Monica Dolan – Movie Musings

Slight but enjoyable musical, with the flaws of the original but some virtues of its own

Director: Joe Wright

Cast: Peter Dinklage (Cyrano de Bergerac), Haley Bennett (Roxanne), Kelvin Harrison Jr. (Christian de Neuvillette), Ben Mendelsohn (De Guiche), Monica Dolan (Marie), Bashir Salahuddin (Le Bret), Joshua James (Valvert), Anjana Vasan (Sister Claire), Ruth Sheen (Mother Marthe), Mark Benton (Montfleury), Richard McCabe (Priest), Peter Wight (Ragueneau)

Edmond Rostand’s play has been reinvented time-and-time again. After all, who can’t relate to a man convinced he’s unlovable and uses his poetic heart to write the words to help his rival woo the woman they both love. Erica Schmidt’s stage musical with songs by Aaron and Bryce Dessner from The National, pretty much keeps everything but kicks out the famous oversize nose in favour of making Cyrano a man with dwarfism. Bringing him to life – both here and on stage – is Schmidt’s husband Peter Dinklage, with his stage and screen love Roxanne portrayed by Haley Bennett, wife of Cyrano’s director Joe Wright.

It all helps create an easy-going feeling to Cyrano, a decent, at times impressive musical, that never quite turns into something really lasting but presents several fine songs in its middle act. It’s unfortunate that it’s opening section – and largely forgettable initial number – set the scene less than compellingly, dutifully repeating Rostand via a show-boating Cyrano easily besting a preening actor in a battle of wits, all while casting faintly longing looks at impressed Roxanne. What it doesn’t really do is seize the attention. In fact, what it does is really remind you what a slight story Cyrano de Bergerac really is: and that it only really starts with the Act Two introduction of Christian.

It’s certainly, it feels, where Wright’s interest begins. The romantic triangle between the three – Cyrano and Christian both in love with Roxanne, Roxanne in love with Christian and (perhaps) sub-consciously with Cyrano – introduces drama and stakes into a film that until then largely lacks either. Contrasts are drawn between Cyrano and Christian who share honour and decency, but are polar opposites in terms of confidence. Christian is physically and socially assured but crippled with inarticulate shyness when asked to speak; Cyrano can turn his feelings into poetry, but is convinced he is an unlovable imp, his confidence forever crushed by his appearance.

The concept of exchanging oversize nose for Dinklage’s dwarfism works rather well, when every single camera angle constantly reminds us of Cyrano’s otherness. It also gives a wonderful showpiece for the excellent Dinklage, who brings an intense, grungy charisma to the role. He can do the Cyrano’s performative showmanship, but also expertly demonstrates this is a front to protect his true self from being seen and potentially rejected. It becomes clear Cyrano partly embraces his titanic ghost-writing (hundreds and hundreds of pages), without Christian’s knowledge, because he genuinely feels it is the closest he can come to experiencing a relationship, just as he believes should he ever speak his true feelings they would inevitably be rejected. Dinklage does a wonderful job of balancing inner vulnerability with a mask of cocksure, arrogant confidence.

Cyrano certainly misses the subtle indicators, from the start, that Haley Bennett’s Roxanne might well have feelings for him. Aware that Cyrano de Bergerac often presents not the most flattering picture of Roxanne’s intelligence (she is a woman, after all, fooled for years into believing all those romantic words came from her husband not her lifelong friend). Bennett however let’s a – again perhaps subconscious – suspicion play just around the corner of her eyes, not to mention that her feelings for Cyrano feel a lot closer to romantic from the start. Is she as scared of rejection as Cyrano, put off by his independent front? After all she values honest feelings – and Christian, even if his words come from someone else, is clear about the way he feels in a way Cyrano never is. Kelvin Harrison Jr. is rather charming as this sweet, kind, strangely shy young man, tongue-tied and bemused by long words but with a strong sense of right and wrong.

The film – and the musical – is at its strongest when these three are interacting. Wright’s filmmaking also comes to life, with his more staid and traditional visual set-ups for the theatre-set prologue giving way (via a dynamic one-shot full of ducking and diving camerawork as Cyrano takes out ten assassins single-handed) to a series of balletic scenes. Large-scale musical numbers are accompanied by people going about every-day tasks with a wonderfully choreographed grace: be that bakers rhythmically kneading dough and stocking ovens, to a mass of soldiers fencing in perfect harmony. The songs also pick up considerably in both power and humability, culminating in the affecting Wherever I Fall, an eve-before-battle group number that sees Cyrano’s regiment preparing themselves for what could-be their final night, beautifully shot with a mist-filled coolness.

Cyrano’s slight story remains its weakness and the film can’t quite decide how to expand organically the deception plot at its heart. It’s almost a shame it bravely closes the door on the film’s most obvious protagonist, with Ben Mendelsohn’s De Guiche getting a scowling ‘villainy’ number but proving himself a man of honour. Fundamentally the long introduction to the set-up and the five-year-later coda the film wraps up with end-up feeling unsatisfying. It’s actually too faithful to Rostand, carrying across the original’s flaws. Cyrano embraces the mix of romance, comedy and sadness in its wooing-by-proxy and the odd-couple friendship between Cyrano and Christian, but feels more perfunctory as soon as it has to move beyond this section of the film.

