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THE HOURSThe Wasted Hours
Film Review by Hariette Surovell
The Hours... based on Michael Cunningham's novel of the same title, is a fictional imagining of tormented suicidal female literary genius Virginia Woolf (Nicole Kidman) completing the writing of "Mrs. Dalloway" before drowning herself; Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) as a repressed1950's housewife who is influenced by reading Woolf's masterpiece; and Clarissa Vaughn (Meryl Streep), a contemporary Lesbian editor who is nicknamed "Clarissa Dalloway" by her now-also-gay ex-lover, Richard (Ed Harris), the recipient of a prestigious poetry award who is dying of AIDS. Are we confused yet? This reviewer still is, many hundreds of hours after viewing all these weary, dreary drones drowning their sorrows with sorrow. Why has such a muddy puddle of phony tears garnered so many critical cries of passion? Sobsisters unite! Even the vivid, colorful cameo by Miranda Richardson as Woolf's sister,
Bohemian artist extraordinaire Vanessa Bell is depressing, since it reminds
us that Richardson, who is much more naturally talented than Streep, has
been reduced to playing lowly bit parts since her explosive debut in Mike
Newell's 1985 classic "Dance With a Stranger". Unlike Richardson,
Stagey Streep just can't stop over-acting--either she is discreetly wiping
wet eyes or her voice subtlely cracks in despair or...She never lets her
fellow Thespians breathe, as she uses up all the oxygen in a room. Streep
is not a team player, damnit, and shouldn't a gracious actress at least
share the celluloid space? Julianne Moore, reprising her role as a repressed
1950's housewife in the also overrated "Far from Heaven", but
here with a dowdier wardrobe, is so afflectless it makes one nostalgic
for her sensitive yet amoral porn star, Amber Waves, in "Boogie Nights".
Kidman is instantly forgettable, except for her now notorious witchlike
prosthetic beak. Hopefully Gwyneth Paltrow,
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