Quite a movie Wicker Park is—one that defies
its genre—it refuses to conform to Hollywood’s
standards. It intrigued me, it amazed me, and it
hypnotized me. For its entire duration, an invisible
force-field had me wrapped up, snug, in my uncomfortable
seat and couldn’t have been happier. But, with all of
that said, the movie is missing an essential component,
required of all films to succeed. There isn’t a hint of
passion behind Wicker Park; it is rather generic
in its interestingness. As well as its complex and
deceptive plot may work, I couldn’t help but feel empty,
as I left the screening, which had had me fully engaged,
for nearly two hours. So much attention to detail has
never resulted in a product this hollow.
Sitting on the bench outside
of the multiplex walls, waiting for my mom to pick me
up, my mind searched for someone to blame for Wicker
Park’s one, nagging flaw. And, believe me, I
considered everyone in the realm of possibility. From
director Paul McGuigan to the cast to the light-man to
the microphone operator, no stone was left unturned. Not
only was I unable to discover the person at fault, but
couldn’t settle on a scapegoat, either. I thought long
and hard about giving Wicker Park a fuller
recommendation, as a result of my lack of stone-cold
criticism, but the unimaginable coldness it thrust upon
me continues to haunt me, two days after seeing it.
The plot is impossible to
explain to one who has not experienced it, after
partaking in its entirety. Wicker Park plays with
time so much, throughout its running-length, the concept
itself, in reality, now seems distorted, to me. If I was
to even begin to try to analyze it without spoiling
anything, I’d find myself running in circles and without
a place to hide. Unlike the majority of critics, I don’t
find this to be an indicator of plot holes or
character-inconsistencies. In fact, I was enlightened by
all my confusion and frustration with Wicker Park;
such only made me more interested, alert, and attentive,
when watching it.
Wicker Park boasts not
two, but three leads, all of which turn in solid
performances. The incredibly underrated Josh Hartnett
masters a kind of firm internal conflict in the role of
the protagonist, which is surprising, given his age and
target audience. (I wonder how teenage girls will react
to Wicker Park’s overall freakiness.) Rose Byrne
and Diane Kruger play the two women who create most all
of the film’s mystery. The former’s work could certainly
be called eerie; my skin was crawling every time she
appeared, onscreen. The latter actress, who I absolutely
loved in Troy, is the weakest of the three, but
can be credited for bringing much of Wicker Park’s
meaty emotion to the table, and also dishes up her own
fair share of appeal. On a related note, I’m not sure
whether I should be taking Matthew Lillard’s ghastly
supporting performance as humorous or simply ironic. I
suppose such is insignificant, given the fact that it
fails on both levels. His role, that of Hartnett’s
character’s best-buddy, is one of the few obvious weak
links in Wicker Park, albeit minor.
If I had used spoilers, I
could’ve developed a firmer opinion on Wicker Park
and been more detailed in this review, but I simply
couldn’t bring myself to do so. Even with an apt warning
of my giving the picture’s outcome away, I fear that
potential viewers would’ve been lured into reading about
the plot, and the experience would’ve been spoiled, for
them. Make no mistake—I do want Wicker Park to be
seen—even with all of my complaints of it. It’s just
disappointing that, in all its meanness and leanness, it
had to be so detached from its audiences. Even the sex
scene feels mind-numbing. Perhaps I set my standards too
highly, or perhaps I’m just an optimist. At the end of
the day, all I want to do is be able to claim that I saw
a great movie. Wicker Park left me with no such
luck.
-Danny, Bucket Reviews (9.13.2004)