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White Oleander aspires to be a very important movie. It's not.
by Adrienne Martini
White Oleander belongs on your TV. Janet Fitch's book owes it success to the boob tube, of course. Without the Oprah Book Club, this melodramatic opera wouldn't have made its way in front of so many readers' eyes. Jonathan Franzen may have had a point—no matter how rudely stated—about Ms. Winfrey's picks having a certain tear-jerking, overly emotional bent. White Oleander sinks in the same trite, sentimental mire that tanked other Oprah Book Club film adaptations like The Deep End of the Ocean and Where the Heart Is.
Most of the fault for these failures lies with the authors' and screenwriters' inability to build believable characters. Instead of crafting sharp portraits of interesting people, White Oleander sticks to easily identifiable stereotypes—the artistic, abandoned waif, the coldly intellectual murderer, the Bible-thumpin' trailer dweller, the nice but neurotic actress. It's as if Fitch and screenwriter Mary Agnes Donoghue (Beaches) simply reshuffled a deck of popular feminine clichés and scotch-taped them into a plot that would not be out of place in a daytime drama. All that's missing is the hooker with the heart of gold.
The structure of the film (and, one assumes, the book) is outlined in the opening shots, which come complete with a voice-over breathlessly reciting Fitch's florid prose. Poor Astrid (Alison Lohman) stands in front of her latest art project—four suitcases whose interiors are mini-installations about the women who have shaped her life. In case you miss the heavy-handed symbolism about baggage and equally obvious allusions to the white oleander being both beautiful and deadly, director Peter Kominsky proceeds to spend the next 90 or so minutes whanging his audience over the head with it so forcefully that even those in a coma can't help but understand how very clever he's trying to be.
It's all so deep, Kominsky must believe, that we couldn't possibly understand without his insightful guidance—to name but one example, for each foster home Astrid arrives in, Kominsky switches to herky-jerky handheld shots that strive to capture Astrid's POV. Yes, they're disorienting. Yes, like she probably is. How very...deep. The sad thing is this is probably as smart as Kominsky can be.
Perhaps the most interesting character is the icy Ingrid, Astrid's murdering mom. Ingrid plays with minds the way folks in other states play the lottery, constantly tossing out manipulative barbs on the off-chance that one might hit a jackpot. In less mawkish hands this character could have been riveting, a la Silence of the Lambs' Hannibal Lecter. Here, however, Ingrid's intentions only hit one note and her redemption comes much too easily.
With apologies to Spinal Tap, the emotional dial of Oleander is constantly cranked up to 11. Watch as our waif gets bounced from foster parent to juvie hall! Experience her maelstrom of angst as she searches for an identity! Cheer as she stands up to bullies! Marvel at her ability to overcome adversity! Nothing ever goes our Astrid's way and her constant misfortune strains at credulity.
What's truly unfortunate is that despite all of the sturm und drang�of the script and its direction, there are some magical performances in Oleander. Relative newcomer Lohman plays Astrid's highs and (mostly) lows with refreshing understatement. Her Astrid lacks any tethers and floats through her life with hollow-eyed doggedness. With the right material, Lohman should prove a young actress to watch.
Box office favorite Michelle Pfeiffer as Ingrid is magnetic, proving that she is a much better actress than her recent projects would have you believe. Pfeiffer deliciously tiptoes down the line between melodrama and true drama and her performance is one to be marveled at, especially given the faults of the production. Renée Zellweger is equally delightful in the small part she's been given. Zellweger becomes a much more polished actress with each role she takes, which could be a good sign for the upcoming Chicago. The tender Patrick Fugit—last seen in Almost Famous—turns in his earnest best in Oleander as well.
With all of the cursing edited out—not that there's that much to begin with—Oleander would make for a fine TV miniseries. It would fit right in on Lifetime, tucked among the true-life heartwarmers (you know, like my dying grandma gave me her kidney so that I may live-type docudramas) and Sisters reruns. It's clear that Hollywood believes this is what women want. And, if you judge by what hits at the box office, they may be right.
Which is sad, really. The idea at the core of Oleander—the harm mothers can do to their daughters—is one that is rich with possibilities. In the right hands, other variations on this theme could be as searing as Oleander wants to be. Maybe those will make it to the screen someday soon, with or without Oprah's stamp of approval.
October 17, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 42
© 2000 Metro Pulse
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