Scarred bodies and minds are recurring elements in Cronenberg's filmography. Not that I care much; they do not dominate those of his films that I like. Unfortunately for me, that trend persists, as I didn't get my fix of either spooks, wows, wits or laughs from Maps to the Stars.
I felt detached all along. I didn't feel anything, apart from being annoyed by a few characters and a slapping desire. Here are a few reasons for this disconnection: .
* It's all about Hollywood celebrities. One of the most exposed, yet least interesting microcosms on the planet. Meh.
* There are a lot of useless scenes, usually dragging out vapid conversations.
* Meanwhile, central characters are kept in the background. They may later become tragically pivotal, but we don't care by then; we don't even know them. Was that bad editing or just bad scripting ? .
* Creepiness never takes. That's embarrassing because Mr Cronenberg had always excelled at this. Here, his ghosts and hallucinations have no impact. They may even be a tad ridiculous.
Basically, the story doesn't flow and the emotions don't cross the screen. The cast is mostly fine. J. Moore has demonstrated time and again that she embodies the definition of an actress, i.e., an exhibitionist. No doubt her farting on a crapper will be praised by European critics.
Best are the two kids, but in fairness they have more material to work with. The boy has a face that screams "slap me!", and the urge becomes irrepressible as soon as he opens his mouth, but thanks to some serious scenes and an adequate delivery, my nerves are later soothed in his presence. Almost.
The girl, I had already seen elsewhere, in different registers. Here she is both spirited and delicate. Her character is out of a mental institute, yet she is the sanest of the lot. I suspect she was supposed to bring a subtle aura of menace, but I'm not sure. I bet Cronenberg isn't sure either. He got lost between his story and his private jokes.
I felt detached all along. I didn't feel anything, apart from being annoyed by a few characters and a slapping desire. Here are a few reasons for this disconnection: .
* It's all about Hollywood celebrities. One of the most exposed, yet least interesting microcosms on the planet. Meh.
* There are a lot of useless scenes, usually dragging out vapid conversations.
* Meanwhile, central characters are kept in the background. They may later become tragically pivotal, but we don't care by then; we don't even know them. Was that bad editing or just bad scripting ? .
* Creepiness never takes. That's embarrassing because Mr Cronenberg had always excelled at this. Here, his ghosts and hallucinations have no impact. They may even be a tad ridiculous.
Basically, the story doesn't flow and the emotions don't cross the screen. The cast is mostly fine. J. Moore has demonstrated time and again that she embodies the definition of an actress, i.e., an exhibitionist. No doubt her farting on a crapper will be praised by European critics.
Best are the two kids, but in fairness they have more material to work with. The boy has a face that screams "slap me!", and the urge becomes irrepressible as soon as he opens his mouth, but thanks to some serious scenes and an adequate delivery, my nerves are later soothed in his presence. Almost.
The girl, I had already seen elsewhere, in different registers. Here she is both spirited and delicate. Her character is out of a mental institute, yet she is the sanest of the lot. I suspect she was supposed to bring a subtle aura of menace, but I'm not sure. I bet Cronenberg isn't sure either. He got lost between his story and his private jokes.