Three stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and sexuality
By Derrick Bang
Toward the conclusion of Woody
Allen’s newest dive into the pool of mid-century nostalgia, Kate Winslet’s
Ginny — having descended into full-blown Norma Desmond madness — responds to an
accusation by petulantly whining, “Oh, God; spare me the bad drama.”
My feelings precisely.
 |
| As the summer progresses, Mickey (Justin Timberlake) begins to realize that Ginny (Kate Winslet) is placing far too much emotional weight on their clandestine affair. |
Wonder Wheel is Allen’s homage to shrill,
over-the-top melodrama: a contrived piffle that seeks to outdo the likes of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Sunset Boulevard, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Whatever
Happened to Baby Jane and their ilk. On top of which, the story is told by
a character who — having informed us that he’s a budding poet and playwright
given to florid exaggeration — clearly is an unreliable narrator.
Even allowing for all that,
Allen’s film wallows in a swamp of soggy excess that surpasses the worst
afternoon television soaps.
Which is a shame, because there’s
much to recommend Wonder Wheel,
starting with Vittorio Storaro’s gorgeous cinematography and Santa Loquasto’s
impeccable period production design, which deliver a level of visual opulence
rarely seen since Douglas Sirk’s lavish 1950s melodramas (Magnificent Obsession, Imitation
of Life and others).
Even though all these characters
recognize that their Coney Island home is past its prime, things still look
terrific, in a fading-glory sort of way. The film takes its title from the
massive Ferris wheel always standing vigil in the background, like a silent
Greek chorus.
Ginny, pushing 40 and prone to
migraines, works a dead-end job as a waitress in the Boardwalk clam shack.
She’s married to Humpty (Jim Belushi), a recovering alcoholic who manages the
merry-go-round in the amusement arcade. They live in a ramshackle apartment
directly above the shooting gallery, the incessant pop-pop-pops frequently aggravating her debilitating headaches.
They bicker, snipe, squabble and
quarrel in the manner of Ralph and Alice Kramden in The Honeymooners — also very 1950s — but with very little mitigating
affection. It’s the second marriage for both, and we sense they’ve remained
together mostly due to weary resignation.
They do a poor job of managing
her bratty adolescent son, Richie (Jack Gore), a bad-seed monster and budding
pyromaniac who loves setting fires below the wooden boardwalk. Everything
concerning this little twerp seems to have migrated in from an entirely
different film; his presence adds nothing to the core narrative, and his
dangerous “hobby” is just sorta cast adrift during the third act ... rather
sloppy, even for Allen.
