The Edge of Love
The Edge of Love is like a soap opera without the glamour. Set during World War 2, it takes place in that lethargic heyday where men beat their woman because of post traumatic stress disorder, and women slept with the town veterinarian because their husbands were in Europe fighting Hitler.
The story begins with Vera Phillips (Keira Knightley) singing on stage while London is being bombed to hell by the Germans. I admit it was a surprise hearing her sing, an emotion soon eclipsed by the fact that she sounded like Betty Boop or Marilyn Monroe when she sang happy birthday Mr. President to JFK. It was about this time my eyes started to sag, like someone had stuffed cotton wool into my head.
The plot essentially comes down to pretty people swapping sexual tension and lusty glowers. Honestly, I would have gotten more satisfaction watching a bargain bin porn flick, and that includes intellecual satisfaction. It certainly would have been less depressing.
Pretty Vera is in love with pudgy poet Dylan Thomas (Matthew Rhys) unfortunately he is married to saucy Caitlin MacNamara (Sienna Miller). Pretty Vera ends up marrying strapping William Killick (Cillian Murphy). Pudgy Dylan loves both saucy Caitlin and pretty Vera. Strapping Killick goes off to war and experiences horrors that include people dying, limbs being cut off and wide-eyed terror. They all sleep with each other and their lives are miserable because of it. Everything turns out alright in the end though, because Vera stays with wife beater Killick and Caitlin stays with cheating husband Dylan.
If you can stay awake long enough to make sense of all that you deserve an accolade handed to you by the Welsh government. The first half of the movie limps by in a haze of convoluted dialogue that I attribute to Dylan Thomas’ poetry. "How the ducks fly past the posies weighed down by the graying morning ramble," or similar kinds of senseless shit. Throw the braying Welsh accent into the mix and all you’re left with is half the cast of people bleating like naked sheep and the other half Waaa Waaa Waaaing like Charlie Brown’s faceless parents.
The Edge of Love may sound like a sex fest on the surface, but it's about as erotic as your grandmother's foot. Close up shots of hands are the most interesting bits you’ll see and dodgy faded split screens where there are two Keira Knightley faces kissing instead of one. Sorry, but there's only one anatomical part I'd like to see two of in a movie like this, and it's definitely not anything above the neck.
And this film just reeks of filth. Constant Grime on the streets, dirty babies and sweaty hair had me panting for a shower as soon as it was done, which was not near soon enough. It would not end. I could’ve taken a pilgrimage to Wales, slept with everyone, fought in the bloody war myself and come back, and that damn movie would still be spouting nonsense.
I have gained three things from watching this film, the first is a deep prejudice against Dylan Thomas’ poetry, the second a hatred for Welsh people because of how they used to live in the early nineties, and third a blood clot near my cerebellum inflicted upon my person by the cross eyed love scenes, ridiculous dialogue and bland storyline. Don’t go see The Edge of Love. There is such a thing as too much drama, and in today’s choppy world of trouble and pandemonium, who the hell wants to remember the problems of yesterday? Take the cash for the movie ticket and treat yourself to something less painful, like a nice bikini wax or a stimulating root canal.
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