Avoid this film at all costs; thanks to my timely warning, mark it down as the biggest pile of pants you’ll never see.
I know there are mixed feelings about Richard Curtis films but I generally fall into the ‘for’ group. I loved Four Weddings, loved Blackadder and, as for the rest of his stuff, while I wouldn’t call it art I’d say it’s mildly entertaining, instantly forgettable, harmless cheese. The Boat that Sucked was, on the other hand, an insult to everyone: women, music, anyone who can remember the seventies and especially freedom fighters everywhere.
Having read a couple of negative reviews, I expected little. The opening scene was a great montage, great music and, I confess, I immediately settled in to enjoy people smoking in a period way but, as soon as the first track faded out and the luvvies began to espouse their inane dialogue, my tiny bubble went ping. The snark-circuitry in my brain got a sniff of freedom and from then on I was all nah-nah-nah-nah: did people really clamour around their trannies in their nightwear of an evening? When did Kenneth Brannagh forget how to act? Where was Hugh? What about people who didn’t smoke – did they listen to the radio too? And if so, what did they do with their hands? Had the ‘dolly birds’ taken a wrong turn from the set of Confessions of a Window Cleaner? What was the point of the floppy-haired youth? How many times is it legal to crack the same, unfunny joke in a movie – I refer, of course, to the frightfully amusing idea of naming one character ‘Twat’. Nearly as funny as having the only girl on the ship be a… and you might want to put your cup down at this point… a lesbian! I know it’s hilarious! (NB, American friends, ‘trannies’ means ‘transistor radios’ here.)
I found I was looking over the luvvies and dolly birds’ shoulders at the décor, the spot-on product packaging and the lesbian’s crocheted waistcoat which looked alarmingly like one of my favourite pieces I often wore in the late sixties over a white polo-neck jumper and above a purple velvet mini-skirt, white tights and some ‘patchwork’ platforms. I thought that memory of a former me had been buried under my new romantic outfits, smothered by my nineties aerobics wear and was never going to make it through into my conscious mind. It seems my belief that I was the coolest was on a par with Mr Curtis’ belief that his film rocked.
I loved the bridesmaids’ dresses complete with pearly nails and short beehives but it didn’t make up for watching this has-been karaoke. What has become of Richard Curtis? I suspect this is what happens when your advisors turn into brown-nosers. Surely someone somewhere in his gang must have known that cinema goers don’t want to suffer a bunch of middle aged men singing into a beer bottle? The performances were hammy and drawn out in scenes that went on as long in perceived time as internal examinations do.
The characterization was clumsy and slip-shod; it was as if a tick-list of ‘types’ had been used as guidance: “Hey!” Curtis might have said, “We could have a character who always gets the girls,” pausing for a round of applause, “And how about one who is stupid but, wait for it, the twist is that occasionally he’ll say something clever!” Gasps from the sycophants.
And what was all this about Freedom? Ok, I was too busy plaiting my dolls hair to read the papers but even I know it wasn’t pirate radio station that represented freedom at this time in history? What about writers in the eastern bloc, women’s lib, strikes, new equality laws etc, etc? I wanted to stand up and shout, “Long live iPods and fuck vinyl!” just because it would have annoyed the hell out of the luvvies. In the year that England won the World Cup, the closest we got to dry land was a piece of Ennio Morricone music and a mild reference to the Vietnam war. Er, that’s it. I would have liked to have seen real people – what was going on while they were listening to the radio? This was beautifully conveyed in Withnail and I – such as in the scene with the demolition ball – and the volume was still on maximum.
Curtis would have us believe that what really counted was that this bunch of miscreants got to shag lots of dolly birds. The film was misogynist - this bollocks about this teenager trying to get sex being post-modernist blah blah doesn’t cut it with me. The scene where they do a real life mock up of the bare breasted women on the banned Electric Lady Land album cover was plain gratuitous and left me feeling embarrassed.
I almost laughed once but it might have been because I was getting low blood sugar. The cinema was two thirds full on the Friday night early show and any laughter just sounded polite and supportive - the woman sitting in front of me who found the film hilarious stood out as much as that one funny moment I alluded to. I suggest she was mashed.
Even the music couldn’t save this empty, meaningless film; I knew the Stones were fantastic anyway and I don’t need that twat Curtis to tell me. Not one track was played all the way through – I’d have more fun dancing in my pants in the kitchen while gazing upon just the one wrinkly face. My own.
Philip Seymour Hoffman was the only actor who came out of this debacle with dignity. The only heavy weight ‘star’, he delivered and understated, believable performance. What a contrast with Emma Thompson who looked so pleased with herself it made me want to hurl in the popcorn bag. Rys Ifans was underused and looked a little embarrassed
One who-cares scene after another, this was a self-indulgent plundering of the dressing up box with the few good ideas nicked from Beatles movies.
Curtis would probably argue that this film was escapist – the only thing I wanted was to escape my seat – quite simply the worst film I’ve seen since Blues Brothers 2000.
Usually I include a film still but I felt this photo I took the other day to be more suitable.
