Reviewed: The Paperboy

So take off all your clothes.

The Paperboy
dir: Lee Daniels

Pedro Almodóvar spent around a decade trying to make an adaptation of The Paperboy, Pete Dexter’s seamy novel about sex, race and murder in 1960s Florida. The version that is now seeing the light of the day is by the African-American director Lee Daniels. Anyone who saw Daniels’s last film, Precious, may worry that this represents an intolerable downgrading. An announcement that King Lear will be played in tonight’s performance by Michael Barrymore rather than Michael Gambon could be expected to prompt a stampede for refunds. But Daniels turns out to be the ideal director for a film about the tendency of desire to turn sane minds to guacamole.

In Precious, Daniels brought to the story of a sexually abused Brooklyn teenager an inappropriate prurience. But even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day and Daniels’s overheated style has met its ideal subject in The Paperboy. The spine of the film is a fairly conventional legal drama: a gogetting reporter, Ward Jansen (Matthew Mc- Conaughey), helped by his kid brother Jack (Zac Efron), becomes convinced he can save from death row Hillary Van Wetter (John Cusack), whose conviction for the killing of a sheriff appears to be unsound. But just as none of the characters can be bothered with the murder investigation in Gosford Park, so it becomes apparent that no one in The Paperboy gives a hoot about anything not related to sex. This movie is in heat.

The lightning rod for lust in the picture is Charlotte Bless (Nicole Kidman), a vision in baby-pink dress, vanilla hair and bluebottle eyeshadow; one of those femmes de lettres who deploys her skills writing come-ons to convicted killers. Hillary, a drooling, handcuffed slab of lard with a libido, is the man of Charlotte’s warped dreams. The gag of the scene in which he is wheeled out to meet his advocates, and the joke of the entire film, is that everyone has the hots for everyone else. Charlotte and Hillary are moaning orgasmically throughout what is intended to be a sober briefing. Jack is going gooey at the sight of Charlotte. As for Ward, who’s your average repressed, gay masochist –well, no, that isn’t a root vegetable in his pocket and, yes, he is extraordinarily pleased to see everyone.

A solitary bucket of cold water is provided by the Jansens’ maid, Anita, played by the singer Macy Gray. You’d have to add several hundred extra “e”s to “sleepy” to evoke Gray’s vocal delivery accurately, but it’s just what the movie needs: Anita is the outsider here, not only racially and economically but in her abstinence from the movie’s delirium. It’s right that she should narrate the story in the form of an interview she is giving some years later but it would make even more sense if she didn’t realise she was providing a movie voiceover: “Anyhoo, I think y’all seen enough,” she says, as a sex scene is faded out.

The Paperboy sticks to its guns and shows that no good can come of a life steered by areas of the body other than the heart and mind. But one feels disinclined to take such advice from a director who gets this excited over a shot of Charlotte urinating on Jack. That Jack has been stung by jellyfish, and Charlotte is attempting to alleviate his suffering, does nothing to diminish the episode’s sexual charge. Though at least the scene gives Kidman –who is having the time of her life here – the chance to deliver lines marinated in camp. “If anyone’s gonna piss on him, it’s gonna be me!” she rages at a bunch of sunbathers. “He don’t like strangers peeing on him!”

Nor does the film stint on slavering closeups of Zac Efron: Zac swims, Zac towels off, Zac broods endlessly beneath the canopy of his magnificent eyebrows. Chances are he isn’t mulling over the question: “Does my bum look big in this?” Because it doesn’t. His bum looks amazing in that. When Tom Cruise performed his career-making dance in Risky Business, his underwear was referred to as “tighty-whities”, but he may as well have been Hattie Jacques in her bloomers next to Efron. There. You see how the fever of The Paperboy gets to you? I’ve just written an entire paragraph about Zac Efron’s underpants. And you’ve read it.

Zac Efron and Nicole Kidman in "The Paperboy".

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 18 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The German Problem

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit