Written by Andé Morgan.
The recently released dramatic fantasy, Winter’s Tale (based on the 1983 novel of the same name by Mark Helprin), was adapted for the screen and directed by Avika Goldsman. It features Colin Farrell and Jessica Brown Findlay as star-crossed (haha) lovers, and Goldsman-regulars Russell Crowe and Will Smith as the heavies.
Farrell is Peter Lake, an orphan thief who lives in the rafters above New York’s Grand Central Station circa 1916. While escaping crime boss Pearly Soames (played here by an over-inflated Russell Crowe) on a magical, metaphysical, metaphorical white horse, Lake comes across an Upper West Side mansion that’s just too juicy to pass up. Inside, he surprises the lone occupant, Beverly Penn (Findlay), an heiress to the Penn newspaper fortune and victim of tuberculosis (they call it “fever” because this is a period piece, dammit!). Beverly, by the way, plays the piano very enthusiastically, can see that “everything is connected by light,” and stoically comments, “You never think you’re as old as you’re ever going to be.” Because so many loving, lasting relationships begin with home invasion, Beverly asks Peter to stay for tea. We learn that she was born in England, which conveniently explains why she has such an awful English accent when all of her kin speak ‘Murican.
Tea time with the armed robber goes well because love-at-first-sight, so Beverly invites Peter to join her upstate at the family castle. We then get some other rom-com standards: never-been-kissed, what-are-your-intentions-with-my-daughter?, ruffian-in-a-tuxedo, last-dance, and magic-mechanic.
Meanwhile, Pearly goes to visit Will Smith, who is currently being stored in a dark room under a bridge (really, a good place for him). Mr. Smith is Lucifer, of course, and Pearly (superpower: glowering) is one of his demons (or a human who became a demon, or a human-demon hybrid, who knows?). Pearly wants to kill Beverly because of love and miracles, or something. Unfortunately, the devil is a stickler for the rules, and since the northlands are out of Pearly’s jurisdiction, no dice. Being a demon, Pearly goes behind the Devil’s back (lack-of-omniscience slam!) and calls in a favor from an angel (Pearly really has more depth than I’m giving him credit for; he enjoys finger painting with blood, and really wants a pair of shiny angel wings, aww).
So Beverly is poisoned (by light, naturally) from afar by Pearly, and expires after some now-or-never sex (kind of a lot of O face for a PG-13 movie. MPAA, won’t you please think of the children?). Peter tries to save her with his miracle, True-Love’s-Kiss, but to no avail. Apparently, Beverly had all the magic, because Peter gets bridged by Pearly and goes on to spend the next 100 years (Bev’s miracle) making street art and growing a beard.
With a little help from a ~***magical negro***~, Peter regains the memories he lost when Russell Crowe Brooklyn accent-ed at him. He then uses his holy lips to save the life of the Abby (Ripley Sobo), the Littlest Cancer Patient. After he defeats Pearly in the Final Battle, he rides off into the sunset to be reunited with Beverly (now a flaming ball of gas).
From the snark, you can probably tell that this movie was a big glob of romantic fantasy cliches and pseudo-spiritual ridiculousness propelled by Mammon and held together by Warner Bros.’ hubris. Unfortunate, but sadly, not unexpected. However, I do take issue with the film’s central conceit. As we are told over and over – by children, demons, and Findlay’s narration – each one of us has a miracle, and we can only give it to our One True Love.
The monogamous, heteronormative, patriarchal narrative is strongly entrenched in our culture. Women, in particular, are taught to seek out one person, their “soulmate.” We’re told that only that one person will make us happy and whole, and that only that person should fuck us (after we’re married, of course) for ever and ever. This is the Romantic Myth, and it kills. It fails to recognize the reality that people fall in and out of love, or that people are fully capable of loving more than one person, sequentially or concurrently. By reinforcing this destructive myth, movies like Winter’s Tale perpetuate slut-shaming, self-hatred, and discrimination against divorcees and polyamorous people.
Strong female characters? None. Yes, the film passes the Bechdel Test, if you count discussions about starlight and cooking. But please, don’t waste your time, and please, please don’t take your child to see it.
Andé Morgan lives in Tucson, Arizona, where they write about culture, race, politics, and LGBTQ issues. Follow them @andemorgan.