Irina Palm
15, Barbican and key cities
The big film this week is, I suppose, The Incredible Hulk but I chose not to see it because, aside from anything else, isn’t this the second Hulk film in about ten minutes? When was the Ang Lee one? I have no idea why it’s come round again so soon. Perhaps it’s to do with the Hulk himself, who stormed Marvel’s production offices saying, ‘Why no one make another Hulk? It make Hulk mad. Make Hulk film or Hulk smash truck then Hulk smash you.’ Well, I certainly won’t support such behaviour so, instead, chose to see the smaller, quieter film, Irina Palm. Was Bubbles best pleased? He was not. ‘Bubbles want see Hulk,’ he said. ‘No make Bubbles mad or Bubbles swish water then Bubbles swish you.’ Bubbles does so like to go into character. Last week, he was Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s for a whole afternoon.
So, Irina Palm, which I willed to be good, rather as one cheers on Tim Henman. Come on, little underdoggy man, show us what you can do! It’s about a widowed grandmother, Maggie, who ends up working in the sex trade to raise money for her sick grandson, whose only hope is a new medical treatment available only in Australia. It’s a ‘tragicomedy’, stars Marianne Faithfull — ‘a true artist’, according to my press notes — and it was nominated for the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival, which I assumed was a recommendation, but in future will take as a warning. Oh, no, it’s the Golden Bear. Quick, go the other way! This is a terrible, preposterous film that is also horrible and hateful and has the worst soundtrack ever; the same four doomy notes played loudly and over and over.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in