| SELL ANNUITY PAYMENT,DONATE YOUR CAR FOR KIDS, ASBESTOS LAWYERS, STRUCTURED ANNUITY SETTLEMENT, ANNUITY SETTLEMENTS, CAR INSURANCE, DONATE CARS IN MA |
|
|
You’ve probably, if not seen in action, at least heard of Linda Lovelace. Lovelace (nee Linda Susan Boreman) was one of the most well-known—and controversial—adult film actresses of what was considered the Golden Age of Porn, a period between the sixties and eighties when adult films had gained sudden, unprecedented mainstream attention. The actress’ stint in the extremely popular 1972 hardcore flick Deep Throat was what had launched her into instant fame, although her acting career thereon turned out to be fairly brief, with her personal life making more headlines. That was never truer than when she’d eventually filed for divorce from husband slash manager Chuck Traynor, alleging that he’d coerced her into porn ography and prostitution—often at gunpoint—and that he’d abused her mercilessly all through the marriage. Lovelace’s version of events, however, was heavily disputed, and no legal action was taken against Traynor in the matter. But her story was documented in three books that she brought out the following years, beginning with Ordeal in 1980, which was also the year she took up anti- porn ography activism, a cause she would be committed to until her death in 2002.
Although two rival Lovelace biopics had been rumoured to be in the offing until a while back, one starring the Train-Wreck-Known-As-Lindsay-Lohan, and the other featuring Amanda Seyfried, the former was unceremoniously abandoned, leaving it up to the latter, the Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman-directed Lovelace, to dissect the porn star’s life. There is no doubt about whose side the film takes; our protagonist is depicted as a naïve young victim taken in and held prisoner by a controlling egomaniac. But try as it might to paint a revelatory picture of domestic abuse and sexual violence within the porn industry, Lovelace ultimately oversimplifies too zealously, reducing events to neat melodramatic snippets that are nowhere close to insightful, and people to silly, bobble-headed caricatures. The result is a film that skims more than digs, and one that evokes very little in the way of sympathy or surprise—a thorough disappointment given the potential of the premise.
The biopic takes off from around the first time Lovelace meets Traynor (essayed here by Peter Sarsgaard), at a roller rink; an impressionable 21-year-old, she’s swept away by his charm and worldly ways, and they quickly get married. Once the rosy honeymoon period is over, however, Traynor slowly reveals a different, darker side of himself—one marked by a volatile temper, abusive inclinations and sexual perversions. Early on, he convinces Lovelace that they are financially doomed if she doesn’t help out, manipulating her into taking up porn —which she does, albeit reluctantly—and pocketing all her earnings. He soon begins to keep her on a short leash, listening to her conversations, never letting her out of his sight, subjecting her to increasingly violent fits of rage at the slightest hint of defiance. As Traynor proves more and more monstrous by the day, Lovelace sees that there is no other alternative but to escape, as difficult as that might be to orchestrate.
There are certain sequences in the film that feel appropriately poignant—the disintegration of the dynamics between Lovelace and Traynor is interesting to watch, for instance, as is the protagonist’s despair when she is rebuffed by her own mother the one time she asks for help. But these moments are few and far between and Lovelace is framed choppily overall, beginning with dialogue that is as dull as they come, like lines lifted out of a high-school stage production. That has contributed greatly, although not solely, to the film’s inability to recreate an ambience specific to the era it is set in—such a thing necessitates more than the right cut of clothes, after all. And there is the story itself, which seems cobbled out of obvious turning points in Lovelace’s life, but doesn’t really delve into the context surrounding these, the reasons, the motivations, which are so essential if we are to really engage with a character. No, it is happy to simply ferret out a bullet-point list of happenings, leaving the hows and the whys to stew under the surface.
The main problem here, however, as I see it, has to do with casting. Seyfried is simply not expressive enough a vehicle for the kind of substantial presence this role calls for; all wide eyes and pouty lips, but as blank as a piece of paper besides. She’s one of those actresses I’m always on the fence about—one senses an intelligent, instinctive performer behind that pretty face, but she so rarely lets it out that you start to wonder if you’re waiting to see something that just isn’t there. As Lovelace, Seyfried is even more fluttery than usual, grinning and preening like a fool most of the time. As for the rest of them, Sarsgaard does alright as Traynor—nothing to rave about, though—and Hank Azaria and Adam Brody feel a little wasted in their practically cartoonish avatars. And the less said about Sharon Stone’s unwieldy turn as Lovelace’s strict suburban mother, the better.
