I'm genuinely quite shocked to see the amount of positive comment about this movie. I was also quite genuinely shocked at the movie itself, witless, absurd and ineptly directed and paced as it was.
The entire movie screams "vanity project" from high heaven. Andy Garcia gets to play a penniless struggling author (Andy Garcia, plus goatee beard and thick rimmed glasses, natch) who loves his family *so* much he becomes a prostitute. Uh-huh. and Mick Jagger, well, Mick gets to be on screen and adopt an absolutely ridiculous accent. As if his normal voice isn't bad enough.
(Spoilers, though I feel no shame giving away this "plot")
The plot is frankly beyond incredible. The Pulitzer-prize winning author husband of Garcia's *very first* client (wow! think of the chances!) hands over the authorship of his final novel to the complete stranger who is sleeping with his wife. Seemingly without having read a word of his writing. When the resulting novel is released without Garcia's name, readers around the world fail to detect that the "genius"'s work has been replaced by that of a rank amateur. Well, one guy in glasses is much the same as any other, right?
Partly, it's another ample demonstration of Hollywood's absolute inability to portray the creative process of an artist on the screen without reaching for appalling cliches. Relatively few films ever avoid this trap - Ed Harris's "Pollock" being one of the few noteworthy exceptions. Generally, it's just a bad film, full of glib cliches and groan-inducing plot "twists".
The final scene, (which I'll not "spoil") was so awfully predictable and terribly scripted I saw three people in the theater doubled up with laughter, despite the attempt at an emotional climax.
There are bright points - James Coburn play his part with charisma and dignity, despite his shallowly-written character. And, on behalf of the besotted women I saw this film with, it does, at least, have Andy Garcia. A lot of Andy Garcia.
The entire movie screams "vanity project" from high heaven. Andy Garcia gets to play a penniless struggling author (Andy Garcia, plus goatee beard and thick rimmed glasses, natch) who loves his family *so* much he becomes a prostitute. Uh-huh. and Mick Jagger, well, Mick gets to be on screen and adopt an absolutely ridiculous accent. As if his normal voice isn't bad enough.
(Spoilers, though I feel no shame giving away this "plot")
The plot is frankly beyond incredible. The Pulitzer-prize winning author husband of Garcia's *very first* client (wow! think of the chances!) hands over the authorship of his final novel to the complete stranger who is sleeping with his wife. Seemingly without having read a word of his writing. When the resulting novel is released without Garcia's name, readers around the world fail to detect that the "genius"'s work has been replaced by that of a rank amateur. Well, one guy in glasses is much the same as any other, right?
Partly, it's another ample demonstration of Hollywood's absolute inability to portray the creative process of an artist on the screen without reaching for appalling cliches. Relatively few films ever avoid this trap - Ed Harris's "Pollock" being one of the few noteworthy exceptions. Generally, it's just a bad film, full of glib cliches and groan-inducing plot "twists".
The final scene, (which I'll not "spoil") was so awfully predictable and terribly scripted I saw three people in the theater doubled up with laughter, despite the attempt at an emotional climax.
There are bright points - James Coburn play his part with charisma and dignity, despite his shallowly-written character. And, on behalf of the besotted women I saw this film with, it does, at least, have Andy Garcia. A lot of Andy Garcia.