Where to start.
There's the teeth grinding anger generated by an oafish American interpretation of London that begins with everybody living in houses across the river from Big Ben and culminates with an English countryside populated with racoons, skunks and vats of molasses.
There's the painfully keen embarrassment generated from Glenn Close's performance, clearly the only person committed to the concept only to end up garrulously over-performing to farm animals before being flung into pigshit.
Then there's the fact that, finally, here is a film that actually would benefit from talking animals, yet they're mute. Presumably to prevent them from out-acting Joely Richardson.
Shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment