Subtle Wallis a song of healing
I’m sure we’ve all indulged ourselves in the fantasy of what we’d do if we won the lottery. It’s a relatively harmless bit of daydreaming, something to get us through the day. Dream homes are imagined, and satisfaction is felt due to the thought of benevolent acts we’d commit, while flights of fancy occur about indulgent purchases to be made. Though I am way past my dating days, asking a potential partner what they’d do were an unexpected largess to fall in their laps could be an early indicator as to if they are a potential match or not.
As for Charlie Heath (Tim Key) – a two-time lottery winner – he’s used his fortune to buy an isolated home on a remote island. However, his most seemingly frivolous purchase is hiring folk singer Herb McGwyer (Tom Basden) for a private concert. Eager for a big payday, the musician agrees to this unique gig, but there are a couple of things he doesn’t know. First, he will be playing for an audience of one – Charlie. The other is that his former musical partner and lover, Nell Mortimer (Carey Mulligan), will be joining him. Sparks – not the good kind – are likely to fly.
The Ballad of Wallis Island is a film about the things we hold onto long after we should put them aside. Based on a short film by Basden and Key, who wrote the script, this subtle examination of grief is buoyed by its gentle humor, the pair having a wonderfully awkward, comedic chemistry. The laughs are occasionally broad but for the most part, what the viewer will likely find themselves smiling at are moments of recognition, acknowledgement that we, too, have acted as foolishly as those on screen.
While Charlie puts on a happy face, he’s lugging around a great deal of pain. Never having recovered from wife’s death, he’s sponsoring this incredibly small concert in her memory. Both fans of McGwyer and Mortimer during their heyday, their music is one of the remaining connections he has with his former partner. Whether this is to help him heal or continue to wallow in his grief remains to be seen.
As for Herb, he too is stuck, having yet to recover from Mortimer’s departure. Not only did it send him into a tailspin emotionally, but he’s been adrift musically as well. Having not seen her in more than a decade, he’s uncertain how he’ll react, though he desperately hopes a reconciliation is possible. Even when she arrives with her husband, Michael (Akemnji Ndifornyen), that still doesn’t dash his hopes.
Director James Griffiths brings an easy-going sensibility to the story that holds it in good stead. Though the matters the three principals are dealing with are of grave importance to each, they’re presented as simply unfortunate parts of life. These issues need to be dealt with if they are to have any sense of fulfillment during their remaining days, the two men at a fork in their respective paths.
It comes as no surprise that the source of much of their healing comes from the music they both cherish. The intimate concert that ultimately takes place serves as a reminder to both of not only why they cherish these songs but of their meaning as well, which has been obscured by familiarity. This is the medicine each desperately needs, the tunes acting as a mirror, the reflections provided alerting each to the healing needing to be done.
Therapeutic and genuine, The Ballad of Wallis Island is the sort of modest movie that creeps up on you. Feinting with its comedic leads, it winds up delivering a profound lesson as to the healing nature of art and the need for honest self-evaluation. Often, the answer to our woes is right in front of us, if we only take the time to look. In theaters.
Pointed, vicious Stepsister upends Cinderella story
Bearing more than a passing a resemblance to Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance, Emilie Blichfeldt’s The Ugly Stepsister provides a body horror spin on the Cinderella fairy tale. Adhering more to the original story told by the brothers Grimm, this is a harsh look at the importance society places on appearance and the continued marginalization of women based on their looks. It takes a swipe or two at misogynistic behavior and the hypocrisy of slut shaming, while also being a cautionary tale regarding the hazards of ingesting tapeworms.
What with his extensive manor and grounds, Rebekka (Ane Dahl Torp) assumes that the widower, Otto (Ralph Carlsson), is well off. However, she finds out soon enough that’s not the case when he dies during their wedding feast. Creditors come calling soon after. Left with nothing but debts and a stepdaughter, Agnes (Thea Sofie Loch Naess), Rebekka pins all her hopes on her eldest, Elvira (lea Myren). Prince Julian (Isac Calmroth) has announced he will choose a bride among the virgins in the area, four months hence, and she intends her daughter to be his bride.
Far from being the beauty Agnes is, Rebekka brings in Dr. Esthetique (Adam Lundgren), a sadistic surgeon who promises to transform the young lady. A painful reshaping of her nose is just the first step of what promises to be a heinous, drawn-out transformation, one that not only affects Elvira’ appearance but her self-esteem as well.
Blichfeldt’s wicked sense of humor gleefully upends every aspect of the well-known tale. Agnes – the film’s Cinderella – is hardly a naïve vision of purity, but rather a woman not above using her sexuality to advance in the stifling patriarchy. As for Prince Julian, he’s a boorish, sexist brute who’s far from charming,
Yet the most radical, welcome change is the way Elvira is rendered and being privy to her perspective. Instead of a pampered, rude opportunist, here she’s a victimized young woman with no agency, nothing but a tool employed to achieve her mother’s mercenary ends. Her willingness to endure numerous incidents of self-harm to be seen as “acceptable” in the eyes of the elite proves tragic as well as poignant.
The extremes Elvira goes to so the forgotten slipper will fit exceed those of the Brothers Grimm. Her willingness to mutilate herself – inside and out – speaks to her desperation to escape not only poverty, but to become the princess she envisions herself to be. This is just one way Blichfeldt skewers fairy tales conventions, embraced by those desperate to believe in a romantic ideal, only to doom themselves to disappointment for harboring unrealistic expectations.
As Elvira’s condition progresses, you’ll be forgiven if you begin drawing connections between this film and the works of David Cronenberg. Not only does what she endure become more and more disturbingly invasive, but Blichfeldt’s criticism becomes more pointed and sour. When a teacher reminds our tragic heroine, upon giving her a tapeworm egg to swallow, that “it’s what inside that counts,” the bitter irony of the situation is as delicious as it is incisive.
Unlike Fargeat’s conclusion in The Substance, Blichfeldt wisely resists the temptation to wallow in the excess of unnecessary gore and violence. To be sure, what Elvira endures during the third act is horrific. Yet in focusing on the damage done to her psyche, the director delivers a more meaningful, moving indictment of the lengths we go to towards achieving and maintaining a warped sense of beauty. In theaters.
This article appears in Home and Garden.
