Don't
even think about it. Jesus, it was worse than I could have
imagined. What a pathetic excuse for a movie -- to call it
formulaic is an insult to the formula, and I mean that literally:
it can't even get the numbers right to go by the numbers. Just
when you thought they had trotted out every single hackneyed,
stale, ancient cliche, along comes another one to drag out
the movie another excruciating 15 minutes. Sitting through
this thing finally became pure punishment, and if you think
it's so bad you have to see it, then be my guest.
But
the only thing I can think of that Bend It Like Beckham
has going
for it is to see co-star
Keira Knightley in various stages of undress throughout
the film -- she needs it too, because the strength of her
acting ability couldn't knock over a house of cards. Lead
actress Parminder Nagra (who looks every bit her 27 years
of age but plays an 18 year-old) doesn't fare much better,
being forced to either cry on cue, sulk in her room, or
stare at Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (Velvet Goldmine). Could
they have possibly cast anyone gayer than Rhys-Meyers as
the straight male love interest? And even worse, the effeminate
prancing "actor" is supposedly a former soccer
player -- shaming all real gay athletes who actually have
skills. His romantic scenes are painful as he tries to
look sexy but comes across as either creepy or disgusted.
So I bet you didn't think there'd be a shot of the heart-broken
Knightley staring longingly at a photo of her and Rhys-Meyers,
crumpling it up, tossing it in the garbage, followed by
a cut to a close-up of the trashed picture. Guess again.
It is that lame.
But could the film actually yank out the device of the
sister's wedding on the same day as the big tournament
final? Yes! Will we see oppressive Indian parents who eventually
come around to support their radical daughter? Will she
have a gay best friend to lean on when times are tough?
Will there be 63,000 musical montages set to upbeat pop
songs so that the screenplay doesn't have to develop a
real story? Yes! Yes! Yes! With each corny Saved By the
Bell weekend afternoon television show gimmick that either
approximates an incompetent music video or a corny dramatic
conflict, the film grates on us like nails on a chalkboard.
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But wait, you're thinking, don't
expect too much out of this. It's just a fun, inspirational
sports movie, right? You just came to see the soccer,
right? Forget it. I've never seen such ineptly staged
sports action in my life, and that includes student films
about wrestling. All the scenes of soccer games stick
to close-ups of cleats followed by actresses hitting
the turf and then a ball hitting the net. Ridiculous
-- you never know where you are on the field, who's doing
what, or what the circumstances of the game are. It seems
to know virtually nothing about soccer; good play is
symbolized by kicking a shot in the center of the goal
and hoping the keeper falls down like an idiot. We see
maybe one decent crossing ball, no great runs, no swift
positionings, and any steals we see are so badly acted
that the only response is to laugh in disgust. If The
Big Game at the end was supposed to be suspenseful in
any way (of course it isn't; the plot is so mechanized
that we know everything that will happen 45 minutes before
it's telegraphed), Chadha has no clue how to shoot it
-- Nagra goes on about playing her best game ever, but
we don't get to see it. We see one kick, badly filmed.
Bend It Like Beckham is cheap, gutter filmmaking dressed
up with colorful photography, leggy girls in shorts,
and loud dance music (Basement Jaxx make out like bandits
from music rights). The production is so scatter-brained
that Knightley's hair length changes drastically within
a few days of plot time, and every scene where Rhys-Meyers
is off the field was apparently shot on the same day
(he's wearing the exact same starched white dress shirt
and black slacks), or else the character has only one
set of clothes to his name. Some critics may want to
give this rancid dreck a pass because it's warm-hearted,
well-meaning, upbeat and spirited, but that's no excuse
for lazy writing, horrid acting, inept direction, and
an idea that wastes every single element it introduces
-- from interracial romance to the under-filmed great
sport of soccer. If only the English hoodlum fans had
stampeded during the filmmaking to ruin the equipment,
I might have had these two wasted hours of my life back. |
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