When Art Cinema Goes Bad…

reviewed Sun, 23 Feb 2003

Morvern Callar is the kind of art film that gives art films a bad name.  Nothing happens, and it doesn’t even look all that nice while it’s not happening.  It does actually have a plot, but you’d never know it from watching the film.  If it were a person, she would be dressed in black, sitting in a corner at an independently owned coffee shop, smoking with showily deep, pensive drags and reading On the Road (holding the book up ostentatiously to make sure everyone in the room noticed), but if you should try to strike up a conversation, you’d soon find that she was all about image with nothing original or substantive to say.

The vacant Samantha Morton is Morvern Callar, a Scottish slacker whose boyfriend, as the movie opens, has killed himself and left her with instructions to submit his novel to a publisher and use the money in his bank account to pay for his funeral.  Instead, Morvern puts her name on the novel before she sends it off and uses the cash to take herself and her friend Lanna (Kathleen McDermott, who’s the only thing in the movie that’s marginally entertaining) to a horrid “Youth Med” resort in Spain.  She does a couple other horrifying things as well, but I won’t go into that.  For no apparent reason, she drags Lanna away from the resort after a few days; they take a taxi to a small town and then, inexplicably, start walking along a deserted road, like, forever, until Morvern abandons her friend, hitches a ride to the beach, and meets up with the publishing company reps who just love “her” novel and want to pay her buckets of money.

I had a bad feeling about the movie from the opening scenes, which were of the boyfriend’s corpse and Morvern stroking it or just lying beside it – every shot was oh-so-artistically arranged, and the camera lingered on the still life of the body and Morvern, with a fake Christmas tree blinking over them… it was just so precious and contrived.  And then Morvern started talking to people, which was dreadful because you couldn’t understand a word anyone said, between their heavy accents and the deafening background noise and très hip soundtrack.  Morton is a complete cipher, and a boring one at that.  So the long shots of her blank face don’t exactly communicate depth and complexity.  Actually, nothing is really communicated by this opaque, impenetrable film, except maybe that stealing from a dead person is fun and profitable.

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