Olivier Dahan's Grace of Monaco is neither fact nor fiction: it is fairytale. How else, in retrospect, to depict the story of Hollywood's most beloved actress, turned princess of Monaco, where only her enviable wardrobe can rival the Mediterranean sea for glitziness? The film is DOA as a quasi-Hitchcockian thriller, but its notion to tell Grace Kelly's tale, as she struggles to settle into her new life, and her new responsibilities, as though she must assume the role of a lifetime is a canny one. Dahan configures his film as a melodrama of the period it depicts, also cannily, since in these costumes gritty realism doesn't look like it'd even be a possibility. In its appropriately stately procession, Grace of Monaco is a calm, considered (and considerate) piece of kitsch, prone to the occasional hysterical outburst, thereby asserting its status as high camp, delightfully pompous and deliciously naive. Its politics are preposterous, but Grace of Monaco has not the head for historical commentary. It strives for fairytale fabulousness, which it resolutely achieves. Dripping in Cartier jewels, attired in Chanel, Hermes and custom Dior recreations, Nicole Kidman is a most wondrous vision as Kelly. Eric Gautier's swoon-worthy soft-focus cinematography lingers on her poreless skin, her exquisitely-coiffed wigs framing her beautiful face, as Kidman searches for Kelly's emotional centre, bringing her spirit back to life in a style as magical to behold as all of the ravishing detail in Dan Weil's sets. This spectacular film plays like the pages of 1960s Vogue Paris in motion. As Kidman takes to the stage, glittering in Swarowski crystals, the fairytale fantasy is complete: here is a true princess of the screen, the world literally at her feet, and the contrivance of the happy ending dreamt up for her couldn't feel more apt. The glamour of Grace of Monaco eventually infiltrates its own narrative, and the narrative of history, and leaves one in awe at its sheer serenity.
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