Skip to main content

Rant: Nicole Kidman

I wish Nicole Kidman hadn't done that stupid Kevin Hart/Bryan Cranston movie. Maybe she needed to buy a new house or something. This movie, or the idea of this movie, annoyed me when it was in its French iteration (an iteration I didn't see). It annoys me now, in its American iteration (which I don't want to see and probably will see).

Let me explain. First, I can anticipate lapses in taste from Bryan Cranston. Mr. Cranston's post-"Breaking Bad" career has had more misfires than exciting moments, and so I don't expect all that much from him in the decision-making realm. And heaven knows I expect nothing from Kevin Hart. This man's work has never shown evidence of talent or even, really, a sense of humor, and I don't anticipate changes. (That said, I think the national response to Mr. Hart's dumb Tweets and dumb, homophobic, old standup has been overblown. It brings to mind the term: "witch hunt.")

But Nicole Kidman? Ms. Kidman has shown real signs of fearlessness. "Birth," "To Die For," "Fur," "The Paperboy," "The Hours," "Rabbit Hole," "Stoker": These are bizarre roles in bizarre movies. They are roles many others would have passed over. Ms. Kidman has a sharp eye. Yes, she has had her share of "Stepford Wives" and "Bewitched" disasters, but I'd bet her boring-choice-to-exciting-choice ratio is quite a bit more passable than Mr. Cranston's ratio.

So why is she appearing in this Hart/Cranston nonsense?

Also, Hart/Cranston/Kidman: Only one of these actors has an Oscar. That same actor has many, many more Oscar nominations than her costars. So why is she given third billing? Why has she taken a job that seems to require only that she look uptight in the midst of Mr. Hart's shenanigans (say, every fourth or sixth scene)?

Another thing I am already prepared to despise about this movie: I hate any movie that decides to be "heartwarming" before hitting first base. All subsequent artistic decisions grow out of that initial decision to be "heartwarming" (or, "bankable"). This strikes me as one of the most cynical moves imaginable, and it seems disrespectful to actual people who may be in Mr. Cranston's character's actual situation. These people were not put on the planet to make you feel slightly warm and gooey and self-congratulatory around Christmas time.

The Hart/Cranston movie--which seems in the tradition of "The Soloist" or "Collateral Beauty"--brings to mind a favorite passage of mine. It's a passage from a Lorrie Moore story. In this passage, Moore is writing about the possibly terminal illness her son has. She is sitting--enraged, untouchable--in a pediatric cancer ward when another parent passes by and makes a sympathetic noise. "All of this is hard," says the parent, to Moore, "but there is a great deal of collateral beauty along the way."

And Moore entertains thoughts of murdering this parent. She can't find words to produce a response to this parent's tastelessness.

That's the kind of story I want to read. A story that tells the truth--and, in doing so, is paradoxically more comforting than a great heaping hunk of shlock.

Kidman remains enchanting and strange at this advanced stage in her career. Someone wrote about her in "Big Little Lies." He said, "Many actors score points by emoting, by being volcanic. Kidman does something different. She is spellbinding precisely because she tends *not* to emote. You sense a great deal happening just under the surface. The suspense--will she let go? will she erupt? when?--is the thing that keeps you watching."

I recalled those lines when I saw "Boy Erased": another case where Kidman makes a feast of a not-brilliant movie. Kidman gets just a few big moments, and they're nothing stunning on the page; the script could be the work of a well-trained robot. But Kidman does her job. She shows us a real, actual person at war with herself; she also gives us a persuasive, quiet display of heroism. Not everyone can do that.

So: Ms. Kidman. Please stop with the Kevin Hart stuff. Have more respect for yourself. Do you need an additional house? Maybe the need isn't as strong as it seems. My two cents. And, dear reader, please do all you can to skip this Cranston/Hart/Kidman movie.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...