page 32
! There May Be SPOILERS
in
the movie reviews !
You can pre-order the Libetine DVD
page 32
! There May Be SPOILERS
in
the movie reviews !
You can pre-order the Libetine DVD
Late last year, The Weinstein Company released The Libertine, Lawrence Dunmore's long-awaited, unrated, Johnny Depp-starring staging of the wine-soaked life and syphillis-stoked death of the Earl of Rochester, for one week for academy consideration. The plan, according to a Weinstein rep that we spoke to in November, was to then put the film back in theaters in January. But its initial re-release date was yesterday, and, needless to say, it's hardly playing at a theater near you.
Coming Soon still has The Libertine listed as a January TBA release,
but there's not a hint of a release date on the film's official site. I
couldn't get anyone on the phone at Weinstein yesterday, but it seems pretty
clear what's going on here: Depp has thus far failed to earn any significant
nominations, and the film made not a single notable critic's list, and
so the distributor assumes there's no financial incentive to give it a
wide release. Do you think this is valid? It's not a great picture, but
it is worth seeing, and one would imagine that Depp could draw a reasonable
audience to anything. Johnny Depp superfans, rise up in revolt!
Johnny Depp has surprised me again. In The Libertine, he plays one of the meanest, nastiest, most depraved characters in history and you still can’t help but root for the bastard. The film has one of the most memorable and to-the-point openings I’ve ever seen: Depp leans into frame lit only by a single candle, looks directly at the audience, and implores you not to like him. He also informs all women watching that he’s “up for it” all the time, and that all men in the audience should not feel left out either. This warning/first meeting sets the tone for the film beautifully, as Depp disgusts us playing the 17th century vulgar poet John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, whose brother just so happens to be England’s King Charles II, played with simmering restraint by John Malkovich.
Those of us in Chicago who frequent the Steppenwolf Theatre might remember when Malkovich (playing Wilmot) premiered The Libertine (from playwright Stephen Jeffreys, who wrote the film’s screenplay) here a few years back. It caused something of a stir. The film isn’t quite as stirring, if only because movie-going audiences are a bit more used to seeing depraved characters on screen. But Depp may surprise you yet, playing the usually drunk, always horny Wilmot, whose writings (in the form of poems, plays, and books) were some of the most read in England at the time, and then locked away from public viewing for centuries. The film covers two areas in his life: his relationship with his brother, whose reputation Wilmot never missed an opportunity to besmirch, and his relationship with a struggling theatre actress named Elizabeth Barry (Samantha Morton). After seeing Barry give what might be the single worst performance in British theatre, Wilmot makes a wager that he can transform her into the greatest actress alive, even if it means never sleeping with her.
I was genuinely shocked when I saw that Entertainment Weekly nailed
The Libertine with an “F,” labeling it one of the worst films of 2005.
Even if you find the characters reprehensible, or dislike director Laurence
Dunmore’s decision to give the movie a grim and grimy veneer and let his
actors get a bit out of control with their performances, there’s still
a lot to enjoy. My level of interest slipped a bit toward the end, when
Wilmot takes ill from the septic collection of STDs eating away at his
body. But Depp has a great last-hurrah scene before Parliament that redeems
even the weakest sections of the film. The Libertine is far from a flawless
work, but at this point in his career, is it even worth considering not
seeing a movie in which Depp plays someone so totally debauched? I think
not.
Published: Thursday, January 12, 2006
Who / What:
The Libertine
Directed By:
Laurence Dunmore
Starring:
Johnny Depp, Samantha Morton and John Malkovich
Written By:
Stephen Jeffreys, based on his play
If you plan to see The Libertine, an artful and brooding period piece about a scandalously debauched earl of the English Restoration, a few words of advice before you go: Take a peek at the sun. Drink in some fresh air. Consider bidding goodbye to the majority of the color palette (red, yellow, blue, purple) and the simple pleasure of a well-lit room. You won't be seeing any of it for the next couple of hours.
You might also want to gather the reins of your self-respect and hold on tight. The Libertine's protagonist is a bitterly corroded being, apparently not in contact with feelings of compassion or sympathy, and his company is bleak, if sometimes amusing. The film opens with an attack -- "I am John Wilmot, the second Earl of Rochester, and I do not want you to like me," Johnny Depp snarls at the camera -- and it doesn't soften, despite the earl's apparent infatuation with actress Lizzie Barry (Samantha Morton). By the time the alcoholism and syphilis have peeled the skin from his face and the muscle from his bones, it's hard not to feel at least a little tainted by Rochester's vast personal plague.
The Libertine is an interesting film, and a good one, with a harrowing performance by Depp, whose apparent enjoyment of the role seems only to increase as his character deteriorates. There's plenty in Rochester to wonder about: How does a man become such a monster? What is he reacting against? To what degree is he lying to himself and not just to us? (Essentially, we're provoked to investigate his defenses.) The Libertine is also flawed, particularly by its principal subplot, which pits Rochester against Barry in a replaying of the familiar Pygmalion myth. (Through grueling lessons in the art of acting, the man brings the woman alive.) These segments feel polluted by contemporary pop notions of psychology. "Ask yourself what you want from the theater," the earl smarms, as though he were a therapist and not a withering sexaholic, debauching himself into an early grave. Get up there and thrust your boobs forward would be more like it. Or, if the plays he writes are any indication, Sit astride a giant penis and sing its praises.
(It's also hard to believe that the two love each other. Rochester has never met a pair of legs he didn't want to part, and the fiercely self-interested Barry defines men as "hurdles that must be negotiated." If we're to believe that either party has unfrozen long enough to enjoy feelings of warmth, we'll need far more time and evidence. As it stands, their connection looks like intrigue, so it shouldn't be sold as love.)
Rochester was a writer. Actually, he seems to have excelled in all three of the prominent male pursuits of his day: "the scribbling of verses, the emptying of bottles and the filling of wenches." ("Anyone can drink," his mother reproaches. Rochester's reply: "Only a few can match my determination.") He was also an associate of King Charles II, played here with nuanced brio by John Malkovich. Penniless and feckless, Charles attempts to use Rochester's astounding popularity to his advantage in Parliament, but since Charles offers neither alcohol nor sex, Rochester is having none of it. Instead, he prefers to carouse with his miserable friends, display himself at the theater (where he, more than the play or the king, is the show) and practice cruelty to Elizabeth (Rosamund Pike), his long-suffering wife.
The relationship between Rochester and Elizabeth is finely drawn. We first encounter them in a sex scene, a brisk moment in a carriage when John plunges his hand into his wife's crotch and slides his fingers first into her mouth and then his. You don't often see such frank sexuality on screen; it's both shocking and, uncomfortably, sexy. Later, as the two sit for a portrait, Rochester compares Elizabeth to a female monkey, gloating about the opulence of her cage. She flees and then returns for a confrontation that shimmers with intelligence. Both actors face the camera, with Rochester in the foreground and Elizabeth behind; Rochester will not face his wife, and the camera's focus shifts from one to the other as they speak. It's perfect.
In the end, Rochester leaves us with a version of his initial assertion,
this time a question: "Do you like me now?" It's an odd question: Would
the real Rochester have bothered to ask? Anyway, the question isn't whether
we like the man (we don't); it's whether we find him interesting, and we
do. He is a study in excess, addiction, depression, narcissism, anger,
self-loathing, cruelty and wit, among other things. It's clear that this
so-called libertine is not free, but rather hounded by a vicious breed
of demon. Director Laurence Dunmore has cast almost every frame of The
Libertine in shadow, fog and dust, not least to dramatize the perdition
of his anti-hero. But we can see through the mist and the mud to the man.
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