Sarah
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I once wore contacts for a six-day stint in Death Valley, warding off the dusty air with generic eye drops and carefully choreographed hand-rubbing. Needless to say, I was miserable upon my return home, and pulled the suckers out immediately.
I felt a similar painful, burning sensation during my viewing of James Ivory’s Le Divorce. Maybe it was the gleam from all the stars packed into the flabby storyline like fat clowns in a Mazda Miata. Maybe it was the shine of Kate Hudson’s surplus of wardrobe accessories. Perhaps it was the wanton blonde hair-flopping by the leads, or Naomi Watts’ harder-than-ice nipples. It is the lack of credibility in story progression and the number of unnecessary plotlines in this occasionally funny but usually trembling mess of gelatinous film garbage.
The idea itself holds promise. Adapted from Diane Johnson’s book of the same name, it’s an account of unfair divorce circumstances and French-American culture clash. The problem is that the screenplay has its head up writer/director Ivory’s ass, and next to no development of any story element. In 115 minutes, forced acting and excessive winking reveal the breaking of a marriage, a transition into mistresshood, one ass-ugly painting, an ass-uglier handbag, some national stereotypes, a suicide attempt, a wacko with a gun, and an auction ending in the transformation of a pretty standard family into millionaires. This, however, does not amount to anything. Throw in a smidgeon of undeveloped women’s rights arguments, a lesson on the French importance of scarves, and a look into the underworld of painting appraisal, and you’ve got yourself a pretty crappy two hours. Oh, and don’t forget the fifty outfits Kate Hudson wears.
The quick version: Ditzy Isabel (Hudson) is in Paris visiting/living with her pregnant poet sister, Roxy (Naomi Watts). Roxy’s husband Charles-Henri has just left her (in Isabel’s cab—oh, contrivance!) for a Russian brunette, whose husband (Matthew “Love your puppy” Modine) consequently goes loony and, although seemingly appearing out of nowhere, becomes sort of important later on—"sort of" meaning instrumental in eliminating characters that are already worthless anyway.
Isabel finds a monkey’s job with an American writer (Glenn Close with a rather scary hairdo), who coincidentally has slept with Roxy’s husband’s politician Uncle Edgar (Thierry Lhermitte) in the past. Following the acquisition of an absolutely hideous haircut, Isabel becomes mistress to said uncle. Never mind that she’s already found and fucked a thoroughly disheveled French beau (think Peter Jackson with 20 fewer years and about 150 fewer pounds). This leads to an assortment of expensive gifts (apparently given routinely to all the poor saps who date this jerk) which includes a nasty red croc Kelly handbag and a gratuitous lingerie shopping scene in which no part of Kate Hudson’s skin is actually visible. Sorry, guys. Somehow, during all of this, the characters forget to be convincingly sad about the pending divorce or to have second thoughts about screwing a relation of their sister’s weasel husband.
While Isabel is getting her brains fucked out by this Ralph Fiennes wannabe, a rather ugly painting becomes the focal point of the film. In fact, I’d say it’s the only thing holding a respectable number of storylines together. Under French law, the painting, a valuable heirloom portrait of Saint Ursula, is communal property in a marriage, so Roxy must spend a small amount of her time defending it from Charles-Henri’s stereotypically money grubbing French relatives. I say small because their interest in it wanes mysteriously throughout the flick. And no, that’s not to build suspense. There’s just no answer there.
There’s the occasional complaint about gender inequality, but Watts—who spends five minutes whining about a Dark Age assumption that unless you have the same name as your children, you’re a whore—can’t seem to care about the issue enough to make me buy it. This apparent apathy towards the role makes Roxy’s off-the-cuff suicide attempt—presumably a result of her unloving husband and the possible loss of her painting—all the more comical. The arrival of Roxy and Isabel’s parents (Stockard Channing and Sam Waterson in roles that, while funny, waste their talents) in France has less to do with the suicide attempt than with the pending auction of their painting. Psychiatric counseling? Forget it. Let’s go spend eight hundred bucks on a fancy meal and snap pics with our digicam instead, like good American tourists.
Reenter the Russian’s husband, who until now has done little but steal umbrellas and lurk at a poetry reading where Watts butchers Ann Bradstreet’s “To My Loving Husband.” (Isn’t that a surprising choice?) Some shit goes down at the roller rink, where he shoots—well, I wouldn’t want to ruin this highly exciting, utterly unanticipated turn of events for you.
Bodies in dumpsters, labor pains, and a scene on the Eiffel Tower with psycho Modine (only worth mentioning for its ugly handbag-flying-through-the-air-relevance to the end’s “art” sequence) conclude the drama. Appearances by Stephen Fry and the always illustrious Bebe Neuwirth as museum curators are like Visine to a viewer’s burning eyes but ultimately can’t save this. The burning questions built up in the course of the film concerning the authenticity of the painting, Roxy’s baby, Hudson’s relationship with the politician, and Modine’s fate are taken care of in a rushed voice-over by Hudson, superimposed over some fake-ass shots of a Kelly handbag flying through Paris. Good to watch stoned, probably. Of course, everything is resolved happily, if not satisfactorily.
The story was so contrived and full of holes that I felt my lungs collapsing on themselves from trying to breathe all the hot air. The script strives to hold on to too much in too short a time, and if I’d been taking a drink for every non-credible facial expression or unbelievable line delivery, I’d be far enough through the floor to hit Wellington. Yes, there’s a great cast—that belongs in another movie, and a great skyline that we already saw in Amelie.
This isn’t to say that I had to turn it off. Although I would rather have been watching babies shit themselves, I managed to laugh here and there. If you like looking at Kate Hudson or Naomi Watts or you’re into run-of-the-mill scandalous sex in sophisticated cities stories that never resolve themselves, this glorified fashion show might hit the spot. I suggest Jägermeister shots instead, since I experienced livid cutlery jamming me in the eye while watching this and think the pain may have been lessened had I been intoxicated. Extremely, irreversibly intoxicated.
Schild, the warning belied the intensity of the punishment.
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