3.5 stars. Rated R, for nudity and considerable sexual candor
By Derrick Bang
History is laden with fascinating
people whose stories never make it into standard classroom curriculum, even at
the college level.
We can be grateful, then, that
movies often come to the rescue.
During the early decades of the
20th century, Danish artist Einar Wegener was celebrated for his landscape
paintings. His wife, Gerda, enjoyed a steady career as a portraitist of
prominent citizens, but recognition as an accomplished artist eluded her. This
changed when Gerda began producing a series of Art Deco paintings of alluring,
fashionably dressed women with distinctly almond-shaped eyes: in many cases,
working with the same model.
The “model” later was revealed to
be Einar, who had embraced this role as a means of validating a lifelong desire
to dress and live as a woman: a wish so all-consuming that he eventually sought
radical surgical intervention.
Today, Wegener is acknowledged as
one of the first-known recipients of gender-reassignment surgery: a procedure
most people probably don’t realize dates back to the early 1930s.
Einar and Gerda’s story has been
dramatized with sensitivity by director Tom Hooper, the gifted British
filmmaker who draws exemplary performances from his casts, and who turned The King’s Speech into such a droll,
charming and effervescent slice of historical drama. Hooper elicits similarly
strong work from stars Eddie Redmayne and Alicia Vikander in The Danish Girl, but — alas — the film
itself doesn’t live up to their memorably haunting efforts.
The problems are difficult to
specify. At 120 minutes, Hooper’s film is a bit too long; the pacing also is
extremely slow. Perhaps most noticeably, much as we admire Redmayne’s richly
complex performance, Hooper and cinematographer Danny Cohen overuse tight
close-ups, particularly of Redmayne’s mega-watt smile. To be sure, they’re
varying levels of grins — nervous, bashful, triumphant — but, ultimately, a
smile is a smile is a smile.
Strip 15 minutes’ worth of
Redmayne’s smiles, and I’m convinced the entire film would play better.
But the issues go deeper. Lucinda
Coxon’s script, adapted from David Ebershoff’s 2000 novel of the same title, is
a bit sloppy with detail. This film has us believe that Einar’s transition from
“closeted” female to surgically altered woman takes place in four short years,
starting in 1926, when in fact Einar was “passing” as female by 1912.
Compressing so many key events into this shorter time-span feels false and
contrived: absolutely (I’m sure) the last impression Hooper would have desired.
That said, we’re no less
transfixed by Redmayne and Vikander. Both cross that threshold that transcends
acting, where we simply accept that they are
the characters being brought to life.
Einar and Gerda are introduced as
a loving and mutually devoted couple, working in different sections of a
spacious, loft-like Copenhagen apartment. They’re also flirty and erotic: very
much a part of the local dance, theater and art scene that encourages
adventurous sexuality.
Vikander, in particular, radiates
a level of sensuality that practically drips from the screen. But Redmayne
isn’t far behind; his seductive qualities simply are subtler, more playful,
more teasing.
The catalyzing moment comes one
day when Gerda, on deadline for the portrait of a ballerina, asks Einar to don
stockings and women’s shoes, so the painting can be finished. His reaction is
complex, his blushing awkwardness not quite the embarrassment we’d expect, but
something deeper; Redmayne’s eyes also betray a flicker of fear, as if this
simple act might unlock a door left shut in his mind for a long, long time.
And, indeed, it does. Not much
later, Gerda is surprised when routine bedroom foreplay reveals that Einar is
wearing some of her undergarments beneath his clothes. Both actors handle this
scene brilliantly: his nervous apprehension, at the moment of discovery; her
initial bewilderment, a pause as the situation is digested, then a carnal grin
as she accepts it.
Indeed, Gerda finds the situation
delectably naughty, and playfully suggests that Einar adopt an alternate
identity as his own female cousin, “Lili.” Einar, although terrified, eagerly
accepts such encouragement; Lili’s “debut” comes during a party laden with
their progressive friends.
But what Gerda views as
mischievous fun takes a different turn when Lili attracts the attention of
Henrik (Ben Whishaw), who pursues “her” eagerly. Suddenly, Gerda no longer
finds the role-playing larkish ... but the bell can’t be unrung.
What follows becomes painfully
intimate, with Hooper scrutinizing both characters independently, and as a
couple attempting to weather an “adjustment” that is fracturing the very core
of their relationship. We come to feel like unwelcome voyeurs, particularly
when Einar slowly strips in front of a mirror, unhappy with what he sees, doing
his best to conceal the bits that betray him as a man.
Vikander’s performance, in turn,
becomes heartbreaking. Much as Gerda is disturbed by each new level of change
in her husband — much as she intellectually feels that things have shifted past
the point of recovery — she cannot abandon him. This wealth of emotions plays
out on Vikander’s expressive features, her utter despair accompanied by equal
parts defiance, resignation and — yes, no matter what — loyalty. She loves him,
or her; she cannot help it, nor does she really want to.
Cinema is laden with richly
melodramatic sagas of doomed or star-crossed lovers, but this definitely is one
of the most unusual. But no less powerful, or believable.
Matthias Schoenaerts is quietly
memorable as Hans, Einar’s closest boyhood friend, long estranged, whom Gerda
contacts in the hope of learning something significant about her husband. The
resulting dynamic blossoms into an odd romantic triangle, as Hans comes to care
deeply for both Einar/Lili and Gerda, but calmly represses his feelings
according to their respective wishes.
It’s a subtle and achingly
poignant performance, because in some ways — as the story proceeds — Hans
suffers the deepest disappointments.
On the other hand, Hans gets the
film’s best and funniest one-liner, which Schoenaerts delivers perfectly.
Whishaw’s Henrik is similarly
layered, significant mostly because he grants what Einar needs most at a key
moment: acceptance. Amber Heard is deliciously voluptuous as Gerda’s earthy
friend Ulla; Adrian Schiller is every inch a thoughtful art dealer whose
guidance proves significant to Gerda’s career.
Alexandre Desplat delivers
another of his achingly poignant orchestral scores, the music perfectly
enhancing the most emotionally fraught scenes.
Although the third act loses none
of its powerful melancholia, issues of, ah, medical and surgical complexity are
glossed over — or ignored — to an irritating level. Radical events occur much too quickly, and matters come to
such an abrupt halt that we can’t help wondering if several expository scenes
got left on the cutting-room floor.
So, while Gerda’s final act —
before the screen fades to black — is richly poetic, it’s anticlimactic. We
feel a bit cheated.
Ultimately,
then, The Danish Girl is a collection
of superb performances in search of a tighter script. Redmayne and Vikander
deserved better ... and so did Einar and Lili.
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