|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
People may have deemed Jude Law the sexiest man of the year, but he’s no match for Clive Owen in Mike Nichols’s glib and phony Closer, a Carnal Knowledge for an age that no longer knows what either of those words means. Law’s Dan is the "writer" (he pens obits and is a struggling novelist no less) in a quartet of intercoupling, metaphorically schematic stereotypes who talk a lot about sex and truth but show little comprehension of or interest in either. Owen’s Larry is the "doctor" (a dermatologist! as in "skin deep?"); rounding out the team are Julia Roberts as Anna, the "photographer" who, in the words of Alice, "the stripper" played by Natalie Portman (prancing in Victoria’s Secret skivvies and the pink wig from Ken Russell’s Crimes of Passion), makes pictures of sad strangers look beautiful so we can feel reassured about life. Nichols and screenwriter Patrick Marber (adapting his own play) try to make beautiful faces look like sad strangers to reassure us about our sophistication, but only Owen brings truth to dialogue like "I’m a cave man!", "Have you seen a heart? It looks like a fist covered in blood!", and "Thank you for your honesty. Now fuck off and die." Nichols tarts up the staginess with a breezily achronological narrative and motifs involving aquariums and smoking, but Closer is too closed for discomfort. (103 minutes) At the Boston Common, the Fenway, the Harvard Square, and the Embassy and in the suburbs.
By Peter Keough
|
