It's too long since I've seen this to do a proper hatchet job, but I recall thinking that it was needlessly difficult to watch. Art films don't have to be jarringly stilted, but this one groans under the weight of Peter Greenaway's constant reminders that he is AVANT GARDE. It's the film equivalent of a dinner party guest who spends the evening spitting in your food to show that he is free from the constraints of social norms.
There are elements - the class observations, long panning shots and colour changes from room to room, to name three - that show Greenaway's unusual talent, but they are overwhelmed by a tide of gratuitous overacting, overlong scenes and functionless dialogue.
The film is an extended metaphor for Margaret Thatcher's thuggish reign as Prime Minister of Britain, and the subject seems to have thrown Greenaway into such a frothing rage that he was unable to concentate on anything but the metaphysical.
Some people believe that the film succeeds because of its anarchic, freewheeling nature, but I think that is precisely its failure. Greenaway's reluctance to rein in the more self-indulgent parts of the film smacks of laziness and an inability to distinguish the benefits of experimentation from the dross it inevitably throws up.
It is as if he is saying: "Who am I to intervene in art?" Well, Peter, you are the director. You are perfectly placed to do so, and we really wouldn't hold it against you.
There are elements - the class observations, long panning shots and colour changes from room to room, to name three - that show Greenaway's unusual talent, but they are overwhelmed by a tide of gratuitous overacting, overlong scenes and functionless dialogue.
The film is an extended metaphor for Margaret Thatcher's thuggish reign as Prime Minister of Britain, and the subject seems to have thrown Greenaway into such a frothing rage that he was unable to concentate on anything but the metaphysical.
Some people believe that the film succeeds because of its anarchic, freewheeling nature, but I think that is precisely its failure. Greenaway's reluctance to rein in the more self-indulgent parts of the film smacks of laziness and an inability to distinguish the benefits of experimentation from the dross it inevitably throws up.
It is as if he is saying: "Who am I to intervene in art?" Well, Peter, you are the director. You are perfectly placed to do so, and we really wouldn't hold it against you.