Marie Anoinette

We are all Sophia Coppola’s friend. Just like we are all Spike Jones’ friend and Michelle Gaunrey’s pal, Lance Accord’s brunch buddy and Charlie Kaufmann’s barista. They are the creative types who make things (be those ‘things’ films, or screenplays or whatever, there are plenty of ah-tee-sts who can slide effortlessly into this labeled, woolen jumper of warmth and admiration - pick one for yourself and see how it feels) that we relate to; that does not feel out of our reach, but close and known. They say things we have felt before or put a song in a film that we have swooned too, or explored an idea that we were wanting someone to delve into and they swim and float and dog paddle through all this with tenderness, bright colours and/or an honesty amidst pretty pictures. We are the malleable 20-somethings and these people create amongst us, not intentionally for us.

At least that’s what it feels like to me.

But then again in 1999 I thought Ella Hooper and I would have been friends had we ever met. So maybe I am not of the norm…perhaps that is a well established fact amongst the well (and not so well) established wall of friendship who will be reading this.

Therefore when I went to see Marie Antoinette I was there for an old friend; a friend whose acquaintance I met in 1999 with Virgin Suicides and the essence of which flourished and morphed in a cherished and infallible kinship in 2003 with Lost in Translation. After reading quite deflating reviews of the film in the Village Voice and The New Yorker, I went to see Marie Antoinette with strong desire to like the film, despite the odds, and initially this was quite easy. ‘Its genius’, I thought ‘staged and theatrical take on the period drama, but without the irony – because irony is so 2005.

‘It’s self conscious and of our time’ I went on, ‘ It is Sophia showing us her close connection to the text with feeling and honesty. Perhaps catering or telling a story to those who other wise find period pieces a little naff.,’ the chickens in my little damp farmyard garden of a brain chirped.

As the film bore on through the landscape of old school Fwenchy social circuits, and the verdant visual language continued with sweet sugar sunshine loveliness Miss Coppola remained, as she tends to do, remarkably and mysteriously distant from her characters. This is usually, in her other films, really kewl *sweeps long straggly fringe from melancholy and pouty face* but amongst the rich colours and flamboyant, beautiful back drop of Versailles this distance isn’t as cool or as engrossing as in her previous films.

I still have an affection for the film, probably because I could ‘see what she was trying to do’ but it does not move you and the protagonist perhaps of the Paris Hilton school of consumerism is actually, …well…a little annoying. I must admit that when news of the break from the Bastille and the angry mob charge the palace I sorta agreed with them, maybe cause I lean towards the lefty side of things and dress in peasant clothes. These are people, mind you, whose total screen is about 30 seconds in comparison to the, what felt like a mammoth, 2 and bit hours allocated to Miss Prissy Pants Kirsten Dunst. It was too long and I often found myself a little bored. Even now I feel I am betraying someone whose vision I get but the execution of which was a little skewed.

It is a brave and fun film which never judges Marie and perhaps I did too harshly to feel moved by her story. It gets me interested in history though…what happened next? The birthday party scene is beautiful and one in which the combination of Coppla and Accord’s genius works to visual perfection. It is also worth seeing this film for the artistic direction. Lllluuuush.