The Dressmaker: Kate Winslet Sews

Never before has a stone-cold vengeance-taker been so passive and mild mannered. We really ought to fix up this supposedly scandalous seamstress with Adam Sandler’s Cobbler, so they could go be cloying together. However, the well of quirkiness will eventually run dry in the tonal train wreck that is Jocelyn Moorhouse’s The Dressmaker (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

To paraphrase the tag-line of The Hateful Eight, nobody leaves Paris for the outback backwater of Dungatar without a damn good reason. Of course, that reason would be revenge. The town done Tilly “Don’t Call Me Myrtle” Dunnage wrong when they wrongfully blamed her for the death of entitled bully Stewart Pettyman and sent her away to boarding schools (looks to us like they did her a favor, but whatever). Dunnage still holds a grudge for the physical and emotional abuse she and her vinegary-tongued old mum Molly endured, but she gets sidetracked from her pay-back mission when her original couture designs prove popular with the women in town.

In between fittings and measurements, Dunnage will try to uncover the truth of what happened to Pettyman (surnames are truly destiny in The Dressmaker) that fateful day. Of course, it is blindingly obvious to viewers what went down, but I can’t blame Dunnage for suppressing her memories. I had to go to hypnosis therapy to recover my repressed memory of this film.

Lest you think Dressmaker is all about empowerment through frocks and sashes, be warned. The film takes a ridiculously dark turn down the stretch. Frankly, it is almost worth recommending Dressmaker just to watch it go perversely out of its way to alienate its core audience. However, you still have to sit through the nauseatingly saccharine first two acts to get there.

Honest to Betsy, Moorhouse and co-screenwriter P.J. Hogan throw in just about every awkwardly dated cliché you could think of adapting Rosalie Ham’s novel. There is the senile-like-a-fox mother, the cross-dressing town constable oohing and awing over Dunnage’s latest fabric swatches, and the hunky shirtless neighbor looking out for his developmentally disabled brother (and maybe Dunnage too, if she will let him). Dressmaker would have been derivative in the early 1990s. In 2016, it is such an off-key spectacle of shtick, Meryl Streep will probably get nominated for it, even though she isn’t even in the picture.

Kate Winslet’s judgment is usually rather sound, so it is surprising to find her in this chick flick from Hell. It is even more disappointing to see Hugo Weaving recycling such dated stereotypes as the fashion-conscious Sergeant Farrat. You were Agent Smith in the Matrix trilogy, try to show some dignity, for crying out loud.

It is downright painful watching The Dressmaker, but at least the movie will wreak vengeance upon itself, on viewers’ behalf. It is hard to imagine this is really what Moorhouse, Hogan, and company had in mind originally, but the film was a decent hit in Australia, so presumably six or eight Foster’s helps the audience swallow it down. Not recommended, The Dressmaker opens today (9/23) in New York, at the Angelika Film Center.

The Mule: It’s a Dirty Business

Working in customs can be a dirty business. Rubber gloves just don’t come thick enough to make it alright. Of course, it is even worse to be a suspected smuggler on the receiving end. For obvious reasons, time is presumably on the law’s side, but one poor dupe will do his best to put his bodily functions on hold in Tony Mahony & Angus Sampson’s “based on a true story” crime drama The Mule (trailer here), which releases in select markets and on VOD this Friday.

Unbeknownst to sad sack footballer Ray Jenkins, the vice-captain of his team and their dodgy patron have a regular heroin smuggling operation going. This year, Jenkins really ought to attend the annual season-ending trip to Thailand, since he has been awarded their player of the year honor. It would also be a fine opportunity for Jenkins to stuff his stomach with condoms filled with heroin. He would prefer to decline, but his parents’ gambling debts have him in a tight spot. He nearly gets away clean, but some last minute suspicious behavior gives him away to Australian customs.

