The Queen's New Clothes

Rating: 1/10 (11 February 2019)

This is my first review on IMDB. I have often read reviews here, but have never felt inclined to write one, until now.
Ugly. The Favourite is a hideously, profoundly and thoroughly ugly film. Before viewing, I had done almost no research into it, and had simply heard that it was a period comedy-drama about Queen Anne. Had I clocked that it was by the guy responsible for the desperate The Killing of a Sacred Deer, I would have avoided on spec. What I experienced was a hollow, neurotic, needy film, riddled to death by self-inflicted contrivances and ill-conceived attempts at definition. The film is a postmodern (and necessarily worthless) perspective on the circumstances around the latter reign of Queen Anne, tailored to excite a modern, discerning audience most impressed by "challenging convention" and "perverting norms". On leaving the cinema, I asked my girlfriend what she thought. She defiantly said that the liked it, preempting my antagonism. However, when I asked her what there was to like about this film, she couldn't answer, eventually and essentially settling on "It looked nice". There really IS no accounting for taste, although I'll try to account for the rotten, unsavoury taste it left in my mouth.
From the pathetic (and frequent) use of the c-word, to the crutch-like and strident classical score, to the "jarring, edgy" cinematography, this film never fails to try hard to make itself known and convince you of its significance. I really don't know where to start. There are few films where all elements conspire so effectively to create such an unappealing experience. I am not in the least bit bothered, in principle, by "uncomfortable" films. I don't necessarily need to identify with, or even like, any of the characters. However, such films can have value in the meaningful treatment of a theme, the realisation of well-developed, interesting personalities, or the creation and maintenance of an atmosphere. The Favourite achieves none of these things. I can just hear in my mind's ear people praising the film for its "exploration of the notion of (lust for) power". Nope. It is little more than an exhibition of characters who find various ways to take advantage of or abuse one another, with no sense of meaning whatsoever (and certainly no catharsis, perish the thought!) The vacuous, tedious ending is a good example. Others may perhaps mention the performances as evidence of the film's quality, but like gifted musicians playing a dreadful song, the admittedly spirited turns by a capable cast do nothing to elevate a film which is at its core, empty, or in fact worse, a postmodern vacuum, which aims to suck in, misappropriate (and thereby corrupt) anything it can of merit, be it classical music, Jacobean architecture, or indeed the English language itself, simply by presenting these things through its jaded, fish-eye lens. Any number (no matter how big) ends up a zero when multiplied by the same. In terms of the performances, Olivia Colman seems rather complacent in her role, once again employed as a slight variation of the same haggard, bedraggled, shameless and wretched character she's become known for, and comfortable with. Emma Stone's character, the common link in the development of the films narrative, is like a meagre placeholder for a good film character, not because of her own ineptitude, but rather that of her role and its context. Nicholas Hoult's character was the only one in whom I came close to having any interest and from whom I derived any sense of enjoyment in this otherwise gynocentric, drab, deviant mess.
The sustained psychological and moral destitution is regularly peppered with scenes of vomiting or otherwise dirtying, which almost instantly become tedious and paltry. I of course understand that it would be anachronistic and naive to assume that the film's historical context was glamorous and hygienic, but the fixation on the filthier side of human experience (literal or figurative) is an appeal to the baser inclinations of the audience, and a sign of the creator's maladjustment and neurosis (I honestly don't see how it could be any other way). People indulge in films like The Favourite for the same reasons people enjoy Eastenders; voyeurism and schadenfreude. However, at least the latter are only surrounded by clouds of cigarette smoke, rather than of their own farts.
Needy. The Favourite is like an angst-ridden, yet pompous teenager with an illegitimate superiority complex parading around town with a t-shirt displaying some "offensive" slogan about humanity. Little does this fourteen-year-old dummy know that the only thing offensive or in the least bit noteworthy about his presence is his desperate need for a reaction. "Notice me!" If only this young lad were equipped mentally to see this. He is achingly self-aware, yet acutely lacking in self-awareness. But at least this teen I just invented will probably grow out of it, just as he will hopefully start eating meat again and end his obsession with Nietzsche. The female-to-female lust, together with the aforementioned coarse language (and yes, I don't care if there's a historical precedent for these words, it's still pathetic to witness) is cheaply calculated to arouse even cheaper thrills, and on several occasions I could hear the embarrassing, titillated snickers of a few middle-aged audience members. I'd love to know why they laughed! Although encouragingly, I did see some audience members exit the cinema well before the film's end; something I was sadly unable to do due to the presence of the above-mentioned girlfriend.
The film is heavily scored with ostentatious, lavishly-rendered classical music by composers such as Bach, Handel and Schubert. These are ironically (read: parasitically) employed to contrast the dysfunctional and uncultured behaviour of almost every character. The score is a one-liner. The film's original pieces are painfully modern, minimal, unmusical compositions aimed to underline the tension (read: neuroticism) behind whatever is going on, while also conveying the oh-so-urbane sense of own-fart-sniffing sophistication you find in so many films now (but here exquisitely rendered). At least this wasn't unprecedented; The Killing of a Sacred Deer really drove home this (oxy)moronic coupling of adolescent, needy nihilism and misplaced, methane-infused refinement. In terms of style, it seems clear to me that this film would like to think that it owes something to The Shining, but Kubrick's methods (orthogonal perspectives, Steadicam, static camera, etc) are wielded insipidly and in bad faith in this film. Simply employing these methods is not enough; success is heavily dependant on the motivation and vision of the director, so the result is consequently ugly, no matter how high the definition, how wide the shots, or how "sumptuous" the aesthetic.
While I am by now well-aware that modern films often have as their goals the maligning of tradition, the erosion of morality and the exhibition and promotion of nihilism, what is especially awful about The Favourite is that it aims to define itself in these terms, while presuming to bear the standard of "high cinema". This film wants to have its cake and eat it. It digests itself as it progresses, dragging itself through the gutter while simultaneously pointing to the sky. Oh, the irony! Oh, the profound, revealing paradox! As is so often the case with the most revered luminaries of "high-culture" (Banksy springs immediately to mind), there is not shortage of aye-sayers offering validation, collectively acknowledging and marvelling at the spectacular new vestments they think they can see clothing the Emperor's flabby, dirty, unhealthy (or at the very least, unremarkable) body.
The Least Favourite.