everything has a But. This work shows promise, but: the characters are wooden; the dialogue is trite; the plotting predictable; the dramatic events too telegraphed; the whole thing is cliché ridden. Which is pot calling the kettle black seeing as that is exactly the case with the film.
Pryce, with a big white beard, is the great writer, Close is the loyal and supportive wife and Irons is the son who struggles in the great man's shadow. Her initial thrill of the Nobel slowly gives way to resentment and reflection about the sacrifices and compromises she has had to make to enable her husband's success. Her contribution is often noted, but never fully understood.
Other than being a boring film about writers, The Wife is also one of those film where the point is already made before you go in, and the drama is sitting there waiting for the point you know is going to be made, to be made. The narrative's direction is obvious but at least the slow reveal in scriptwriter Jane Anderson's adaptation of the novel by Meg Wolitzer means we are never quite sure how far the final destination will be. The quality of the acting, especially Close and Pryce, means that even though the film has been rattling around the festival circuit since this time last year it is generating a low-level Oscar buzz. Its condemnation of the publishing world as a boy club chimes with the current mood, even though publishing seems to be a much more female centred activity in the 21st century and the era of celebrity intellectual white male writers trying to turn out the Great American Novel is long over.
