goldfinching
spoiler warning
After an extensive waiting period that, ultimately, felt far more drawn out than may be understandable to your average sane person, The Goldfinch’s UK release date has now came and been. In a move shocking to no individual who has been forced to interact with me over the past few months, I took an excursion from the gin infused chaos of freshers to visit a small local cinema on the opening day. Once again, unsurprisingly, I have many opinions.
First and foremost, addressing post-TIFF jokes about my apologism for a film that was, by a vast margin of critical opinion, what the professionals know as A Trainwreck. Luckily for myself, and John Crowley’s average letterboxd rating, once these hands have latched onto something, anything, they know only how to obsess. I quote ‘must a film be good…’ on a near-daily basis. I know what I’m about. In my following stance I shall reveal my former self to be prophetic, as you’re damn right I will defend this film. This is my sole moment to do so, in which I will praise the following: excellent casting, every lead (sans Ms Kidman) felt true to their book selves. Finn Wolfhard’s slavic androgynous Bette Davis accent was not that bad, ya meanies. Roger Deakin’s has never once let me down, and continued to pull through here, with the colour pallete of the painting itself infusing every scene being a brilliant decision, and a much more expertly lighthanded way of conveying it’s lasting presence throughout. The score was well used, and as loathe as I am to praise a film that so often leans on montages, much of them were well-executed. Popchyk. The hammer and sickle in Boris’ room. It used to make me think of you. Standing tenderly and gazing.
Anyway.
John Crowley not being the best choice of director, to put it likely, is not a point that has been at all understated in critical reception, and yet boy howdy does that fact come across with far more blatancy than one would expect. On paper it may have seemed sensible to angle for the prestige drama audience, as the story’s bare bones surely translate well to into oscar-baity holds of boy-gets-older-has-some-problems-there-are-some-women-there-some-philosophical-handwaving. And yet. There’s a certain gloss to the whole production which doesn’t seem called for. The Vegas portions were easily my favourite element of the film, as is true of the novel; but there’s a certain shuddering contrast lacking between the expanses of desert, the absence of care from any positions of authority, and the glamour of the sickening wealth of the Barbours. It’s all coy glances round turquoise corners from Nicole Kidman, and that continued coolness throughout means that the journey to the wasteland Nevada is shown to be holds far less weight. Where was the dirt? Where was the grime? A man overdoses on pristine bedsheets without a hint of pallor.
In the truncation, arguably a case of necessary censorship when involving actual teenagers, of much of the iconic moments from the Vegas portions of the book a certain tragedy gets lost. As stunning as radiohead-driven acid tripping set against a vast and barren skyline may be, it loses its value when not contrasted with the written blurry mornings of vomit-stained carpets and uncertain memories. In targeting an audience presumably comparable to that of Crowley’s previous feature Brooklyn the film did a disservice to the nastier elements of the book.
All in all, I guarantee my compulsive rewatching before it’s out of cinemas will provide a small service to Aneurin Barnard in slightly boosting it’s abysmal profit.
Don’t touch The Secret History please.