Not quite as dumb as he looks, Jenkins will not agree to any x-rays or cop to anything. Under Aussie law, he will be held without charge for seven days or two number twos, at which point the evidence should speak for itself. However, Jenkins refuses to go, fortified by his strange willpower and a heavy dose of constipating codeine. It will get ugly, as Detectives Croft and Paris become increasingly impatient holed up in their airport hotel room with its jury-rigged porcelain throne, especially the hot-headed Croft.

If any film could scare a prospective drug mule straight, this would be it. Let’s just say it goes there and skip the graphic descriptions. Frankly, Sampson and co-writers Leigh Whannell (from the Saw franchise) and Jaime Browne largely turn poor Jenkins into a moaning ball of constipation wrangled over by the various cops, gangsters, and his legal aide attorney. However, he will somehow rouse himself for some clever third act twists.

Hugo Weaving is a constant source of entertainment, snarling his way through the film as Croft. Co-writer-co-director Sampson is also appropriately nebbish, in a doughy way, as the unspeakably miserable Jenkins. While Georgina Haig’s public defender is not much of a presence, the film rather slyly implies she is far more interested in Jenkins as a potential cause than concerned with his physical well-being. Regardless, Whannell and John Noble hold up their ends as totally slimy villains.

Contrasting pitiful Jenkins’ cautionary tale with the wall-to-wall coverage of Australia’s America’s Cup Victory makes The Mule a rather idiosyncratic early 1980s period piece. Still, this is not Miami Vice. No doubt about it, the premise is a bit off-putting, to put it tactfully. However, the execution is quite strong, buoyed by its considerable attitude and gumption. Recommended for fans of dark, somewhat scatological thrillers, The Mule launches on iTunes and opens in limited release this Friday (11/21).

Fugitive Parenting: Last Ride

An ex-con on the run would like to be a contemporary Mad Dog Morgan. Unfortunately, the days when outlaws could disappear into the outback are long gone.  Dragging along his partially estranged young son, he will stay on the loose just long enough to make everything worse in Glendyn Ivin’s Last Ride (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Kev is not scared of a little jail time.  He has been inside several times before.  However, whatever he has done this time represents a considerably greater level of seriousness.  Over the course of the film, viewers will learn what he did and why.  In truth, Kev is not a bad guy, but he is profoundly flawed.  His erratic behavior and periodic absences have made him a destabilizing influence in his son Chook’s life.  Life on the lam is not likely to improve matters.

Indeed, Kev’s self-destructive drinking complicates their getaway no end.  Yet, despite the chaos, father and son start to bond during quiet moments.  Getting back to nature seems to help.  It means there are far less people for Kev to brawl.

The rugged Australian landscape looks striking through cinematographer Greig Fraser’s lens, but it is also clearly a merciless environment.  However, Ivin brutally focuses on the relentlessly dysfunctional father-son drama.  Frankly, this is a draining film, offering viewers little comfort or hope.

Nonetheless, Ride is a powerful showcase for Hugo Weaving.  His bold work as Kev is likely to be a revelation for a considerable number of viewers.  Granted, he was instrumental to the success of the Matrix franchise as Agent Smith, but that role required entirely different acting muscles.  Ferocious yet acutely tragic, it is a career redefining performance many probably did not realize he had in him.

Without question, Weaving is the reason to see Ride, whereas his younger co-star is not nearly as compelling an on-screen presence.  To be fair though, he is saddled with some messy emotional conflicts and mixed motivations down the stretch, leading to a somewhat problematic climax.  Still, it is also worth noting a charismatic and stereotype defying appearance by Kelton Pell (the 1991 WA Aboriginal Artist of the Year Award-winner) as a forgiving park ranger.

Last Ride is often a tough watch.  It is the kind of film that inspires respect in place of affection.  Regardless, Weaving’s work demands notice, like a punch to the solar-plexus.  Recommended for those who appreciate acting as a pure craft (and are not struggling with depression or father issues), Last Ride opens this Friday (7/6) in New York at the Cinema Village.