It's unfortunate that this is one of the only films of the past few years about moder race-relations in the American South, since the majority of recent films about race deal with more with the urban black experience than the unhealed psychic wounds south of the mason-Dixon line. Too bad, then, that all we get is this sloppy, overly schematic piece of liberal claptrap.
Full of wildly contrived plot points, bizarre tonal shifts and cheap melodramatics, this film seems the work of a supremely unassured, confused filmmaker. One might make the case that the odd unpredictability of the film is its chief virtue, but that would be to ignore the gaping story holes and utterly nonsensical character motivations.
A mere description of the plot--in which a black woman falls in love with the white executioner of her husband--should have given any script reader serious pause before giving it the green light, but Forster has enough subtlety to make almost seem like a truthful exploration of race in America. Almost.
Oscar or no, Halle Berry is utterly grating as the main character. Surely I am not the only one who is growing tired of hysterical, one-note cry-fests garnering trophies year after year. I refuse to take any actor seriously who is weeping for more than three minutes in an entire film. Crying should be an actor's absolute last resort--instead it has become the first destination of every Hollywood hack.
The rest of the cast is quite good, a fact which has probably blinded many moviegoers from noticing the sheer silliness of the storyline. Billy Bob Thornton, as always, gives a subtly shaded performance as the ambivalent main character, and he almost justifies the absurdity of the film around him. Peter Boyle is creepy and believable as Thornton's virulently racist father. Heath Ledger probably gives his best performance as Thornton's confused, bitter son.
Most of the time, however, I merely cocked my head at the screen with an internal "Huh?" What's the point of a pair of scenes in which Thornton and his son have sex with a cheap whore? How are we supposed to believe the coincidence which brings Thornton closer to Berry in the first place? What in God's name is the purpose of the much-discussed, wholly unnecessary sex scene in the middle of the film? I suppose the director might answer all of these questions with "because I felt like it." Which would make sense if Forster had a laser-sharp artistic instinct. But he doesn't. This is a perfect example of an artist going out of his way to create something "original" and just making a mess instead.
Full of wildly contrived plot points, bizarre tonal shifts and cheap melodramatics, this film seems the work of a supremely unassured, confused filmmaker. One might make the case that the odd unpredictability of the film is its chief virtue, but that would be to ignore the gaping story holes and utterly nonsensical character motivations.
A mere description of the plot--in which a black woman falls in love with the white executioner of her husband--should have given any script reader serious pause before giving it the green light, but Forster has enough subtlety to make almost seem like a truthful exploration of race in America. Almost.
Oscar or no, Halle Berry is utterly grating as the main character. Surely I am not the only one who is growing tired of hysterical, one-note cry-fests garnering trophies year after year. I refuse to take any actor seriously who is weeping for more than three minutes in an entire film. Crying should be an actor's absolute last resort--instead it has become the first destination of every Hollywood hack.
The rest of the cast is quite good, a fact which has probably blinded many moviegoers from noticing the sheer silliness of the storyline. Billy Bob Thornton, as always, gives a subtly shaded performance as the ambivalent main character, and he almost justifies the absurdity of the film around him. Peter Boyle is creepy and believable as Thornton's virulently racist father. Heath Ledger probably gives his best performance as Thornton's confused, bitter son.
Most of the time, however, I merely cocked my head at the screen with an internal "Huh?" What's the point of a pair of scenes in which Thornton and his son have sex with a cheap whore? How are we supposed to believe the coincidence which brings Thornton closer to Berry in the first place? What in God's name is the purpose of the much-discussed, wholly unnecessary sex scene in the middle of the film? I suppose the director might answer all of these questions with "because I felt like it." Which would make sense if Forster had a laser-sharp artistic instinct. But he doesn't. This is a perfect example of an artist going out of his way to create something "original" and just making a mess instead.