With the popcorn barely trodden into the carpet at this morning’s screening of W.E. at the Venice Film Festival, the posh papers – who really couldn’t bear it if Madonna turned out to be as clever as they are – have already laid into her.
Now, we have not seen this film but one star? One fricking star? While they give Almodovar’s pile of shite The Skin I Live In four? (Sorry, but has Almodovar made a decent film in the last six? We’d like to say he has but he seems to have let his sense of humour fall through a hole in his pocket somewhere around Talk To Her.)
But back to Madonna. We do not believe, not for one instant, that this is a one-star film. But to quote The Guardian, as we so rarely do: ‘Could it be that Madonna is in deadly earnest here? If so, her film is more risible than we had any right to expect; a primped and simpering folly, the turkey that dreamed it was a peacock.’
Risible? Primped? Simpering? Folly? Has someone been reading Alan Hollinghurst books around here or was it written by Downtown Abbey’s Lady Grantham?