Directed by Michael Hoffman | Written by Rupert Walters, based on a novel by Rose Tremain | 117 min | ▲1/2 | DVD, on VOD in the United States
Sheer, hardheaded curiosity forced me to track down this feature — a lost Miramax picture from the mid-’90s, star-studded and Academy-awarded (for Art Direction and Costume Design) and yet a complete mystery. Now, having seen it, I understand. This is a case of a film being recognized for most art direction and costume design rather than best, probably due to the furious campaigning of former Miramax grand fromage and rapist Harvey Weinstein. Its few attributes are mostly due to the parade of actors of some talent placed in front of the camera in regular intervals for us to go, “Hey, look who it is!”
A baby-faced but typically frenetic Robert Downey Jr is Robert Merivel, a young doctor who has been toiling away in the pits of a London hospital with his friend, John Pearce (David Thewlis, dashing) for years and he’s tired his self-perceived inability to stem the tide of death. Who could blame him? A moment of good fortune places him before King Charles II (Sam Neill) to care for one of his ill King Charles Spaniels (perhaps known only as spaniels then). The dog recovers and the king is impressed, giving the doctor the run of the court. In this new era of permissiveness, Robert parties, has a lot of sex, becomes known for his timely flatulence, and gives up his healing crusade. The King has his own harem and to minimize political strife between them he marries one off to Robert, Lady Celia (Polly Walker, lately of Bridgerton) and sends him to a mansion in the countryside where he’s provided with a butler. (“Hey, look who it is! Ian McKellan!”)
All of this feels like it’s supposed to be broad, farcical comedy, but it’s not really. It’s not especially comedic and it’s not dramatic, it’s just silly. Downey Jr pulls a lot of faces, but his character is at best naive and at worst an idiot. Once out at the pile in Sussex, things improve with the arrival of a painter. (“Hey, look who it is! Hugh Grant!”) Grant knows exactly what kind of a movie he’s supposed to be in and winds up delivering the funniest five minute role in a tonal disaster. Naturally, Robert falls in love with Lady Celia, and while she at first hates him, for no reason except because the plot requires it she becomes fond of him over the care of a sick bird.
All of which is bearable. It’s not good, but there’s just enough here in the performances to hold the interest. That is until the King gets wind of Robert’s efforts to woo Lady Celia and casts him out, forcing him to visit his pal John Pearce who’s become a Quaker, helping unfortunates at a makeshift hospital in the sticks. That’s where a good hour into this Meg Ryan shows up, sporting bad extensions, a wobbly Irish accent, and a fondness for pretending she’s a frog. Or something — she likes to hop. The movie treats her terribly, and yet we struggle to sympathize because she’s so miscast.
What’s worse, the plot shifts from breezy and a poor attempt at comedic farce to all earnest and saccharine, expecting us to go along with it. It introduces the Black Plague, maybe as an AIDS allegory? Hard to tell at this point. Of course, Robert must reclaim his true calling as a healer, and somehow redeem himself and, eventually, find his way back to the King’s court.
One of the worst crimes movies can commit is ladle heavy-handed yet unearned emotionality after presenting as an entirely different kind of movie. Downey Jr does his best with the big hats, stupid wigs, and poor script, but no one involved in this deservedly forgotten period piece escapes unscathed — except maybe Hugh Grant, who, somehow, even in the bad movies, never ceases to find a way to impress.
