Les Imposteurs

Jake (John Malkovich) and Tina (Andie MacDowell) are living beyond their means in a classy London hotel. Hotel manager Mr. Mercer (Joss Ackland) and his underling Victor Swayle keep trying to collect. Jake is down from a cocoa investment in Sierra Leone. Tina has a small highly priced Henry Moore sculpture from her husband Larry (Peter Riegert) which Jake would like to sell. Joan (Lolita Davidovich) is her friend. Deaf maid Jenny steals it for its beauty. The hotel investigates. The insurance company stalls on paying the claim. Distrust grows between the couple. Jenny's brother Steve tries to sell the ugly little sculpture.

As a comedy, it's not that funny. It's intermittently quirky. Its pacing does not give it the needed tension. It's a bit of an odd duck. It has a darkness but isn't dark enough to be compelling. Nobody is worth rooting for. I worry more about the sculpture than any of the characters. This film needs an upgrade in intensity. I have questions about how Victor gets to ransack Jenny's home. I also have questions about who that lady is to Jenny. I would be more interested in following the odd little head than any of these characters.

I have to give credit to Andie McDowell and John Malkovich, American citizens, who are living it up in the lapse of luxury in London, England. They are living beyond their means and owe plenty of money to their creditors especially the hotel.

Anyway, Tina has a statue which is worth thousands but doesn't protect it very well. It lays about in their hotel suite. When a deaf chambermaid take the statue, Tina and her partner's plan to stage a fake robbery to collect the insurance gets thwarted. They don't trust each other when it comes to the statue.

While the film is fine, it's not great but bearable and almost forgettable. The cast does the best with a weak script. I enjoy the London locales. The girl who played the chambermaid does a fantastic and believable job in creating sympathy. She lives with her brother in a small flat in London, England. Getting the statue doesn't buy happiness for anybody involved.

The object in question is a pint-sized Henry Moore statuette, owned by shallow sophisticate Andie McDowell and appraised at $35,000, an amount in many ways even more beautiful to its owner than the item itself. Especially when McDowell and her 'husband' (played to haughty perfection by John Malkovich) find themselves at a fiscal disadvantage while living beyond their means in a posh London hotel. In the vernacular of the upwardly mobile, they aren't 'fluid', and when the statuette disappears they immediately accuse each other of plotting to collect the insurance value. The film is an underhanded, cynical, satirical poke at American materialism, pointless in the end because nothing is resolved. But the plot itself is secondary to the characters (ugly though they are), and rarely have two actors been better suited to their roles: McDowell's poor little rich girl routine is by now second nature, and Malkovich captures all the self-absorbed boredom of the ersatz upper class with his languid voice and steady reptilian gaze.

This movie disappointed me. It's billed as a 'low key comedy', but ends up being so low key, you wonder (with the exception of a couple of scenes) where the comedy is. Most of my disappointment, however, stems from the script - aside from the chambermaid and her brother, I simply did not care what happened to the characters. The juxtaposition of the two ways of life was excellent - but it's too obvious where the scriptwriter's sympathies lie.

My review was written In March 1991 after watching the film at a Times Square screening room.

"The Object of Beauty" is a throwback to the romantic comedies of Swinging London cinema, but lacks the punch of the best of that late '60s genre. It has only modest prospects among sophisticated theatrical audiences, with a much better outlook in ancillary exposure.

Following up his "The Sheltering Sky" performance with another drifting character, John Malkovich toplines as a ne'er-do-well holed up in a swank London hotel with his mate Andie MacDowell. Everyone assumes the two of them are married, but MacDowell is still hitched to estranged hubby Peter Riegert.

With amiable comedy situations to sugarcoat the opening reels, not much happens as the duo dine in the hotel's expensive restaurant, Malkovich worries about his broker selling him out on dubious investments and he carefully dodges the hotel manager (Joss Ackland) with inquiries about paying a portion of their bill.

Plot concerns the title object, a small Henry Moore figurine that MacDowell received from Riegert as a present and which Malkovich desperately wants to sell or use for an insurance scam to cover his hotel tab and ongoing business reverses.

Key script contrivance has a deaf-mute maid (Rudi Davies), newly hired at the hotel, becoming obsessed with the Moore sculpture and stealing it for a keepsake. This sets into motion trite complications, notably developing a wedge (as corny as O. Henry's "The Gift of the Magi") between Malkovich and MacDowell as each believes the other has pocketed the $50,000 art work.

A subplot involving Davies and her punk-styled brother strains heavily for pathos. Another unsuccessful side issue is Malkovich's selfish affair with MacDowell's best friend Lolita Davidovich, who makes the most of her one-dimensional part. (She replaced Elizabeth Perkins in the role.)

As in "Sheltering Sky", Malkovich ably brings out the unsympathetic nature of his antihero, but the script doesn't help him much in balancing that with any compelling reason for identification. It's hard to care about someone whose future lies in produce sitting on a dock in Sierra Leone.

The viewer will instantly side with MacDowell, whose natural beauty is augmented here by a feisty violent streak whenever Malkovich steps over the line (which is frequent). In addition to Davidovich, Davies, Ackland, officious hotel dick Bill Paterson and no-nonsense insurance inspector Jack Shepherd turn in pro turns.

Filmmaker Michael Lindsay-Hogg, whose diverse credits range from the Beatles' "Let It Be" to farce ("Nasty Habits"), develops effective individual scenes but fails to create a reason for sustained interest in his characters. Result is a mildly diverting but empty picture. Daid Watkin, whose experience in the genre dates back to Richard Lester's classic "The Knack", has photographed the deceptively carefree setting with aplomb.