Most major starlets—or actresses groomed for stardom—of the 1990s and early 2000s headlined a period film or two during their career ascent, whether suited to the milieu or not (see Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan, Michelle Pfeiffer, Jodie Foster, Nicole Kidman, Demi Moore, Winona Ryder, Reese Witherspoon, Kate Winslet, Gwyneth Paltrow, and so on). Frances O’Connor was no exception, and did nice work in films like Mansfield Park and The Importance of Being Earnest, though for this reviewer O’Connor impressed most indelibly in Emma-Kate Croghan’s Love and Other Catastrophes and Bill Bennett’s Kiss or Kill, both very spiky, spunky contemporary works.
That mix of the classical and contemporary is at the core of O’Connor’s directorial debut, Emily (2022), a dramatization of the life of the Brontë sister of the same name. I use the term dramatization rather than biopic, as O’Connor herself rejects the latter descriptor in a Guardian interview promoting the film; one could venture even to call it’s speculative, though in actuality even the most stolid of biopics is ultimately speculative. Eschewing a cradle to grave arc, the film depicts adult Emily—the social misfit of the Brontë litter, tremendously played by Emma Mackey—as she falls for and is rejected by a dishy vicar (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) and channels her angst into the creation of Wuthering Heights.
O’Connor’s
film captures something of the overwrought milieu of Wuthering Heights, with a
rawness and raciness that distinguishes Emily from the more genteel likes of,
say, Becoming Jane (though Brontë and Austen share a patriarch in the form of
James Cromwell across both films). It’s ultimately not quite as bold a
treatment as O’Connor aspires, conforming by default to some of the nooks and
crannies of literary biopics—anything short of the Ken Russell treatment is
still a biopic—and the final scenes, of Charlotte Brontë revving up to write
Jane Eyre, are symptomatic of the Marvelization of film. Nonetheless, I’d rate
Emily higher than any of the four film adaptations of Wuthering Heights I’ve seen
from William Wyler, Robert Fuest, Peter Kosminsky, and Andrea Arnold. I’d also
rate Mackey’s superb, non-awards-christened performance—truly the engine and
special sauce of the film—above any of the Oscar-nominated and winning female
lead performances I’ve seen from its theatrical year, which include Michelle
Yeoh in Everything Everywhere All At Once, Michelle Williams in The Fabelmans,
and Cate Blanchett in Tar.
From Cathy, the original Ghost Who Walks, to another ...
In the 1990s, two Australian filmmakers who cut their teeth on Ozploitation before graduating to more mainstream waters helmed biggish-budget 1930s-set pulp superhero films riding the coattails of Batman’s success to their own middling box office: Russell Mulcahy with The Shadow and Simon Wincer with The Phantom (1996). Shot partly in Queensland by Australian Wincer, headlined by an American lead who broke out in an Australian hit (Dead Calm), and featuring a character well known to generations of Australians via newspaper strips, newsagent shelves, and showbags, the latter has a stronger claim for Antipodean infusion, perhaps the most of any superhero film since The Return of Captain Invincible and until Hugh Jackman first portrayed Wolverine.
The
Phantom sees Lee Falk’s purple-clad jungle hero, played with a light touch by
Billy Zane, facing off against wealthy villain Xander Drax (Treat Williams)—not to be confused with Moonraker’s wealthy villain Hugo Drax—seeking to do
ill upon the world via assembling the mysterious Skulls of Touganda. Drax is supported by
hired muscle Quill (James Remar) and femme fatale Sala (Catherine Zeta-Jones)
while the Phantom/alter ego Kit Walker is supported by old flame Diana (Kristy
Swanson), ghost dad (Patrick McGoohan), and a handsomely-paid cab driver
(perennial that guy John Capodice).
Of the four pulp throwback super flicks of the 1990s inspired by Batman—alongside the abovementioned The Shadow as well as Dick Tracy and The Rocketeer—Wincer’s film is the breeziest and most colourful. While it’s commercial miss is well-documented, its creative misfire has been hugely overstated. In an interview with Den of Geek, Joe Dante—Wincer’s predecessor on the project—noted his version was intended as a parody and Wincer erred by playing it straight. I love Joe Dante and his work, but this comment strikes me as a case of a hip director punching down on a square director (which Wincer, as the director of Free Willy, very much was). However, I don’t think Wincer or the game ensemble cast misread the tone: the difference between Wincer and Dante is the former delivers the goods tongue in cheek, where Dante would deliver the goods tongue in cheek and say “Isn’t this stupid?” It is, but in the most innocuous way possible, and if the film does err closely to Dante’s template then neither director was particularly ashamed of its many Spielberg derivations, from a rope bridge set piece (ala Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom) to a finale in a pirate cave (ala The Goonies), all centred around a trio of exotic MacGuffins.
Ben