6/10
Pompous drivel
1 March 2001
A novel has a distinct advantage over a film. The novel can describe a character while the reader's imagination provides the substance of that description as individual as the reader him/herself. In film, however, the director (casting) must provide the description and substance and we, the audience, are robbed of the ability to assign face and form to that character. In "Portrait...", Champion fills in our blanks for us with "Boxcar Bertha" and "Olive Oil" and that fat and vulgar lady from the Johnny Carson show, etc. In other words, Champion simply assembles a stellar cast, presupposes we have no association to these actors, and then assumes we'll devour what she has served up in spite of dreadful miscasting. After all, big names mean big boxoffice and one can always fall back on commercial success even if they fail in artistry.

In "Portrait...", a knock-off of a mediocre short novel, we're given a bunch of Americans speaking stilted dialogue with California accents or California by way of Sydney or whatever (with some exceptions). We see Kidman performing mechanically, as though uncomfortably marching to the director's crop, as she portrays a woman of with no charisma or personality and yet with numerous suitors who for whatever reason are in love with her. Champion goes on to insult us with a clip of black and white film, circa "Charlie Chaplin" which comes out of no where, etc...etc...etc.

The only thing "Portrait..." has going for it is wonderful costuming, cinematography, and locations. Better period films are not hard to find...period.
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