Constance
Barton might just be the world’s first germaphobe. It was her husband who
introduced her to germ theory and also to sex, both of which she will feel
compelled to avoid. That naturally strains the Bartons’ marital union, as does
her hyper-over-protectiveness of their daughter. Perhaps she is also haunted,
but it might just be Dr. Barton’s sexual id lashing out for vengeance (no joke)
in Mitchell Lictenstein’s hothouse gothic yarn, Angelica (trailer
here), which
opens today in New York.
Constance
Barton has summoned her daughter to make a deathbed confession while he still
has the time. It involves the disappearance of her father, who maybe did not up
and abscond, as she had been led to believe. Why, Barton can remember it all,
like it was just yesterday—cue the dissolve.
Young
Constance, who looks exactly like her grown daughter, is a shopgirl and Dr.
Joseph Barton (formerly Bartoli) is a well-heeled naturalized Italian immigrant,
but neither of them can ever be fully accepted in Victorian society. At least,
they have each other—initially. It is a passionate nine-month honeymoon, but a
touch-and-go delivery leads to a bizarre doctor’s prescription: no more marital
relations.
Obviously,
that makes things awkward. Being a lusty Italian, Dr. Barton is always trying
to cheat with his own wife (he is not the unfaithful type, but ironically, that
might have avoided some problems), whereas Ms. Barton funnels all her energy
into protecting/smothering the daughter who almost did not make it. She is
already somewhat paranoid and overwrought, even before the so-called “Flying
Man” starts stalking Angelica. Essentially, he is a hive-creature made up of
thousands of giant-sized bacteria creepy-crawlies. His ill sexual intentions
are clear from his enlarged appendage. He doesn’t have a face per se, but he
still seems hazily reminiscent of the good doctor.
Lictenstein,
son of the famous pop artist, is a one-man justification for Freudian analysis.
His first film Teeth told the tale of
an Evangelical teen with teeth in her very private parts, whereas his straight
drama, Happy Tears, features the resentful
son of a famous painter, whose daddy issues result in a nervous breakdown.
Here, blue balls lead to a giant, predatory germ monster. Your patient, Dr.
Freud.
Obviously,
this is all rather silly, to put it mildly, but you to give Jena Malone and Ed
Stoppard credit for constantly doubling and tripling down as the Bartons. By
the time they reach the third act, they look like they haven’t had a good night’s
sleep or released their pent-up nervous tensions in years. They both play it
scrupulously straight, never remotely winking at the audience or smirking at
the irony. The late Charles Keating also adds some terrific Peter Cushing-esque
genre presence as old Dr. Miles, dispatched from the looney bin to diagnose
Madame Barton in her home environment.
