“We could be singular as a couple.”
—the future Mrs. Linda Porter
Creating a film around the lives of great
composers is always challenging: Their art overshadows their actions. The
temptation is to assert that the biography is as compelling as the music. And,
as witness Amadeus (cross-reference below), the result can become
a spectacle that plays fast and loose with the facts even as the images on the
screen are underscored by genius.
In De-Lovely, veteran writer Jay
Cocks, using the conceit of Cole Porter (Kevin Kline in a dramatic if not vocal
tour de force) watching the musical version of his life in a patronless theatre,
side-by-side its director (Jonathan Pryce), allows for seamless cuts from
end-of-life reflection to the selected milestones as they occurred: the venue
permits everyone the opportunity of breaking into song or kicking up a storm at
the drop of a clef.
The ensembles work best. The first, “It’s De-Lovely,” serves as a fabulous way of establishing tone, energy level
and—using a fast-moving cast-parade—whets the appetite for a terrific show.
“Be a Clown,” where Peter Polycarpou as the demanding Louis B. Mayer (“Can
you write funny funny, not clever funny?”) gets the answer to his question in a
number that can best be described as a spectacular costume comedy. The troupe
dances with gay abandon around MGM’s studios while Tony Pierce-Roberts’ stellar
camera and Julie Monroe’s crafty editing put together a magnificent collage of
the hilarious sight gags and bountiful eye candy right down to their wingtips. The finale-cum-bows-sequence, “You’re the Top,” (another feather in
choreographer Francesca Jaynes’ cap) brings the house down and should have sent
the crowd away happy, but the creative team didn’t follow the sage songwriter’s
advice “Never end with a ballad.”
Much of the film’s story focuses on
Porter’s homosexuality. His life in “Gay Paris” is a series of parties
(always enlivened by the affable composer’s early songbook) and some discreet
encounters with buff men (notably Edward Baker-Duly as Boris, dancer
extraordinaire with Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe). Porter’s penchant for
hedonism has the potential to change when divorcée Linda Lee Thomas (Ashley
Judd, coolly accepting her place as the loved, but not well-loved partner) whose
three-pack-a-day habit (making this one of the smokiest films of the century)
will send her to an early grave, comes on set. They are “Easy to Love” even as Porter confesses “I have other interests.” Undaunted, Thomas
agrees to an arrangement where “Anything Goes” becomes more mantra than
lyric.
The Porter wedding is also “De-Lovely,”
despite a petulant outburst by the jilted ex (James Wilby), which has more
bluster than steam. Then it’s on to Venice for more spectacular locations (the
design team: Eve Stewart, John Hill, John Bush and Janty Yates have combined
their considerable skills to fill the screen with endless bouquets, Trudeau-like
boutonnières, gold leaf and opening night cigarette cases, and an array of
fabric that could render many of the scenes first-rate even with the sound
switched off) culminating in a costume ball that picks up where the
aforementioned Amadeus and more recent Eyes Wide Shut left off—merci mille fois! “Let’s Misbehave” indeed—and with a tuba
anchoring the music “who could ask for anything more?”
From there the film starts to lose focus.
Director Irwin Winkler cannot instil the same crisp pace into the additional
life details (friend’s terminally ill child, the Porters’ failed attempt
starting a family, the inevitable breakup as Porter-in-Hollywood is provided a
steady stream of tricks by an unscrupulous pimp-in-search-of-a-backer (Kevin
McKidd) whose intimate blackmail, er, investment inducing, “recreation” pics
bring the failed couple to an extended separation), only get in the way of the
music: Vamp ’til ready.
But Winkler is determined to have a love
story, so pays the penalty. Everything sags but the chorus and featured
artists (Sheryl Crow’s sultry rendition of “Begin the Beguine” is worth the
price of admission alone). They become the stars, conclusively demonstrating
Porter’s artistic brilliance, even as his life, with its insatiable
cravings (men, cigarettes, booze), slips away into reclusion—alone as an empty
hall. JWR