I tend to find Anthony Lane‘s film reviews in the New Yorker to be rather grating since he has the tendency to crack jokes instead of offering serious criticism, but man, his take on Sophia Coppola‘s easily digestible, already forgettable “Marie Antoinette” is pretty damn funny:
Is the movie somehow contending that the Queen was, with her gang of cronies and her witless overspends, the Paris Hilton of the late eighteenth century? If so, then the catcallers of Cannes were even more misguided than they knew, since any decent French Marxist would be happy to deconstruct the film as a trashing of the idle rich.
On the other hand, I spent long periods of “Marie Antoinette” under the growing illusion that it was actually made by Paris Hilton. The exploits of Madame du Barry (Asia Argento), the old King’s mistress, are unpeeled with a schoolgirl’s sneer. “That is so Du Barry,” one of Marie’s pals says. Snuff is snorted like coke. There are hilarious attempts at landscape, but the fountains and parterres of Versailles are grabbed by the camera and pasted into the action, as if the whole thing were being shot on a cell phone and sent to friends.