It’s a shame as that central section is actually rather effective with Wright bringing the musical numbers in particular to life with a real delicate beauty. There are some very good performances, especially the heart-felt work from Dinklage, but it eventually strains towards an epic scale its story isn’t quite strong or engaging enough to support.

Florence Pugh and Maisie Williams deal with tedious coming-of-age antics in The Falling

Director: Carol Morley

Cast: Maisie Williams (Lydia Lamont), Maxine Peake (Eileen Lamb), Monica Dolan (Miss Alvaro), Greta Scacchi (Miss Mantel), Mathew Baynton (Mr Hopkins), Florence Pugh (Abigail Mortimer), Joe Cole (Kenneth Lamont), Lauren McCrostie (Gwen)

Any film set in an all-girls school that succumbs to hysteria, with ominous goings-on that might be supernatural or might all be allegories for coming of age and emerging sexuality, is inevitably going to get compared with Picnic at Hanging Rock. But few films seem to be so desperate to be that film as The Falling does.

Set in an all-girls school in 1969, at the cusp of the sexual revolution that will soon engulf the whole country, Lydia Lamont (Maisie Williams) and her elder brother Kenneth (Joe Cole) are both obsessed with Lydia’s charismatic classmate Abigail Mortimer (Florence Pugh) – feelings of emotional and sexual dependency that Abigail knowingly encourages and flirts with. After Abigail’s sudden death connected to her pregnancy, Lydia becomes increasingly disruptive at the school and finally becomes “patient zero” in an epidemic of fainting that afflicts the school.

Based on a true story, you can tell that this film is keen to conjure up some sort of deep-rooted mystery at the heart of the girls’ actions, questioning whether they were truly in control of their own actions at this time or under the influence of something else. Is this linked directly to the tragic fate of Abigail – is she in some way possessing the girls, driving them towards this fainting? Or is the fainting just a sort of acting out, as Lydia tries to get over her grief at the loss of her friend?

Frankly, who really cares? It’s pretty hard to get invested in a film that is working so hard to be meaningful that it overshoots the mark and just becomes tiresome. Yeah I get it, teenage relationships can have this unhealthy intensity to them. They can spin out into self-destructive elements. And maybe, if the film had focused more on that rather than trying to suggest some unsettling mystery it might have got further. But with every shot of the British countryside around the school, or the lingering shots on the girls writhing on the floor, or the unsettled terror of the teachers, you feel the film’s attempt to invest these events with meaning.

What you actually end up feeling, throughout this overlong and puffed up film, is impatience at the indulgence of these children. Far from a mystery, the fainting appears to be a tiresome, attention-seeking effort from young girls unable to express and process emotionally the things that have happened to them. There isn’t a single element of the film that makes you seriously consider some ghostly or psychical explanation for the events – they seem, clearly and throughout, to be manufactured by the girls involved. It’s hard to watch it without unsympathetically suspecting that if the adults around them stopped indulging all this nonsense, they’d miraculously recover soon enough. It’s possible to speculate over whether the girls are doing it deliberately or if this is the work of their overwrought subconscious – but while that could form a good premise for a film interested in group psychology, this film seems more interested in pretentious shots of trees.

As if realising halfway through that it’s not come up with anything compelling yet, the film hastily throws in a poorly developed incest plotline, which is unsettling, illogical, and springs from nowhere. Not content with that, it then shoe-horns a rape into the backstory of a character late on, in a way that is clearly meant to be a dark reveal, but is in fact a really clumsy “obviously this caused all the problems” solution to the questions of the film. The character’s mental health problems and inability to bond with her closest family could have made for a complex and challenging character (and she’s certainly played by an actor who could’ve handled that material). Instead, rape is casually chucked in as a glib explanation for “oh and this is why she’s troubled – ta-da”. It’s cheap and lazy. But then that is on a par with all the sexual awakening content of the film, which is clumsy, clunky and often misguided. It wants to suggest an unsettling fascination with sex, and tie that in with dangerous, subversive ideas. Instead, it just ends up looking like standard teenage experimentation, filmed with a certain amount of style.

This is not to say the film is badly made as such. It looks good and it’s put together well. It’s just trying way too hard. The acting is very good. Maisie Williams is never anything less than watchable as Lydia, and creates a well-drawn character as a girl who goes from easily-led hero worshipper to the troubled centre point of disruption at the school. Florence Pugh is also a revelation as Abigail – a charismatic presence that you instantly believe would be obsessed over by everyone who knows her. Joe Cole is also very good as the creepy, sexually exploitative brother. There are some good performances from the adults, not least Maxine Peake as Lydia’s nervous, agoraphobic mother.

But none of this cancels out the laboured pretension of the rest of the film, which always wants to let you know how clever it is, and how much it wants you to question the impact of all that dark sexual awakening. Instead, for all the sturm und drang,it ends up looking rather like a collection of silly girls who are acting out. The idea that obsession with Abigail draws rebellious and transgressive feelings from Lydia seems painfully obvious and unoriginal, and the flirtation with incest, rather than invested with meaning, instead feels like a film straining to shock.

The Falling wants to be a great cult classic. Neither of those words can be applied. It’s a well-made but empty spectacle, living in the shadow of other much better films. For all the skill of Maisie Williams and Florence Pugh, it misses the greater depth it is aiming for and settles for being a rather shrill would-be ghost story and a plodding attempt at social commentary.