 Swimming Pool (2003) Swimming Pool is stark, quiet, and slowly paced, as intensely psychological and interior as a film can be, its movement provided largely by Rampling's eyes and face, which manage to convey more real meaning than Quentin Tarantino or Spike Lee at their wordiest. The performance is akin to Anthony Hopkins's from The Remains of the Day—a rare piece of performing art that suddenly reminds you what real acting is. There's nothing showy or even stated about it, just a powerful unfolding series of moments you want to get inside of. The character of Julie, who brings home one-night-stands for on-screen sex as well as swims nude in the pool and lounges around topless for much of the movie, brings Swimming Pool perilously close to the sort of softcore Cinemax fare once dominated by Valerie Kaprisky or Jane March—that is, a movie that would be watched exclusively for the nudity, and its slower passages merely tolerated, dick in hand awaiting the next sex scene. But as the plot unfolds, and especially given an unexpected twist near the end of the film, this all comes to have much more purpose than just allowing one attractive imagery with which to stroke oneself off. These days, I am much more inclined to watch these sorts of things for the story. How sad is that? But it would be a mistake to dismiss Swimming Pool for its sexy indulgences, for this is a tight and surprising thriller that manages to be boldly visual despite its content being entirely psychological. Like a good piece of crime fiction, it keeps you engaged to the very last moment, searching for the truth. So put it back in your pants and, for goodness sake, actually watch the film, pervie.
Review by La Fée |