I'm relieved to see I'm not the only one that thought this movie was over-hyped.
The concept was unique, but the story did not unfold in a tenable or compelling way. The main character is nothing but a self-absorbed shell of a ham actor who contemptuously refuses to transition a successful career into talkies. Why bother to care about this character or his self-destructive plight? He looks at virtually every person in his life with complete disdain from beneath a charming actor's mask. And how can one relate to the bubbly fan-turned-love-interest, who admires (then stalks) this shallow idol throughout her own blossoming career (a career apparently built on a fake beauty mark and a closet full of cloche hats)?
The music was distracting (scenes from Vertigo playing over and over in my head). The story was so uninteresting that the spangled costumes, glistening cinematography, and sets laden with vintage autos became the stars. And those soon felt clichéd to the point of unintended amusement. I lost count of how many times I watched a moodily-lit George Valentin toss down his last swallow of booze from a cut crystal old-fashioned glass. The ending fell flat with an awkward dance number finale and a main character unredeemed and unrepentant despite a revelation of sorts.
The dog, however, was delightful.
The concept was unique, but the story did not unfold in a tenable or compelling way. The main character is nothing but a self-absorbed shell of a ham actor who contemptuously refuses to transition a successful career into talkies. Why bother to care about this character or his self-destructive plight? He looks at virtually every person in his life with complete disdain from beneath a charming actor's mask. And how can one relate to the bubbly fan-turned-love-interest, who admires (then stalks) this shallow idol throughout her own blossoming career (a career apparently built on a fake beauty mark and a closet full of cloche hats)?
The music was distracting (scenes from Vertigo playing over and over in my head). The story was so uninteresting that the spangled costumes, glistening cinematography, and sets laden with vintage autos became the stars. And those soon felt clichéd to the point of unintended amusement. I lost count of how many times I watched a moodily-lit George Valentin toss down his last swallow of booze from a cut crystal old-fashioned glass. The ending fell flat with an awkward dance number finale and a main character unredeemed and unrepentant despite a revelation of sorts.
The dog, however, was delightful.
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