Mike Leigh is one of our very finest directors with seven Oscar nominations and over 70 awards to date, including four from Cannes. So how did he get it so wrong with Mr. Turner?
Not everything is wrong with his biopic of John Tuner, the acclaimed, celebrated and eccentric British painter; in fact most things about Mr. Turner are perfect, but where it has gone wrong, it has gone wrong spectacularly. The ugly spectacle is entirely down to a handful of performances that are better suited to a cringe-worthy village hall production. There are a few actors whose display of embarrassing, hammy, grotesque, pantomime performances threaten to derail a film of beauty and thoughtfulness with a superb performance at its centre. Arrgghh. Just horrible.
Mr. Turner as a whole, however, is a rewarding film for those prepared to make the investment. Skimming through the last quarter century of Turner's life and career, it shines a spotlight on Turner's (Timothy Spall) great loves (his father, his work and the woman who would become his wife) as well as his foibles, his penchant for brothels, and the celebrity he enjoyed before, influenced by royalty, he became reviled.
It is tempting to refer to Timothy Spall's performance as a 'career best', but that belittles his plentiful achievements on big and small screen over the past four decades, although his deserved gong at Cannes this year is a strong statement and an indication of more gold to come. Frequently known for his disheveled, humorous, almost oafish characters (Auf Wiedersehen Pet, Still Crazy, Love Punch), Spall stunned many with his gentle, sympathetic performance in Pierrepoint: The Last Hangman. Again, as the titular character in Mr. Turner, he seizes our attention and it wavers rarely, and then only due to the Leigh's ability to paint his frame as exquisitely as Turner painted his canvases.
The early scenes where Turner greets his father, William (Paul Jesson) are a joy to observe and give a softer side to the man who communicates largely with grunts and growls and relates to his infatuated housekeeper, Hannah (Dorothy Atkinson), with gruff words and what is now regarded as abuse. He uses her physically, sexually and emotionally but she responds with the adoration of a needy puppy.
Whilst Mr. Turner is something of a history lesson, Leigh educates rather than pummels us with information and insights into Turner's life and work. Frequently his shots, if they cannot actually replicate, are at least superbly suggestive of the painter's work. Dick Pope's cinematography is spellbinding and perfectly in step with Suzie Davis' production design, but this is a Mike Leigh film after all and we have come to expect such flawless attention to detail.
And so, again, it jars all the more that Leigh allowed his film to be polluted by ham from a few supporting and peripheral actors. Yesterday's The Imitation Game wafted by in mere moments but Mr. Turner, though only half an hour longer, trudged heavily at times and I felt most of the 150 minutes in my bony backside.
Perhaps if certain performances had been sliced and abandoned on the cutting room floor the pace would have improved and perfection would have been left in tact.
For more reviews from The Squiss, subscribe to my blog and like the Facebook page.
Not everything is wrong with his biopic of John Tuner, the acclaimed, celebrated and eccentric British painter; in fact most things about Mr. Turner are perfect, but where it has gone wrong, it has gone wrong spectacularly. The ugly spectacle is entirely down to a handful of performances that are better suited to a cringe-worthy village hall production. There are a few actors whose display of embarrassing, hammy, grotesque, pantomime performances threaten to derail a film of beauty and thoughtfulness with a superb performance at its centre. Arrgghh. Just horrible.
Mr. Turner as a whole, however, is a rewarding film for those prepared to make the investment. Skimming through the last quarter century of Turner's life and career, it shines a spotlight on Turner's (Timothy Spall) great loves (his father, his work and the woman who would become his wife) as well as his foibles, his penchant for brothels, and the celebrity he enjoyed before, influenced by royalty, he became reviled.
It is tempting to refer to Timothy Spall's performance as a 'career best', but that belittles his plentiful achievements on big and small screen over the past four decades, although his deserved gong at Cannes this year is a strong statement and an indication of more gold to come. Frequently known for his disheveled, humorous, almost oafish characters (Auf Wiedersehen Pet, Still Crazy, Love Punch), Spall stunned many with his gentle, sympathetic performance in Pierrepoint: The Last Hangman. Again, as the titular character in Mr. Turner, he seizes our attention and it wavers rarely, and then only due to the Leigh's ability to paint his frame as exquisitely as Turner painted his canvases.
The early scenes where Turner greets his father, William (Paul Jesson) are a joy to observe and give a softer side to the man who communicates largely with grunts and growls and relates to his infatuated housekeeper, Hannah (Dorothy Atkinson), with gruff words and what is now regarded as abuse. He uses her physically, sexually and emotionally but she responds with the adoration of a needy puppy.
Whilst Mr. Turner is something of a history lesson, Leigh educates rather than pummels us with information and insights into Turner's life and work. Frequently his shots, if they cannot actually replicate, are at least superbly suggestive of the painter's work. Dick Pope's cinematography is spellbinding and perfectly in step with Suzie Davis' production design, but this is a Mike Leigh film after all and we have come to expect such flawless attention to detail.
And so, again, it jars all the more that Leigh allowed his film to be polluted by ham from a few supporting and peripheral actors. Yesterday's The Imitation Game wafted by in mere moments but Mr. Turner, though only half an hour longer, trudged heavily at times and I felt most of the 150 minutes in my bony backside.
Perhaps if certain performances had been sliced and abandoned on the cutting room floor the pace would have improved and perfection would have been left in tact.
For more reviews from The Squiss, subscribe to my blog and like the Facebook page.