There are those winderful, thrilling moments in the fall and winter - for a serious moviegoer, anyway - where you can just get blown away. It's the thrill of discovery, the shock of the new, the "I had no idea she had it in her" revelation. When I first saw Driving Miss Daisy (really, at that time), was the first moment I can remember walking out and saying "I think I just saw this year's Oscar winner for Best Picture." In a good way.
It's been a while - don't ask me about last year - but this year has had some pretty amazing discoveries (and, hopefully, I can get all these film reviews in before midnight tomorrow), including a number of winning performances. But nothing, really, prepared me for being blown away by Michelle Williams in My Week With Marilyn.
Let the purists carp and complain - there will never ever be another Marilyn Monroe, obviously - but for my money, Williams is a revelation: sure, we knew she had good serious, actress chops, all the way back to Dawson's Creek. And she's delivered solidly, more than once. But her Marilyn Monroe is astonishing - beautiful, breathy, genius, full of life, yet small and sad and alone. This is not an easy part to pull off - even with this film's marvelous script - by any means, and Williams doesn't so much do an impersonation or a sketch as she fully inhabits the depths and contradictions of Monroe's short, brilliant life.
Ostensibly, My Week With Marilyn is a brief memoir of a young man's encounter with Monroe when she went to London to film The Prince and The Showgirl with Sir Laurence Olivier. Colin Clarke, a documentary fimmaker of some note, was an eager kid looking for a break in the film business, when he hustled his way into Olivier's film production office and came out with a job as Olivier's gofer (or, officially, an assistant director on the film). Clarke helped smooth the way for Monroe's arrival, arranging a house where she would stay, and serving as go-between from Olivier to Marilyn's team - her publicist, manager, and acting coach - as well as Monroe herself.
Monroe arrived in London fresh from having married Arthur Miller, and it was during filming that her marriage dissolved (as she discovered that Miller was less than fully honest about his interest in her), and she miscarried Miller's child. Those would be major life issues for anyone, But for someone as fragile as Monroe, the struggle to hold it together and show up and be "her" as she calls her star persona, was monumental. Clarke was one of the people who became a crutch for Monroe to lean on so she could hold it together and perform.
The film benefits tremendously from respecting artists and their quixotic ways; there's no exact villain here, Marilyn is her own enemy in some respects, but Olivier's own insecurities and demands also play a big role. Kenneth Branagh doesn't so much inhabit Olivier as essay him, quite effectively. Olivier's acting style - I'd call it heavy and somewhat fussy - was not a natural fit with Monroe's, and Clarke's telling is that he largely sensed this; as much as bemoans Monroe's lack of professionalsim for not showing up on time, his real annoyance is that, on camera, she steals the show.
Eddie Redmayne does a fine job as Clarke, shambling innocence and British breeding all intact, and Judi Dench shines, naturally, as Dame Sybil Thorndyke. Also, in small roles, Emma Watson charms as Clarke's other potential love interest, and Juliette Binoche does a striking turn as Vivien Leigh, who shares both Olivier's fascination, and fear, of Monroe and the way she represents a future without them.
But it's Williams, bouncing through choreography as Marilyn would, recreating Monroe's nightclub work, quietly singing in her bathtub, or breaking down in tears, who guides this film to its unique observations about stardom, success, and real talent. This isn't a film with easy answers or an obvious point, just a well observed snapshot of a revealing moment. And, yes, I'm pretty sure I saw tis year's Oscar winner for Best Actress. Just don't tell Meryl Streep.
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