Casanova, a fictional retelling of the famous Italian lothario’s romantic life and shot on location in Venice, is a dog — a howler with fleas.
A farce is supposed to be witty, fun and funny. Except for some Oliver Platt outbursts in a supporting role, this farce falls flat.
The oddity is that it comes from a good director, Swedish-American veteran Lasse Hallstrom (My Life As A Dog, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, The Cider House Rules, the sly Chocolat). But the broad slapstick of Casanova is not his metier, although he made TV comedies in his early career back in Sweden.
It is no help, of course, that an awful Heath Ledger generates no sexual chemistry with Sienna Miller, with Ledger in the title role and Miller playing a feminist firebrand who loathes lotharios and rails against infidelity.
Incidentally, through no fault of hers, it is impossible not to cringe in some scenes when you think about Miller’s own unfaithful lover, Jude Law. Art does not just imitate life, it mocks it.
As for Ledger, he just seems to drift through the role, as if he awkwardly took on the guise of Casanova but thought it ended with the lavish clothes and the foppish posture. This mediocre performance stands in startling contrast to the nuanced work he did for Ang Lee in Brokeback Mountain. That performance rightly should earn Ledger an Oscar nomination. This one in Casanova demonstrates that even great actors need good roles, good dialogue, a sure-handed director, all lacking here.
Another odd thing about Casanova is how tame it plays. There is nary a risque scene in the whole piece, despite some mild sexual innuendo and scenes of Ledger in bed with the babes (including disrobed nuns in a convent). In other words, Casanova the man and Casanova the movie are desexed, castrated and rendered useless.
The movie’s best moments, such as they are, come from Oliver Platt. The brave, if foolish, actor dons a fat suit and plays a pompous boor who is engaged to Miller. The engagement was an arranged one; they have never met. This will lead to situations involving misidentifications and confusion, a familiar element in farce.
Another key player in the scenario is Miller’s on-screen mother, played by statuesque Lena Olin (who happens to be Hallstrom’s wife).
Platt and Olin soldier on even when the movie falls down around them, like a stage play in an earthquake. You have to admire their pluck.
But Jeremy Irons, done up like a drag queen in a torture chamber, is just an embarrassment. Looking hideous and sounding worse, Irons plays an uptight inquisitor sent from the Vatican to dispatch Casanova to the gallows for his exploits. Of course, he turns out to be a corrupt, power-hungry maniac. Big surprise.
Now, I know there will be folks who find it all amusing. And maybe I’m just being too bah humbug this Christmas season.
Yet, other than marvelling at the costumes and trying to find out how the filmmakers managed to run teams of horses through the narrow streets of Venice, there is little to watch and even less to laugh at.
BOTTOM LINE
When farce falls flat, you snooze. Not even Heath Ledger, a rising star, and Sienna Miller, an obvious babe, can save this stinker.
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