A couple of gems open in the
Valley this week:
Loving Vincent—The producers stake an unusual claim for this Polish-British animated
feature, six years in the making: that it’s the first completely oil-painted
movie. Each of its 65,000 frames, we’re told, was meticulously hand-painted by
a team of more than 100 artists, working over the previous frame’s image, all
in the style of Vincent Van Gogh.
A documentary about the making of
this quixotically crazy endeavor would be fascinating. As with Claymation back
in the ‘70s and ‘80s, if you let yourself think too long about the labor you’re
witnessing, you can start to feel overwhelmed and it can throw you out of the
movie.
Happily, the movie itself isn’t
just visually breathtaking, it’s also an engrossing little historical drama,
well-acted by the Brit voice cast in a naturalistic manner. The story is set in
1891, the year after Van Gogh’s death, and centers on Armand Roulin (Douglas
Booth), the young man in yellow from the famous portrait. Armand’s postmaster
father Joseph, another Van Gogh subject, tasks his son with delivering a final
letter from the genius to his brother Theo.
Armand travels from Arles to
Paris, and then on to Auvers-sur-Oise, where Vincent died. Initially annoyed by
the errand, Armand becomes increasingly fascinated as he delves into the
mystery of Vincent’s death.
The directors, Dorota Kobiela and
Hugh Welchman, working from a script they wrote with Jacek Dehnel, use Armand’s
investigations to paint a portrait (if you’ll excuse the expression) of a truly
loving Vincent. He’s beset with terrible emotional sufferings, certainly, but
he’s sweet-natured and ecstatic in his visionary raptures.
But the thrill in the picture is
seeing those immortal images brought to life. In the opening minutes alone, we
get the Café Terrace, the Zouave reclining against the wall, Lieutenant
Milliet, and so on, gliding easily into each other in service of the narrative.
I suppose there are cultural
purists out there who might find using the works of one of the great figures in
European art as, essentially, a storyboard, to be a crass, literal-minded
stunt. But I was enchanted by this gloriously low-tech labor of love, both for
Van Gogh and for the possibilities of the cinema.
Professsor Marston and the Wonder Women—There’s something delicious about the knowledge that the furious accusations
of mid-century anti-comics crusaders were, in at least one case, quite right. Wonder
Woman, who debuted in 1941 in what would become DC Comics, really was rooted in
fantasies of bondage, dominance and Sapphic power.
And not just fantasies, either,
but realities. As we’re told in this amusing chronicle, the creator of the
character, a Harvard-educated psychology professor named William Moulton
Marston (writing under the name Charles Moulton), spun the Amazon by blending
traits of the two women with whom he lived—his wife Elizabeth Holloway Marston,
and Olive Byrne, a student and assistant who became the third member of their
marriage.
It’s likely that the
writer-director Angela Robinson (Herbie:
Fully Loaded) has heated up the story a bit. But there are true elements
that trump fiction, the juiciest being that before his comic-writing days, Marston
was one of the developers of the systolic blood pressure test that led to the
polygraph—in other words, he invented the Lasso of Truth in reality before he gave
it to his heroine. As an adolescent in the ‘70s, watching the Lynda Carter TV version
of Wonder Woman, I always found the
Lasso of Truth shtick distinctly erotic; now I’d guess that Marston did too.
This movie’s historical accuracy is
debatable, and some chapters work better than others, but Robinson has, any case,
crafted maybe the wittiest and sweetest cinematic menage a trois in recent memory. Those looking for graphic sex will
be disappointed—the threesome scenes, which involve a lot of dressing-up in
theatrical costumes, are too tame and discreet for a Cinemax soft-core flick
from the ‘90s. But something about their good-natured naïveté makes them sexy.
The charm in Professor Marston and the Wonder Women comes in the deadpan
delivery of earnest dialogue by glamorous actors like Luke Evans as Marston and
waif-like Bella Heathcote as Olive. There are nice supporting turns by Oliver
Platt as early comic peddler Max Gaines and Connie Britton in a peculiarly flirtatious
turn as early comic critic Josette Frank. We also see JJ Feild as fetish
costumer Charles Guyette, here shown decking out Olive in a get-up very similar
to Wonder Woman’s.
But the standout is Rebecca Hall
as the brittle, unflappable (well, almost
unflappable) Elizabeth. Her readings give a sharp edge even to lines that don’t
have one built in, yet she somehow infuses them with a palpable undercurrent of
love and emotional directness as well. I hate to resort to it, but indulge me: She’s
a wonder.
