Movie Micro-Review: The Interpreter

This love letter to the United Nations was a reasonably engaging whodunit (or rather, whosgonnadoit). Nicole Kidman was, well, Nicole Kidman, with a lock of blonde hair fetchingly drawn across one eye through much of the movie, and an accent that can't decide if it's Oxford, Dutch or Africaans. Sean Penn was, well, Sean Penn, charisma-free and grimacing humorlessly throughout as if fighting persistent intestinal cramping. Still, it was a well-paced film with plenty of tense moments and a backstory that unfolds gracefully. And Nicole Kidman. That factor cannot be stressed enough.

That, of course, is the primary weakness of the dozens of films Hollywood spews out every year. As much as we all like to see Nicole Kidman (or George Clooney, or whatever star you care to name who spends as much time on the cover of People magazine as on the big screen), these kind of films never let you forget that you are watching a star, first and formost. The lighting, camera angles, extreme close-ups, flattering makeup and wardrobe; all of these conspire (by the director's design) to keep the thought of "ooh, look at him/her act" at the forefront of the brain. Because it is the star that sells the tickets, not the character. For a star who takes his or her craft seriously, it's as dangerous as typecasting. In this celebrity-addled culture, rather than being stuck in a role, they are stuck in a persona. Actors can "play against type;" stars can never break free of being stars. Tom Cruise, for all of his "Born on the Fourth of July" and "Collateral" efforts, is still "Tom Cruise" when you see him on screen.

It doesn't hurt his ability to put food on the table, but it is ultimately distracting for the viewer, who watches the star act, rather than enter the world of the character played by the actor.