Jessica Lange commenced her career by following in the (admittedly light) footsteps of Fay Wray. She seems determined to end it by stomping in the heavier footfalls of middle-period Joan Crawford. As the cyclonic star of this film, Lange runs the gamut. She flings her arms around, tugs at her hair, reverts to that coy, sideways glance that implies she's only about, oh, forty five, bellows out in growling chest tones, sobs hysterically - she does, to state it simply, the lot.
Which leaves her co-stars understandably bewildered. Gwyneth Paltrow manages to look more annoyed than frightened, and when, in the best Scooby Doo manner, she neatly ties up the loose threads of the plot, annoyance gives way to abject boredom. With her dead fish eyes and droning monotone, Gwyn obviously wants the whole thing over with more than we do. Quite an achievement.
And few could blame her. Of all the silly premises that have been put on film, the monster mother is surely the silliest. Its mighty hard to believe that Jessica's Ken doll son has managed to go thirty years without once telling the old cow to put a sock in it. Perhaps I'm a bit obtuse but I still don't quite get the bit about the murder with the suction pump (or whatever it was.) At any rate if some post natal, gormless drip can figure it out surely it shouldn't be taxing the police too much to make an arrest.
That would imply real life of course, and Hush has nothing to do with that. If you're in the market for an aged, raging southern belle then you can't go past this, but have a look at the genuine article - Joan Crawford in "Queen Bee" - first.
