Home of the Soul Cookie

Heaven help me if I ever am in the position of having to listen to Sofia Coppola run through her vacation photos. If Marie Antionette is any indication, there are few things in this world that could be more excruciating.

I didn’t mind the rock songs being worked in. Sure, it was a done lot clumsier than in A Knight’s Tale, but ’twas tolerable.

I didn’t mind Kirsten Dunst in the role. Well, not too much. She was… um… pretty in the fantastic period costuming by Milena Canonero.

(I’m starting to think that Bring It On and, to a lesser extent, the Spider-Man entries are the only movies of Dunst’s that I will ever like her in.)

I did, however, mind that the movie was boring. That it was ponderous. Self-indulgent. Interminable.

The ruthless editing of Borat was sorely needed here.

Yes, Sofia, I see the pretty landscape. Oh, and, my, isn’t Marie looking very lonely as she peers out the carriage window! And the constant whispers of the French court; well-noted. Oh, look… another landscape. That’s… nice… More forlorn window-gazing…? Yes, symbolism! How very, very smart of you!

An aside: I hate it when people talk in movie theaters. I mean out-loud, big-boy-voice talking. Whispering? S’fine. Carrying on a conversation? Say hello to my little friend.

So it’s a pretty good indication of just how horrible this movie was that a trio of movie-ruining harpies was merrily gabbing away (at a volume you might use on the subway, or perhaps on a motorboat) just a couple seats to my left and I didn’t care.

But wait, there’s more.

I spent the movie marking time until the end (and resisting the temptation to go fetal) because, I reasoned, at least I knew how the story ended.

Silly me.

The movie ends with the departure from Versailles, before the guillotine.