For a tell-all about a porn star, Lovelace is relatively tame—not in terms of nudity, but more with regards to the kind of unadventurous, conventional approach the filmmakers have taken, that can feel almost disinterested in its own premise at times. At the end of it, we’re certainly informed of what happened to Linda Lovelace, but as far as the workings of her heart and mind are concerned, those remain elusive as ever.
Although two rival Lovelace biopics had been rumoured to be in the offing until a while back, one starring the Train-Wreck-Known-As-Lindsay-Lohan, and the other featuring Amanda Seyfried, the former was unceremoniously abandoned, leaving it up to the latter, the Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman-directed Lovelace, to dissect the porn star’s life. There is no doubt about whose side the film takes; our protagonist is depicted as a naïve young victim taken in and held prisoner by a controlling egomaniac. But try as it might to paint a revelatory picture of domestic abuse and sexual violence within the porn industry, Lovelace ultimately oversimplifies too zealously, reducing events to neat melodramatic snippets that are nowhere close to insightful, and people to silly, bobble-headed caricatures. The result is a film that skims more than digs, and one that evokes very little in the way of sympathy or surprise—a thorough disappointment given the potential of the premise.
The biopic takes off from around the first time Lovelace meets Traynor (essayed here by Peter Sarsgaard), at a roller rink; an impressionable 21-year-old, she’s swept away by his charm and worldly ways, and they quickly get married. Once the rosy honeymoon period is over, however, Traynor slowly reveals a different, darker side of himself—one marked by a volatile temper, abusive inclinations and sexual perversions. Early on, he convinces Lovelace that they are financially doomed if she doesn’t help out, manipulating her into taking up porn —which she does, albeit reluctantly—and pocketing all her earnings. He soon begins to keep her on a short leash, listening to her conversations, never letting her out of his sight, subjecting her to increasingly violent fits of rage at the slightest hint of defiance. As Traynor proves more and more monstrous by the day, Lovelace sees that there is no other alternative but to escape, as difficult as that might be to orchestrate.
There are certain sequences in the film that feel appropriately poignant—the disintegration of the dynamics between Lovelace and Traynor is interesting to watch, for instance, as is the protagonist’s despair when she is rebuffed by her own mother the one time she asks for help. But these moments are few and far between and Lovelace is framed choppily overall, beginning with dialogue that is as dull as they come, like lines lifted out of a high-school stage production. That has contributed greatly, although not solely, to the film’s inability to recreate an ambience specific to the era it is set in—such a thing necessitates more than the right cut of clothes, after all. And there is the story itself, which seems cobbled out of obvious turning points in Lovelace’s life, but doesn’t really delve into the context surrounding these, the reasons, the motivations, which are so essential if we are to really engage with a character. No, it is happy to simply ferret out a bullet-point list of happenings, leaving the hows and the whys to stew under the surface.
The main problem here, however, as I see it, has to do with casting. Seyfried is simply not expressive enough a vehicle for the kind of substantial presence this role calls for; all wide eyes and pouty lips, but as blank as a piece of paper besides. She’s one of those actresses I’m always on the fence about—one senses an intelligent, instinctive performer behind that pretty face, but she so rarely lets it out that you start to wonder if you’re waiting to see something that just isn’t there. As Lovelace, Seyfried is even more fluttery than usual, grinning and preening like a fool most of the time. As for the rest of them, Sarsgaard does alright as Traynor—nothing to rave about, though—and Hank Azaria and Adam Brody feel a little wasted in their practically cartoonish avatars. And the less said about Sharon Stone’s unwieldy turn as Lovelace’s strict suburban mother, the better.
For a tell-all about a porn star, Lovelace is relatively tame—not in terms of nudity, but more with regards to the kind of unadventurous, conventional approach the filmmakers have taken, that can feel almost disinterested in its own premise at times. At the end of it, we’re certainly informed of what happened to Linda Lovelace, but as far as the workings of her heart and mind are concerned, those remain elusive as ever.
0 comments:
Speak up your mind
Tell us what you're thinking... !