Directed by Madonna. Starring Abbie Cornish, James D’Arcy, Andrea Riseborough, Oscar Isaac, Richard Coyle, James Fox, Natalie Dormer, David Harbour 16 cert, general release, 119 min
Madonna's sympathetic retelling of the romance of Edward and Mrs Simson is good- looking but dramatically flaccid, writes DONALD CLARKE
INITIAL REPORTS suggested that Madonna's second feature might turn out to be a fiasco of comical proportions. An object of much derision at the Venice Film Festival, W.E.folds a contemporary drama into a study of Wallis Simpson's famous romance with Edward VIII.
Sit back and ponder a moment. Mrs Simpson was, you will recall, an American adventuress who, after relocating to the UK, was pilloried as a vulgar arriviste. It sounds as if W.E.might be offering two fingers to Madonna's many detractors. Vanity project, ahoy!
Rather disappointingly, the picture does not turn out to be a total disaster. Yes, the already infamous scene that finds Wallis dancing to The Sex Pistols' Pretty Vacantis more than a little misjudged. But the sequence flits by in a fantastic instant without significantly disturbing the film's stately progress towards nowhere very interesting.
W.E.is rather beautiful and reasonably well acted. It has a pleasant score. The unlucky viewer is, alas, more likely to be bored than reduced to cruel laughter.
Distracted Abbie Cornish plays a contemporary New Yorker trapped in an abusive relationship. Named Wally in honour of Mrs Simpson, she takes comfort from her researches into the late American’s romance with the heir to the British throne. The movie utilises baldly obvious visual rhymes (Wally and Wallis in their respective baths, for instance) to facilitate slides back and forth through time.
Madonna is largely on Wallis’s side, and the script suggests that the American had almost as much to lose as the prince. Somewhat pathetically, Wally goes on to argue that the couple’s dalliance with Hitler is not to be taken seriously. But the film fails to make its case with any lucidity.
Andrea Riseborough offers a fine impersonation of Wallis: the right metal-on-flint vocal timbre, just enough bristle in the backbone. Yet we get no new insights into the woman’s passions and motivations. It is, perhaps, unfair to drag Madonna’s past into this, but each scene unfolds with the empty beauty of a high-quality pop video. Wallis is nothing more than one ornament in a series of infuriatingly disconnected tableaux.
Not nearly good enough. Not nearly bad enough. Must try harder (or not at all).
