Liam Neeson, Mila Kunis, Olivia Wilde, Adrien Brody and James Franco are all linked in Paul Haggis's doomy drama. But how? And why? Why?
Yesterday, it seemed Atom Egoyan's Devil's Knot was a lockdown for the Toronto turkey for worst film of the festival. But today it's apparent it has some stiff competition.
The latest fateful daisy chain from Paul Haggis, seven years after Crash took the Oscar from Brokeback Mountain, Third Person is a work of staggering trash; an ensemble drama with the aesthetic of an in-flight magazine, but less classy writing.
Our axis is Liam Neeson, who we see tapping at his laptop in a posh Paris hotel: a blocked novelist, on account of the fag butts and empty wine bottle. "I'm not the one with the Pulitzer prize," loopy showbiz reporter Olivia Wilde tells him, after she's flown into town to continue their fling.
Next up in Haggis's cast of sensitive chaps who may or may not get screwed over by beautiful women is Adrien Brody, in Rome and coming to the rescue of a sultry Romanian gypsy whose daughter has been sold into slavery. They bond in a bar when she introduces him to limoncello, which Haggis may struggle to relaunch as a really erotic tipple.
Rounding out the cast is James Franco as a brilliant artist in New York. We see him frowning creatively as he squirts a big tube of mustard over some canvases, then smears it all round with his hand. He is somehow linked to Mila Kunis, once a soap star, now working as the world's slowest housekeeping maid in a five-star hotel.
This luxury locations are important. Haggis is keen on the suite, interested in concierge etiquette, on how best to deal with an impudent receptionist, and especially, on the grand room service gesture. He loves women being gifted designer frocks, and reciprocating by buying their boyfriends high-end watches, which everyone finds a huge turn-on. The chaps furrow brows soulfully as the women do energetic face acting of their own. It's like a two-hour version of "Previously, on Days of Our Lives … ".
Such naffness extends to the structure: a Russian dolls design whose big reveals recall Jeremy Kyle rather than Sophocles. Haggis has spoken about the intricate puzzle of the plot, which will repay - yikes - multiple viewings. But this is soft-porn suduko, in questionable taste. The female characters are either mothers in mourning, dodgy prostitutes or plain bonkers. "Women have the incredible gift of being able to deny reality," says someone at one point - a line that's just left to rest, whose truth the rest of the film seems eager to prove.
"White. The color of trust," types Neeson once he's got his mojo back. Also, of total blankness.
Rating: 1/5 Reported by guardian.co.uk 10 hours ago.
Yesterday, it seemed Atom Egoyan's Devil's Knot was a lockdown for the Toronto turkey for worst film of the festival. But today it's apparent it has some stiff competition.
The latest fateful daisy chain from Paul Haggis, seven years after Crash took the Oscar from Brokeback Mountain, Third Person is a work of staggering trash; an ensemble drama with the aesthetic of an in-flight magazine, but less classy writing.
Our axis is Liam Neeson, who we see tapping at his laptop in a posh Paris hotel: a blocked novelist, on account of the fag butts and empty wine bottle. "I'm not the one with the Pulitzer prize," loopy showbiz reporter Olivia Wilde tells him, after she's flown into town to continue their fling.
Next up in Haggis's cast of sensitive chaps who may or may not get screwed over by beautiful women is Adrien Brody, in Rome and coming to the rescue of a sultry Romanian gypsy whose daughter has been sold into slavery. They bond in a bar when she introduces him to limoncello, which Haggis may struggle to relaunch as a really erotic tipple.
Rounding out the cast is James Franco as a brilliant artist in New York. We see him frowning creatively as he squirts a big tube of mustard over some canvases, then smears it all round with his hand. He is somehow linked to Mila Kunis, once a soap star, now working as the world's slowest housekeeping maid in a five-star hotel.
This luxury locations are important. Haggis is keen on the suite, interested in concierge etiquette, on how best to deal with an impudent receptionist, and especially, on the grand room service gesture. He loves women being gifted designer frocks, and reciprocating by buying their boyfriends high-end watches, which everyone finds a huge turn-on. The chaps furrow brows soulfully as the women do energetic face acting of their own. It's like a two-hour version of "Previously, on Days of Our Lives … ".
Such naffness extends to the structure: a Russian dolls design whose big reveals recall Jeremy Kyle rather than Sophocles. Haggis has spoken about the intricate puzzle of the plot, which will repay - yikes - multiple viewings. But this is soft-porn suduko, in questionable taste. The female characters are either mothers in mourning, dodgy prostitutes or plain bonkers. "Women have the incredible gift of being able to deny reality," says someone at one point - a line that's just left to rest, whose truth the rest of the film seems eager to prove.
"White. The color of trust," types Neeson once he's got his mojo back. Also, of total blankness.
Rating: 1/5 Reported by guardian.co.uk 10 hours ago.