MARIE ANTOINETTE
D: W.S. Van Dyke (1938); with Norma Shearer, Tyrone Power, Robert Morley, John Barrymore.
Absolutely abysmal, Marie Antoinette is too long and dull as dishwater. One Internet Movie Database comment reads, “They don’t make them like this anymore!” And thank God they don’t. A vanity production to end all vanity productions, it is a movie that Irving Thalberg was working on when he died, a paean to his wife Norma Shearer. Shearer is just dreadful as France’s tragic queen. To begin with, she is way, way too old, just like when she made a travesty of Romeo and Juliet. When they show her as a teenage girl, hearing about her impending betrothal to the Dauphin of France, she is already so adult and maturely developed that they evidently have her mother walking on stilts to make Shearer appear smaller. It is a ridiculous device that sets the tone for a great deal more ridiculousness to come. Shearer mysteriously received her sixth (!) Oscar nomination for this performance, though it was undoubtedly a sympathy nomination. As the Dauphine of France, she is neglected by her husband, the future Louis XVI (Morely), a bumbling, immature ruler who is the only character in the movie to attract any sympathy. She gives herself over to a life of pleasure-seeking wantonness, but comes off as wanton as apple pie. John Barrymore’s turn as Louis XV is too short, and he and his mistress, Mme. Du Barry (George), provide the only relief in this otherwise plodding film. Shearer plays Marie as if she is just a loving wife and mother who got a bum rap. Her performances are always stilted and mannered. She must have had it written into her contract that she was allowed to get teary-eyed at least a dozen times in each movie and also be allowed to speak in that annoying tremulous voice while the tears are glistening in her eyes. Worse yet, she always seems at a loss as to what to do with her hands and resorts to silent-movie techniques that were long out of date in 1938. Schildkraut, as the Duke of Orleans, is fabulous — wicked and arch and wearing more make-up than any lady at court. It is his maneuvering that introduces the young Dauphine to the pleasures of Parisian high society and sets off the chain of tragic events that ends in her beheading. As the story waves goodbye to historical accuracy, we see Shearer utilize all three of her expressions — they are the same ones she used in everything from Her Cardboard Lover to The Women. Her limited range of expressions, however, is almost, but not quite, overshadowed by her voluminous, cloud-like hairstyles. From beginning to end, her wigs are awe-inspiring creations — even when she’s on death row. She’s obviously the only prisoner in history who was allowed to have her hairdresser in every morning — surely the director would not have us believe Marie created those enormous coifs herself. But when they try to make her look weary and ready for the guillotine, we do not get to see the Queen with her head shorn. Instead, we get Shearer in a ratty wig, looking more like Cloris Leachman than Marie Antoinette. The gowns by Adrian are so magnificently over-the-top, and he has a field day costuming both Marie and, in contrast, Mme. Du Barry. At their big showdown, Du Barry is exquisite in black velvet dripping with jewels, while Marie wears what can only be described as Symphony in White Tulle. The production values are the stars of this movie — Hollywood magic at its finest — but watching Norma Shearer as Marie Antoinette is like ordering a bottle of fine wine in a restaurant and getting a pitcher of Kool-Aid instead.
This article appears in May 25 • 2001.