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Whatever happened to Ross Hunter and Robert Aldrich? With their fascinating if arguably exploitative crazy-old-dame pictures, producer Hunter and director Aldrich created some of the most lovable, glamorous and horrifying characters in cinematic history. Hunter's Madame X and Portrait in Black--both starring the older, still fabulous-looking Lana Turner--were lavish, trashy melodramas that highlighted her powerful, iconic presence. Aldrich's Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? and Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte--both with the older, wonderfully grotesque Bette Davis--were near-brilliant exercises in Grand Guignol cinema, painting Davis, Joan Crawford and Olivia De Havilland with an unglamorous harshness that remains unparalleled. Revealing a hysterical yet hyper-realistic preoccupation with women and Hollywood, these films said, in so many images, "It's gruesome to grow old, especially if you're a movie star." Though the true psycho-star genre died with the movie queens who graced it, it's been shabbily resurrected in Jonathan Darby's Hush, which stars Jessica Lange, who at least acts as if she has just walked off the MGM lot. Lange plays the gorgeous Martha Baring, a wealthy Southerner who runs Kilronan, a resplendent horse-breeding estate in the Kentucky countryside. A woman of genteel flirtatiousness, formidable ambition and pathological control, Martha always gets what she wants and, as the movie all-too-easily asserts, not what she deserves. From her humble beginnings as a stable girl who literally shoveled shit to make ends meet, young Martha wiggled her way into matrimony and, after the mysterious death of her husband, into ownership of the Baring estate. With her respected name and lifestyle, she wants only the best for her son Jackson (Johnathon Schaech), an obnoxiously handsome Peter Gallagher look-alike who lives and works in New York City. What Martha envisions as best for her son, however, is far from the norm of standard motherly behavior. In her opinion, Jackson must spawn another Baring to continue the family lineage and never leave his mommy, who loves him with an obsessive fervor bordering on incest. The simultaneous threat and birthing receptacle for Martha's plan is Jackson's girlfriend, Helen (Gwyneth Paltrow), an orphaned New Yorker who possesses innate class and grace. When Jackson brings Helen to Kilronan to meet mother, Martha is instantly jealous but hospitable to the lovely young woman. Dripping with sugary Southern charm, Martha endears herself to Helen, and the couple leave their visit with the happy serenity of knowing that Kilronan is indeed home. Things go terribly awry, however, when Helen discovers she is pregnant. From here on, the picture hones in on the implausible and hilarious machinations of Martha, who is responsible for Helen's pregnancy: She poked a hole in Helen's diaphragm during the couple's visit. Jackson and Helen marry at Kilronan, then return to New York where a traumatic event takes place: A mysterious intruder attacks Helen, slices her visibly pregnant stomach and flees without causing any additional harm. Because of this odd crime, the couple ditch their big-city careers and move to Kilronan, where they assist Martha in running the place. At Kilronan, Helen (and not her clueless husband) becomes increasingly knowledgeable about the control freak--and murderous psychotic--that is Martha. Hush's preposterous plot is so predictable that the viewer will figure out its mysteries in the first 10 minutes. But despite its implausibility, Hush is unusually entertaining and, in its own silly way, profound. Had the writers tried a little harder, this Hollywood bitch-fest could have been a great movie. Though too generically produced to look Gothic, its themes of incest, female competition and male stupidity are wonderfully perverse. If the film had been shot with the foreboding, unflattering black and white of Aldrich or the startling, crisp colors of Hunter, it wouldn't have needed the obvious mood music "Hush little baby, don't say a word." The actresses would seem much creepier in either style. Lange's syrupy Blanche DuBois is great fun, and she delivers her lines with the deft timing of Tallulah Bankhead. When she catches the terrified runaway Paltrow, her water broken, trying to flag down truckers on the highway, she screams, "Do you think you're some alley cat, dropping your litter by the side of the road?" Concurrently, Paltrow is a fantastic snob, and she effectively makes the transition from sweet daughter-in-law to swaggering, kick-ass pregnant New York chick. Dripping with a femaleness that women will probably--but shouldn't--be insulted by, Hush is a fun, ridiculous picture that could have succeeded with the right filmmaker. At least it keeps filmmaking's geriatric tradition somewhat alive. When Hunter joked in 1966, "My next picture is going to be called Menopause Love," little did he know. |
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