Are all the Australians oddly obsessed with Abba or is this simply an
antipodean aberration of the nineties?
Time goes by and people change. Youth is so wonderful with futures far
ahead. So, it seemed like a little joke that Julianne Potter (Julia Roberts) and
Michael O'Neal (Dermot Mulroney) promised in college to marry each other if
they were both still single at the age of 28. Neither one has thought much
about the pact or taken it too seriously in the meantime. But now that they're
both 28, Michael has asked someone else to marry him and Julianne gets
upset. Wealthy Kimmy Wallace (Cameron Diaz), the other woman, is as
drab as her diminutive name sounds; even when she drops her mask, she's
not very interesting. Julianne's editor, George (Rupert Everett), becomes a
groaning board for his client's stumbling exploits and devious remedies and,
as a result, has much of the best dialogue in the piece.
The appealing boyness/coyness, offset by the Stallone puppy-dog eyes and
the twitching Elvis mouth, is not sufficient reason to explain why two
apparently intelligent women are involved in such a battle of wits revolving
around marriage to this object of their desires. Why, instead, don't they both
simply become completely satisfied by bedding him. No prize, he, all benign
shell. Of course, in the case of little Miss Muffet it could be her built-in family
values that are the driving force, but our girl-about-town publisher runs
around acting like she's suffering from a nasty case of childhood (or, at the
outside, adolescent) reversion. I fear that Miss Roberts or her agent have
decided that the actress must remain appealing and sympathetic no matter
what the cost and no matter what the script. Unfortunately, such misplaced
application also seems to have stunted her development since achieving star
status as a Pretty Woman (and let's be honest, folks, Eric is just as pretty.)
She gives an extremely polished performance as the best friend of an old
flame, but misses out on all the opportunities in the script dialogue that could
have been deliciously exploited by a young Bette Davis or Katie Hepburn. As
a result, it remains a mildly interesting tale instead of an exciting fireworks
display. The best parts are when Rupert Everett (the man who masks his
past) makes his appearance as the gay friend-to-the-rescue of the damsel-in-
pursuit-of-distress. The supreme moment of the film, however, is reserved for
the surging flames in the restaurant's fireplace which blast audibly to
announce Julianne's entrance as she heads toward Michael and Kimmy's
table. By far the best performance in the whole.
Director P.J. Hogan, who made that wonderfully funny film Muriel's Wedding,
doesn't quite hit the heights this time around. Writer Ronald Bass may have
hoped for the madcap, but Lucy is dead. The characters involved in the
proceedings (with the possible exception of the editor) make me believe that
it would be more interesting to stay home and watch a plastic plate. Julianne
is a predatory food critic, Kimmy is disgustingly rich, and Michael is
beautifully sexy, so, If they're lives are supposed to be so exciting, why are
they so dull?
If this is the game of love, count me out.
© 1994-2006 The Green Hartnett
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