What a beautiful woman Kirsten Dunst has become. In this movie, which is little more than a series of beautiful pictures digesting a world long swept away, she is in her element. In fact, she IS the centerpiece element.
But pretty pictures do not a memorable movie make. I've never seen cinema so lifeless, so utterly devoid of any kind of drama - and yet so watchable. Somehow, I stayed with it, even though superficial knowledge of history precludes all suspense as to how it will end. We follow the last French royal family languidly gliding through their lives of endless amusement and idle chatter, getting drunk and high at garden picnics in dreamy twilight, cavorting in bonnets, picking flowers and looking like they'd just stepped out of a Gainsborough painting.
Maybe that's Coppolla's intention: To show the utter vacuousness of the French court and European aristocracy in general. This is to what rule by God's imprimatur had devolved. The era of strong monarchs like Henry, Elizabeth and Philip of Spain was over. Europe's kingdoms had become... successful. Rich. They'd bumped off all competition. The Mongol threat was ancient fable, Islam was now second-rate, and the age of worldwide empire had begun. But in its prosperity, Europe had become complicated, its economic and political underpinnings wildly sophisticated and enmeshed. Power passed to ministers who specialized in these difficult affairs; royalty was pushed to the background, to estates and sloth.
Coppolla's handling of these superfluous dandies is revolutionary in one respect: She doesn't portray them as selfish monsters, or greedy imbeciles, as our tiresome, Lefty/progressive catechism would have them. They're sympathetically handled as clueless and near-infantile. The coming conflagration, and the Terror, they can neither foresee nor understand.
The cast is superb, with the exception of Jason Schwartzmann as Louis. Why does this colorless and apparently talentless air-burner have a career? (He is a Coppolla relative.) The inclusion of rock-music interludes is merely jarring and obvious, but in some selections, the sour decadence of '80s pop is a perfect fit. Coppolla's sense of stunning imagery must be genetic; throwaway scenes turn gripping, as when a rider gallops down a pathway, his dress boots tied backwards to his saddle.
Perversely, this "Marie" made me appreciate Norma Shearer's over-the-top version even more. As emotional and melodramatic as it is, it's historically accurate (there really was a Swedish diplomat lover, although whether he looked like Tyrone Power is unclear). It's a vibrant counterpoint to this beautiful, but detached "Marie".
But pretty pictures do not a memorable movie make. I've never seen cinema so lifeless, so utterly devoid of any kind of drama - and yet so watchable. Somehow, I stayed with it, even though superficial knowledge of history precludes all suspense as to how it will end. We follow the last French royal family languidly gliding through their lives of endless amusement and idle chatter, getting drunk and high at garden picnics in dreamy twilight, cavorting in bonnets, picking flowers and looking like they'd just stepped out of a Gainsborough painting.
Maybe that's Coppolla's intention: To show the utter vacuousness of the French court and European aristocracy in general. This is to what rule by God's imprimatur had devolved. The era of strong monarchs like Henry, Elizabeth and Philip of Spain was over. Europe's kingdoms had become... successful. Rich. They'd bumped off all competition. The Mongol threat was ancient fable, Islam was now second-rate, and the age of worldwide empire had begun. But in its prosperity, Europe had become complicated, its economic and political underpinnings wildly sophisticated and enmeshed. Power passed to ministers who specialized in these difficult affairs; royalty was pushed to the background, to estates and sloth.
Coppolla's handling of these superfluous dandies is revolutionary in one respect: She doesn't portray them as selfish monsters, or greedy imbeciles, as our tiresome, Lefty/progressive catechism would have them. They're sympathetically handled as clueless and near-infantile. The coming conflagration, and the Terror, they can neither foresee nor understand.
The cast is superb, with the exception of Jason Schwartzmann as Louis. Why does this colorless and apparently talentless air-burner have a career? (He is a Coppolla relative.) The inclusion of rock-music interludes is merely jarring and obvious, but in some selections, the sour decadence of '80s pop is a perfect fit. Coppolla's sense of stunning imagery must be genetic; throwaway scenes turn gripping, as when a rider gallops down a pathway, his dress boots tied backwards to his saddle.
Perversely, this "Marie" made me appreciate Norma Shearer's over-the-top version even more. As emotional and melodramatic as it is, it's historically accurate (there really was a Swedish diplomat lover, although whether he looked like Tyrone Power is unclear). It's a vibrant counterpoint to this beautiful, but detached "Marie".