"Mrs. Henderson Presents" boasts talent galore: Oscar-winning Judy Dench, Martin Sherman, Stephen Frears, Bob Hoskins, Christopher Guest ... and yet it's a dishonest, irritatingly self-congratulatory little exercise for an as yet under-served demographic -- Judy Dench / * fans.
Given this movie, I hope that that demographic never develops any box office clout.
It's rare that you see a film where not a single moment contains any truth. This movie isn't so much a reference to real life, as to other movies.
In fact, I'm convinced that Judy Dench, a flesh and blood human being, never actually appears in this film. The filmmakers made use of, instead, the animatronic Judy Dench from a Disneyland display.
Dench has never been so much a parody of herself, is what I'm saying.
The script is similarly animatronic. Arch, supercilious, a parody of how arch and supercilious upper class Brits can be. The script is so brittle and dry you could use it as kindling. Is what I'm saying.
And then there's the dishonesty.
Look. This is a movie about a theater that put on girlie shows, and made money thereby. And that's it.
And the movie telegraphs this message that girlie shows are the highest moral good in the universe. If you want to be like Buddha and achieve Nirvana, if you want to be like Christ and give lepers skin as smooth as a baby's best feature, if you want to be like Gandhi ... hire some starving young girls to show you their breasts in exchange for minimum wage. That's the whole message of "Mrs. Henderson Presents," and it is so self-righteous and self-congratulatory it is nauseating.
You could use this film in place of ipecac.
And, yes, the girls are starving. It's post Depression, wartime England. As they remove their clothes, Judy Dench, or her animatronic stand-in, sits in an audience with Bob Hoskins, mocking their breasts: "scrambled eggs," she says. Hoo hoo. Ha, ha. Jeez, I love movies that tell me that making fun of desperate women exchanging a glimpse at their naked bodies for cash to buy lunch is the highest noble good.
It gets worse. Really. Worse, I'm telling you, worse.
One of the strippers, at Mrs. Henderson's encouragement, falls for a noble soldier, gets pregnant by him, and then dies in an air raid. Somehow this is proof of how noble running girlie shows is.
And Mrs. Henderson, an elderly widow, spends the movie panting after a man she can never have, because he's married to somebody else.
Okay, really. Explain this to me. Exactly for what audience was this movie made? Men who like to look at women's * aren't going to want to look at Judy Dench pining after a man she can't have -- are they? I mean, I've heard of shoe fetishes, leather ... but that has got to be a whole new * -- men who want to see Judy Dench smolder for a man she can never have, combined with stale, upper class British "humor," combined with strippers.
Yuch. Yuch. Yuch.
But I give it two points for Bob Hoskins, who deserved to be in a much better movie. Maybe, with all our new technology, he can be sliced out of this one, and spliced into another.