In these, the dying days of empire, when decadence in art is so common as to be unremarkable, work that inspires vivid criticism deserves attention, even if it’s not great art. Case in point, Brüno.
Sacha Baron Cohen’s latest cinematic romp has been greeted with an avalanche of bad reviews since it hit summer screens last week, none of them tepid or middling. John Griffin, one of the most enduringly passionate, fairest film-reviewers around, found Brüno “more offensive than funny”. Writing in the Gazette, he summed up the central moral objection raised by the British comic’s send up of gay camp thusly: “Cohen is brave to the point of self-destruction, but at what cost? … Homophobics will find only further fire for their intolerance, while those hoping for pant-wetting fun in the summer will find Brüno wanly echoing Borat’s brilliant gags.”
Anthony Lane’s review in the current issue of the New Yorker arrives at the same conclusion, though he’s more savage, describing the film as “ … flat and foolish, bereft of Borat’s good cheer: wholly unsuitable for children yet propelled by a nagging puerility that will appeal only to those in the vortex of puberty, or to adults who have failed to progress beyond it.”
Lane slays Cohen for cozying up to famous people, unleashing his formidable comic genius only on the ordinary and the obscure: “ … all his genius, at present, is going into publicity.” He does point out that two young women sitting beside him found the penis antics hilarious. “Even so, there was something forced in the women’s laughter, as if they wanted to banish any suspicion of prudery, and to prove themselves far too cool for disgust.”
So what’s the impact of reading these carefully reasoned, finely written pans? Will I go to see the movie? Do I identify with the ladies at Lane’s elbow and decide to line up for the film before every gag has been revealed in print?
Reservations instilled by reviews harden when I read in the Guardian that Bruno’s producers have produced a “teen-friendly” version by cutting out one minute and 90 seconds of the most offensive material, for no other reason than to increase the potential box office. As if teens can’t get access to the uncut …
No. I will not pay to see this movie.
Yet I am fairly certain that I will see it eventually. As I suspect many cinema fans will do, I’ll file this title under “must obtain”, meaning, wait for some web-savvy (probably young) friend to drop by with a copy on his/her laptop. Trips to the wide-screen are reserved for films that sell themselves by virtue of the artists involved and subject matter, coinciding with a sudden spontaneous need to get out of the house.
With certain promising films, I try to avoid reading comment even from favourite writers, in case over-expectation or familiarity taints discovery.
On the other hand, reading clever, well-reasoned reviews is a pleasure all its own. My favourite blood sport and, often enough, a fine substitute for lining up.
