De Profundis. - Review - movie review

Next to hen's teeth, remakes that surpass the original are scarcest; hence the surprise of The Deep End, which improves on the renowned Max Ophuls's 1949 version, The Reckless Moment. Both are based on Elisabeth Sanxay Holding's 1947 novel, The Blank Wall, but the earlier movie's faithfully rendered heterosexual relationship is now changed into a homosexual one, making the new film a more unconventional thriller. And whereas Joan Bennett was good as the original heroine, the incumbent, Tilda Swinton, manages to be even more moving. The young filmmakers, Scott McGehee and David Siegel (I missed their one previous feature, Suture), have successfully challenged the old master.

The Lake Tahoe background is magisterially exploited by the cinematographer Giles Nuttgens, so that the lake and surrounding mountains, though sumptuous, do not overwhelm the mundane or sordid activities of the human beings in the foreground. Still, for a film noir to be also a film bleu like those blue-crystal waters, and a film blond like the blond-wood and plate-glass house in which most of it takes place, is a bit of a hurdle, admirably surmounted.

Margaret Hall (Swinton) is a model housewife and mother who, in the absence of her naval-officer husband on faraway sea duty, capably runs her household and family: the gifted 17-year-old musician son, Beau; a young teen daughter as good at ballet as at fixing car motors; and Dylan, a sweet little not-too-precocious boy. There is also Jack, Margaret's frail, live-in father-in-law, who proves a bit of a problem.

Trouble erupts when Beau, leaving the rural California side of the lake, gets involved on the dangerous Nevada side with Darby Reese, a sleazy Reno bar owner, in a homosexual affair. The filmmakers do not push this duality; nevertheless, it and the numerous, often dramatic, car trips between Tahoe City and Reno exert their implicit significance.

Darby dies under violent circumstances the film keeps long under wraps, and his body shows up on Hall property. Margaret is left with the grisly task of disposing of it, to protect Beau, the possible killer. Worse yet, Alek Spera, a handsome, understated blackmailer, shows up with a videocassette of Darby and Beau having sex. Darby owed Spera and his partner Nagle $50,000-to be made up by Margaret in ransom money for the cassette. The poor woman is stunned by the revelations, and also by the large sum, which she cannot draw from the joint bank account without her husband countersigning.

Here some fascinating psychological suggestions crop up. Alek and the older, nastier Nagle seem to have a relationship not unlike Darby and Beau's. But Alek gradually falls for Margaret: her courage, decency, and love of family. He feels filial toward her, and she maternal toward him, which echoes her profound feelings for Beau-especially after Alek endears himself by helping Margaret resuscitate Jack from a potentially fatal heart attack. If these suggested parallels, which remain inchoate, had been further dwelled upon, the thriller aspect of the movie would have been undermined, which some may feel it has been anyway.

The Alek-Margaret nexus cannot quite avoid a credibility gap, but good acting prevents its becoming a chasm. The Scottish Miss Swinton is not conventionally pretty, and does not even use much makeup. Hers is an almost masculinely hewn face, somewhat softened by abundant red hair, liquid Weimaraner eyes, and steadfast intelligence that radiates from it. As Alek, Goran Visnjic, the Yugoslav-born actor, with his provocative trace of a foreign accent, is winning as the redeemed blackmailer (the part originally played by the great James Mason).

The supporting roles are well taken, with Jonathan Tucker an excellent choice for the sensitive, sexually confused Beau. But there is some excess artiness in The Deep End: too many languid lap dissolves, shots involving Dylan's aquarium, and even one extreme closeup of a drop hanging from the kitchen faucet and reflecting the entering Margaret, which made me cry uncle.

With the exception of the remarkable Crimes and Misdemeanors, I have always preferred those Woody Allen films untroubled by pretensions to seriousness. Yet not even the farcical always works for Allen; only last year he came a cropper with the dumb and dumber Small Time Crooks.

Now, however, The Curse of the Jade Scorpion works handily for Allen, the writer and director, and even the formerly suspect Allen, the actor. Woody plays an insurance investigator, CW Briggs, who has done well by seemingly slapdash methods until his married boss hires as efficiency expert his mistress, Betty Ann Fitzgerald, whom he strings along with promises of divorcing his wife. Fitz (Helen Hunt) reorganizes the office in rigorous ways that infuriate Briggs, and soon the two are bitterly sparring, sarcastic enemies.

But at a group dinner at the Rainbow Room (the time is 1940), an evil hypnotist makes them act passionately in love, and implants a posthypnotic spell: At the word Constantinople, Briggs will become his obedient slave; at the word Madagascar, Betty Ann ditto. Upon waking, each will forget everything. Before that, they will become lovers again and, worse yet, will use inside information to perform untraceable robberies on the company's wealthy clients-the loot, needless to say, ending up in the magician's pockets.