MOLL FLANDERS
A film review by David N. Butterworth
Copyright 1996 David N. Butterworth/The Summer Pennsylvanian
Directed by Pen Densham Rating: *1/2 (Maltin scale)
No discussion of MOLL FLANDERS would be complete without the use of the word "bawdy." But the latest big screen version of Daniel Defoe's picaresque novel, about the life and times of a young woman with an unconquerable spirit, is just plain bore-dy.
Strong female roles are hard to come by, and writer/director Pen Densham deserves credit for fashioning Moll's story for the screen. His casting of Robin Wright (FORREST GUMP) in the title role is, however, a major liability. Between her wooden voiceovers and awkward grasp of an English accent (she goes from ribald commoner to gentrified aristocrat in the same scene), Wright may be reduced to playing cocktail waitresses after her contributions here. She just doesn't have the emotional strength or physical screen presence to carry the weight of the multi-faceted Moll.
Defoe's classic work is filled with material that cries out for epic cinema, a vast tableau of life and lust in 18th century England. The story, curiously altered by Densham, chronicles Moll's miserable life, from birth in London's Newgate Prison hours before her mother is hanged, to less than exemplary positions as charity house scullery maid, beleagured prostitute, and painter's wife, to name but a few-lateral moves all. Densham's liberal rewrite is in keeping with the grim tone of the original, but he shapes it into something that is melodramatic when it should be dramatic, dull when it should be moving.
The film opens with Mr. Hibble (a stoic performance by Morgan Freeman, looking bitchin' in braids) unearthing Moll's daughter Flora (Aisling Corcoran) in an orphanage. Hibble has been instructed by "a wealthy benefactor" to recite Moll's salty memoirs ad nauseum to the child, with some vague moralistic intent.
Talented child actors are few and far between, and newcomer Corcoran epitomizes the worst of what's out there. She's bratty, obnoxious, and can't act for tuppence. You feel terrible for Freeman in their early scenes together; he's calm and collected in the face of objectionable precociousness, but you wish he'd knock her into the middle of next week. Corcoran's scenes grow thankfully fewer as this interminable film progresses but by that time you'll be too busy looking at your watch to notice.
Likewise, Stockard Channing is an embarrassment as unscrupulous madam Mrs. Allworthy. All that's missing from her realization of the character is the eyepatch she wore in SMOKE; she plays Allworthy like a pirate, pillaging and plundering the hearts--and pockets--of men. "Life's terrible short girl. Give yourself some pleasure," she tells Moll. Never having felt love or tenderness or physical closeness of any kind, Moll justifies prostitution as "making friends with eligible gentlemen." Having said that, she opts to misappropriate her soul for one hundred guineas to a disgusting old man, then "hundreds" of clergymen, scientists and insurance salesmen, until Mrs. Allworthy's enterprise is closed down by "the guardians of morality."
One of Moll's clients (played by Irish actor John Lynch) turns out to be a starving artist, and he pays Moll a regular commission to pose for him. Love blooms in a soft-core cornucopia, and Wright's narration is cringeable at this point: "He willed his soul into me. We were one fusion of passion, and unspoken knowledges. We were a united force, pushing back the darkness in each others lives." As he keeps large slabs of meat around his apartment, it's not surprising when The Artist finally catches something nasty and dies. Lynch is saddled with the same kind of obsequious dialogue as Wright so we're grateful when he passes on.
"Moll Flanders was, by her own account, a murderess, a whore and a thief," explains the film's opening monologue. Unless I was sleeping at the time she didn't actually kill anyone, but it's the lackluster performances that kill this film. The only saving grace is Morgan Freeman, whose dignified performance is the glue that keeps MOLL FLANDERS from coming apart at the seams. Wright, it so happens, is all wrong.
-- David N. Butterworth
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