Orlando (or, Prêt-à-Porter - The Early Years)

Even though I have a bucketload of dvds of my own that I haven't, as of yet, watched, I decided to dive into one of my favourite films, which I found on Richard's shelf, Sally Potter's breakthrough, Orlando.

The British, they just don't seem to make films like this anymore. These manicured, composed, intricate films used to be the backbone of the British film industry (Peter Greenaway, anyone?) and now they are sorely missed, by me anyway. Oh well, Guy Ritchie happens.

I love the esoteric quality of Potter's adaptation; I love its symmetry; I love its archness.

Observe:

Shelmerdine: You are hurt, ma'am?
Orlando: I am dead, sir.
Shelmerdine: Dead? That is serious, can I help?
Orlando: Will you marry me?
Shelmerdine: Ma'am, I would gladly but I fear my ankle is twisted.

The cast is almost as beautiful as the mise-en-scéne: Tilda Swinton's black eyes are haunting and used to brilliant effect with the numerous, third wall breaking glances at the audience; Billy Zane has a smile that could melt celluloid; and that is to mention nothing of the casting coups of Quentin Crisp and Jimmy Somerville.

And costumes, costumes, costumes. A visual feast. You could just as easily watch Orlando with the sound turned off if the dialogue weren't so intriguing. Four hundred years of wigs and frocks, male and female.

Here I am waxing lyrical about all the pretty stuff in the film and I haven't said a word about its delightfully heavy-handed themes. Every word, every glance, every pose seems draped in meaning. It is my favourite affectation of cinema of this ilk - it is all SO meaningful that it almost hurts. Then, with a film that follows the story of a man who inexplicably becomes a woman and covers a period of 400 years, has to hold some thematic clout.

Actually, scratch that. Imagine the same pitch with the words "starring Rob Schneider" tacked to the end.