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Ever since the late '70s when the Australian New Wave was in full surge, Down Under directors have delivered movies that often hit you like news from another planet. Offbeat characters, weird narrative twists, and a tart mixture of laughs and catastrophe--this is the juice that fuels such flicks as
Proof,
The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,
Strictly Ballroom,
Heavenly Creatures, and most certainly
Muriel's Wedding. Directed by P.J. Hogan (who would go on to helm the Hollywood hit
My Best Friend's Wedding), this little gem follows tradition by featuring an authentic misfit: Muriel (Toni Collette), a great overweight horse of a girl obsessed with getting married and the music of ABBA. Appropriately, we first meet Muriel at a wedding, all trussed up in a leopardskin number she's boosted for the occasion. When her snotty peers insist that she give up the bridal bouquet to someone who might actually get hitched, when one of the guests turns out to be a clerk in the very store where Muriel ripped off her outfit--you gotta laugh, she's such an unmitigated mess. A loser, her philandering politician father (Bill Hunter) calls her--along with his doormat wife and his other couch-potato offspring. But this movie's no exercise in geek-bashing. As Muriel takes up with feisty Rhonda (Rachel Griffiths) and moves from Porpoise Spit to the big city, her good-hearted grin and zest for life draw us in despite hilarious gaffes and mishaps. (Making out with a boy for the first time, Muriel suddenly finds herself awash in styrofoam: the oaf has unzipped the beanbag chair instead of her skin-tight leather pants.)
Muriel's Wedding covers territory Hollywood would banish from a comedy--Rhonda's cancer, the suicide of Muriel's mother, a marriage of convenience to an arrogant athlete--yet, like its heroine, it never loses its sense of humor, its will to move on to whatever good thing might happen next. Everyone in the idiosyncratic cast is terrific, but it's Toni Collette's Dancing Queen who makes
Muriel's Wedding a cinematic celebration you won't forget.
--Kathleen Murphy
From The New Yorker
The Australian director P. J. Hogan's début was a big hit in his native country. Toni Collette plays Muriel, the shyest member of a bored and bulbous family living in Porpoise Spit. Her only resource is old Abba tapes, her only dream to marry; the identity of the bridegroom is immaterial. Muriel's quest for contentment includes vacationing in the sun, sharing an apartment with her best friend (Rachel Griffiths), and trying on wedding dresses under false pretenses. The result is being sold as a feel-good picture in the same groove as "Strictly Ballroom," but there's a major difference: Hogan's movie doesn't feel good for long. The loud and lurid comedy, verging on caricature, soon grows bleak with bad news-divorce, cancer, suicide-none of which deepens the film; it just turns it into a downer. But the two fine, edgy performances by Collette and Griffiths keep things afloat. When they squeeze into shining satin and actually impersonate Abba, you experience both the sadness of delusion and the bliss of high camp. -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker