Top critical review
1.0 out of 5 starsAnd the star goes to.....
Reviewed in the United States on June 23, 2008
.....Nicole Kidman's hair extensions, which outperformed the
majority of this woefully inept cast.
Genius? High art? Spiritually infused with symbolism? Evidently
I needed to be drinking something stronger than I was when I
first viewed this film. Maybe there was a method behind the
film's references to absynthe after all.
Two things drive a good film: plot and character. When both
are developed properly and the right actors are chosen, movie
magic occurs. For me, this film had the potential to create
magic, but failed miserably due to a directorial lack of focus and
unbelievably poor casting. To be sure, the sets are grand and
the costumes visually stunning. However, the choppy editing,
sophomoric musical score and trite story line would have been far
more palatable--and forgivable--had it not been for the deplorable
acting.
Many reviews have cited Nicole Kidman as the "sexy" "erotic"
"passionate" centerpiece of the film. For me, this tall, skinny,
anemic woman with protruding gums and motionless facial
features had all the sex appeal of a wet noodle. When I think of
courtesans, I picture smouldering, voluptuous women whose
eroticism stems from a raw and steely core hardened by worldly
excess and exploitation. Women who are a bit rough around the edges.
Kidman and Luhrmann needed to take a page out of Jessica Rabbit's
book and watch Dr. Frank N. Furter come down the elevator shaft a few
times before fashioning Kidman's high class [...], who was too busy
looking "pretty" on a swing to truly afford the character any depth or soul.
Adding to Satine's lack of proper characterization is Kidman's lousy
acting. Her performance first begins to completely unravel during the
"Rhythm of the Night" scene, in which she awkwardly chirps, trills, and
trapses around the club shaking her ostrich feathers in the face of the
lead. It's hard to determine just who she's channeling here, but it appears
to be a combination of Carmen Miranda, Gloria Estefan, and Lucille Ball
on crack. The film unravels further as she rolls around on the floor in some
fake, cheesy, orgasmic trance as Ewan McGregor recites cliched lines from
"Your Song," which supposedly send her into some freakish sexual frenzy.
(At this point in the film her accent is quasi-American but will morph into
something like British later in the film).
Continuing scenes are intermittantly punctuated by a lot of fake hacking and
coughing and breaking out into song, which showcases a weak voice by traditional
blockbuster musical standards. (In other words, your not gonna get the goose
bumps that break out when you hear Jennifer Hudson sing.) After a few extremely
contrived crying scenes at the end of the film (one of which must have relied on
glycerine and amonia), Kidman pulls out a dying scene so ridiculous and prolonged
that I thought the protagonist was going to die before she did (there's a cinematic
opportunity that was missed!). The only dying scene that rivals the cheesiness of
Kidman's death in Moulin Rouge! is Sophia Coppola dying in Godfather III. Folks,
it's that bad.
Ewan McGregor as the lovestruck poet is not entirely terrible, but he's
not spectacular either. Throughout the film, the young man in the monkey
suit attempts to win the affections of Kidman's holy [...] (archetypes,
people, archetypes) with trite endearments such as.....breaking into song.
His vocal talents are a bit stronger than Kidman's, although the delivery is
somewhat flat. While I truly do feel his anguish at the end of the film when
Satine chokes out her last breath, I do not witness the incredible chemistry
between the two actors so many others do. For example, at the crescendo of
the "Elephant Medley" when the two are facing each other in the entrance to
the, umm, "Elephant Room," their hands are at their sides while they're singing!
At a moment when both lovers needed to passionately embrace at the
completion of a very important medley that tells their "STORY," the actors
were too busy concentrating on hitting the high notes of the songs to stay
completely in character. Knitpicky, you say? For me, this obvious oversight
epitomizes the lack of passion and chemistry between the two throughout the
film. They do not, by any means, raise the room temperature with their sizzle.
As for John Leguizamo's midget artist with a speech impediment,
I found the performance goofy and embarrassing. All anyone can
do is pray that his "To Wong Foo" days are not completely over and
that he hasn't completely degenerated to just a second rate supporting
goon in high budget disasters like this one.
For those of you still on the fence about seeing this movie, I heartily
recommend you do. A film that invites this much discussion and
passionate debate is worth seeing, if for no other reason than to
become part of the ongoing dialogue. Is this film phenomenal? Hardly.
Did it deserve an Oscar? Please. Do the lead actors do the story, sets
and costumes justice? No. Did it convince many members of film-going
audiences over the last seven years that all they need is love? Allegedly.
And while it is my contention that other films have done a far better job
of packaging and selling the "love" construction, Moulin Rouge! retains a
heavily-contested yet no less viable place in the ongoing conversation
of how it should appear on screen.