REVIEW - HITCHCOCK

There's tongue-in-cheek, and then there's bloated-tongue-ripping-through-cheek-and-slobbering-you-in-the-face. Hitchcock, Sacha Gervasi's caustic debut narrative feature, is the latter. Its aim is to entertain, and its screenplay is suitably corny, its aesthetic suitably glossy and its tone suitably light to fully facilitate this. But the most entertaining films are the product of artistic vision, and often manifest a trace of originality, whereas Hitchcock is comfortable with merely being entertaining. For the least discerning viewer, it may suffice. Writer John J. McLaughlin, adapting from Stephen Rebello's book, speculates on the great director's personal (and, to an extent, professional) relationship with his wife, Alma Reville, and then simplifies his already simplistic speculation with trite dialogue, which the distinguished cast members obligingly speak, but with a discomfort that extends to the viewer, and may make you cringe. They end up playing to the cheap seats, and enhance the TV-movie sensation of the film. Anthony Hopkins' unusual transformation is vehemently hammy, but not bad, until he recedes into himself, and you begin to see Hopkins' eyes emerge from underneath the makeup, and it's distracting. Helen Mirren, in the more lauded performance, has developed a bullish style of acting that does not become her, and she ends up embarrassing herself. The two have a satisfyingly tart chemistry, though, and it carries the film over the waters, both choppy yet stultifyingly tedious. An enjoyable score by Danny Elfman is underused, a repetitive score by Danny Elfman is overused, and the opening and closing scenes are inane, entirely lacking in either the cleverness or the wit which they require to thrive off.