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An older artist, shunned by the white-hot media of the contemporary world, begins to glow again when he meets a handsome, not-altogether all-American boy. In 1998, two writer-directors brought extraordinary care to this subject, creating films that appeared on several top 10 lists.
Gods and Monsters won an Oscar for Bill Condon's screenplay and a nomination for Ian McKellen's acting. Richard Kwietniowski's
Love and Death on Long Island was forgotten during the award season. John Hurt has rarely been better as Giles De'Ath, a renowned British author of dry, laborious text. By sheer accident he sees a
Porky's-type comedy at the theater:
Hot Pants College II. About to leave, he spies on screen his very idea of beauty: a near-talentless American actor named Ronnie Bostock (Jason Priestley, in another deft, underseen performance). So starts De'Ath's very long trek out of his shell. He is so out of touch that when he purchases a VCR (to see the original
Hot Pants College, no less), he doesn't realize he needs a TV set to view the picture. By film's end, he will meet his idol and jump into an abyss. Kwietniowski's debut film has uncommon sensitivity in the realm of fantasy and dream makers. As with
Gods and Monsters, its homosexual undercurrent can play comfortably in front of straight viewers looking for crisp writing, fresh perspectives, and great acting.
--Doug Thomas
A surprising film about romantic pursuit, written like a mischievous postmodern fable. John Hurt is Giles De'Ath, a widowed British author of highbrow novels who lives in reclusive Luddite splendor until he is smitten with teen-flick heartthrob Ronnie Bostock (Jason Priestley). Giles pursues this unlikely object of desire all the way to a sweet little Long Island hamlet, where his inventive plans for ensnaring Ronnie prove to be both baroquely funny and touching. One of the many ways in which the film subverts our expectations is by refusing to condescend to its central character; we come to see the daffy Giles as half stalker, half poète maudit, transfigured by romantic greatness. Directed with an original touch by Richard Kwietniowski, the movie is less about the nature of homoerotic longing than about the closeted nature of love itself. -Daphne Merkin
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker