There
are beautiful women, sexy women, attractive women, handsome women. Some women are called
“cute” or “pretty,” which can either be a euphemism or an understatement.
Still, other women have a non-threatening, heartland type of beauty which is
often described as “wholesome” and is usually the property of that mythical
girl next door. Some women (and men, for that matter) are said to be
“striking,” which means that their look is unusual and immediately noticed.
Just what happens after being struck is in the eye of the strikee.
Then there’s Liv Tyler. Her beauty exists in its own force field. It is the
kind of beauty reserved for models and models-turned-actresses. It is the
beauty of the Next Big Thing. And if there is truth to the “actress” part in
model-turned-actress, it is the beauty of a movie star as well.
Let’s all agree that with Stealing Beauty, Bernardo Bertolucci’s
lyrical film about a group of Tuscan men going bug-lust-nuts over a visiting
virgin (Tyler), it’s a little too early to tell. Not about the beauty, that
part has been celebrated, confirmed, and taken to the bank. It’s the acting
part we still don’t know about.
But forget about acting for a few minutes and concentrate on Tyler’s new
movie. Stealing Beauty is one of those films that comes around at least
once in a generation and installs, in a screen-hogging lead role, a cover girl
destined to be the Next Big Thing. The role usually suggests virginal
qualities. Entire populations of men — onscreen and in theatres — go gaga.
Stealing Beauty is kin to such films as Tess (1979) and
Lolita (1961), to name two that pop immediately to mind.
We — and by “we” I mean mostly men — just love these movies. For some, the
thrill rests in watching a nubile virgin gamboling ever-closer to the hot zone.
For others, who aren’t as caught up in the deflowering wish-fulfillment
fantasy, the pleasure is primarily in watching the Next Big Thing cavort about
onscreen in a variety of tantalizing outfits.
Stealing Beauty consumes more time than it needs to in telling its
story, it seems to me. But that leisurely pace allows Bertolucci ample
opportunity to create an atmosphere so rich that you could almost smell the
olive trees. And he has done a remarkable job with Tyler, photographing her in
a way that is tasteful and devoid of prurience, but which makes sure that no
fantasies go unleashed. As a hands-on director (you should pardon the
expression), he has tuned her performance to her still unfinished training;
while not creating an especially interesting character onscreen, she delivers a
performance devoid of stiffness and mistakes.
Tyler comes from a long line of beauty sensations, some of whom are now
revered stars, others forgotten pretenders. Among the real things are Grace
Kelly and the incomparable Catherine Deneuve, both of whom had not the least
difficulty satisfying the artistic side of their career equations. Kelly won an
Oscar for Mogambo; Deneuve, among many acting honors, was nominated for
Indochine.
Nowhere in my quick research can I find an adequate explanation for Sue Lyon’s
slide after the unforgettable Lolita performance and the conversations
it started.
Many of us remember the stir Brooke Shields caused in such films as Pretty
Baby and Blue Lagoon, but her career has mostly consisted of being a
celebrity photographed at clubs, movie openings, tennis matches, and charity
events. And for putting on jeans.
Nastassia Kinski, still in her teens when she made Roman Polanski’s
Tess, was every bit as tempting a beauty as Tyler is in Bertolucci’s
film. Though she always seemed to me a competent actress, she has not made a
distinct impression in American films, and still makes most of her films in
Europe. Same thing for Isabelle Adjani, who initiated no small amount of
loin-tingling among the arthouse crowd with The Story of Adele H. (1976).
For a while, Tyler had sturdy competition in Alicia Silverstone, who, in
The Crush, projected such runaway sexuality on screen that it was
difficult to believe she was only 15. Before her were a trio of beauties with
little staying power or motivation: Justine Bateman, Christina Applegate, and
Kristy Swanson.
Some great beauties made their debuts as Next Big Thing, letting the publicity
machine do what it must, but quickly became more comfortable inhabiting an area
not controlled by beauty or male fantasy. Women like Candice Bergen, Meg Ryan,
Elizabeth Shue, Elizabeth Perkins, and Marisa Tomei are all surpassingly
camera-friendly, but their contributions go beyond looking good.
Who’s to say this kind of career is outside the grasp of Tyler? In the little
seen and pretty bad Silent Fall (1994), she played an autistic boy’s
older sister with an edge that said Real Actress. That seems less to be the
case in Stealing Beauty, but maybe it’s because her character has so
little of interest to say. (And she really could use a voice lesson. “I’ll be
right back” comes out something like “I’ll ee ight ack.”)
For now, Tyler’s composure, presence, and movement — to say nothing of the
ravishing hair and limpid eyes — are enough to secure her a favored place
among the world’s starlets. One of the reasons she has been so successful to
this point is that she seems genuinely comfortable (a) in front of a camera
and, (b) being an object of desire. (Granted, that’s hardly a challenge in her
case.)
One doesn’t go on forever being a supermodel, although Deneuve, on top of her
acting career, gave it a great run. The best thing that could happen to Liv
Tyler is to become Andie MacDowell. MacDowell, a cover girl who was so bad in
Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan that they had to dub her lines, is now
among the more pleasing to watch of mainstream stars. She’s a case study in
what happens when you take that special look that got you in the business in
the first place, and layer in some hard work, a good attitude, and a desire to
be something other than a hormone-soaked fantasy. n
This article appears in July 26 • 1996 and July 26 • 1996 (Cover).