Gillian Anderson gives a luminous performance. The only time I laughed out loud in the movie is when she tries to pronounce "I want a divorce." Terrific.
Apart from that the film, although it tries to give us the sarcastic delight of lecherous emphasis on lecherous subjects, does not succeed in juggling its elements, it rather passes form one stance to the other and does not wind up its end quite well.
There are worthy passages, from listening to Cristopher Lee playing with accent, to Rampling's trivializing "I'm famished!" just to give two minute examples, but it seems the film draws its moral from the art it exemplifies. The moment poor Paige (Sayfried) discovers the black surprise of her heart transplanted in one of Hirst's formaldehyde cubes and bursts in tears, we do not so much nod our heads in agreement as recognize the grisly limitations of such artistic nihilism (by that I also mean the gross gesture of offering such a thing). That there is an ersatz classic cautionary tone in the film it makes it seem more of a construct, where it should benefit from a more carefree tone like in that scene of sweeping irony in "The Big Lebowski" where Marianne Moore - was casting Anderson inspired by this, by their somewhat similar looks? - attacks the canvas flying.
And please restrict those jazzy soundtracks that signal pop englishness. They are as overused as Alan Cumming's mannerisms.
All they can do is give the film a more dour look, and not an intimate look on dour matters.
Apart from that the film, although it tries to give us the sarcastic delight of lecherous emphasis on lecherous subjects, does not succeed in juggling its elements, it rather passes form one stance to the other and does not wind up its end quite well.
There are worthy passages, from listening to Cristopher Lee playing with accent, to Rampling's trivializing "I'm famished!" just to give two minute examples, but it seems the film draws its moral from the art it exemplifies. The moment poor Paige (Sayfried) discovers the black surprise of her heart transplanted in one of Hirst's formaldehyde cubes and bursts in tears, we do not so much nod our heads in agreement as recognize the grisly limitations of such artistic nihilism (by that I also mean the gross gesture of offering such a thing). That there is an ersatz classic cautionary tone in the film it makes it seem more of a construct, where it should benefit from a more carefree tone like in that scene of sweeping irony in "The Big Lebowski" where Marianne Moore - was casting Anderson inspired by this, by their somewhat similar looks? - attacks the canvas flying.
And please restrict those jazzy soundtracks that signal pop englishness. They are as overused as Alan Cumming's mannerisms.
All they can do is give the film a more dour look, and not an intimate look on dour matters.