Like Mrs. Danvers, Delacroix materializes rather than enters; her first appearance, looming behind Josh O’Connor’s Father Duplenticy (Johnson has a Dickensian flair for surnames), is a jolt for the ages—I shat my pants!
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When you take away all the violence and the mayhem, this is a two daddies fighting over one baby movie. Strip away the facade, it’s old-time Hollywood schmaltz.
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After a while, though, you begin to feel beaten down by the sheer refinement of it all. The perfectly framed, perfectly edited tableaux. The exquisite, sparingly used music score. The subtle, to the point of being abstruse, performances of the stars
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The story unfolds, in real time, almost entirely within the confines of Sardi’s bar in New York, where Hart spends the evening grappling with his fading relevance, alcoholism, homosexuality and mental health struggles.
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Our heroine suffers through the most hideous body sculpting indignities, heaped on her by the effete and sadistic proto-plastic surgeon, Dr. Esthetique.
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Director Michael Pearce moves with visceral precision and Julianne Moore shows us, yet again, what a magnificent actress she can be.
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