Among a generous number of classic moments in Arie Posin's The Face of Love is the unforgettable sight of Annette Bening's stunt double bounding into an oncoming wave on the Mexico shore, literally throwing herself at the barrage of mediocrity heading her direction. She displays a rousing abandon that ought to have been employed elsewhere in this tepid romantic drama, which is sustained solely by its sensitive lead actors, and the occasional fit of cinematic hysteria, as aforementioned. Posin dials back on the overblown suburban ennui he explored in his debut, The Chumscrubber, though not nearly enough, and betrays only that he remains inexplicably fascinated by these trite theatricalities, and also with his own case of artistic arrogance. The sub-Hitchcockian vibe is mercilessly exploited by a shrill orchestral score, while Posin's efforts toward Douglas Sirk style melodrama lack care for his characters. Instead, he lavishes care on the thick layers of superficial sheen he applies to The Face of Love, with its chic, modern interiors and painfully blunt allusions to better filmmakers (actual posters for Hitchcock and Tarkovsky films appear at one point). How nauseatingly indulgent of a director to fawn over his film's vapid visual design, when it could have been utilised as a narrative device of enormous capabilities. As a widow obsessed with her dead husband's doppelganger, Annette Bening is marvellous, excavating from her thinly-written role a method behind her madness, a reason for every action and emotion, no matter how difficult, how varied nor how numerous. She and Ed Harris have strong chemistry, against all odds, since I doubt I could find a trace of inspiration in Posin's and Matthew McDuffie's limp screenplay.
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