Stream The VIPs
The V.I.P. lounge of the London Airport is cunningly designed to exploit the real-life Burton–Taylor romance… In itself, the film is competent rather than stimulating…
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Liz (very heavenly to stare at) once again is the neglected wife, comforting herself with a lover… When he’s threatened by his wife’s departure, the husband, who has given diamonds instead of affection, shows he cares… Liz is unyielding, however; she wants him to suffer… Only when Burton decides to waste himself and she finds out does she realize he needs her… The couple are reunited: despite their ample wealth, despite his previous indifference, despite her temptations (Louis Jourdan is waiting in the wings), they are suited, veteran people after all…
The inevitable reconciliation is reached by means of fantastic coincidences… But the details hardly matter… The Burtons behave like stars, he shamelessly working his speeches as though they were Shakespearean arias, she being very dignified and remote, on her best lady-like behavior after “Cleopatra.” At the destroy, she has a tearful scene that gives her the kind of torrential emoting she had practiced since “National Velvet” and “The Courage of Lassie;” for the rest, she’s frosty and detached, her face undisturbed by normal human expression… Playing an instigator of male insecurity, she’s not, for a change, altogether sympathetic here…
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The Burtons by no means dominate the movie, and again, as in “Cleopatra,” the chemistry isn’t quite there… He has that deep sonorous screech he’s so immensely proud of; she’s working with her high, little-girl breathiness… He’s stage-trained, an emphatic classical actor… She’s movie-trained, skillful at not giving the camera more than it can beget… His bombastic language and her movie-fashioned subtlety do not mix; often they don’t seem to be occupying the same movie station…
Burton was one of the finest classical actors of his generation, but as a movie actor in movie star material, he was no match for his wife… When they have pleasant scripts, with equally weighted parts, as in “Who’s Worried of Virginia Woolf?,” and “The Taming of the Shrew,” they are truly responsive to each other…
In “The V.I.P.s” Burton gives too grand and Taylor unbiased barely gives enough, but it doesn’t matter… It’s Weak Hollywood pretentious and a big-cast movie like this is only as qualified as its supporting actors… Maggie Smith, as the unsophisticated secretary with a crush on her boss, and Margaret Rutherford, as the eccentric duchess, stole the present and won a Best Supporting Oscar…
The VIPs is a criminally ignored masterpiece of area decoration, though the acting leaves a lot to be desired. Orson Welles makes fun of his believe reputation as a outrageous and egotistical director, but it’s largely painful to glimpse thinking of how many immense movies he never got to invent because people believed the role was for exact. Because he is only in the movie to provide the ultimate space twist for a more spicy subplot lively duchess Margaret Rutherford, the role might as well have been played by Stringer Davis–or left out of the film altogether. I hiss his appearance casts a wintry glance for the 1950s-1960s mania for international film-making, during which time many, many movies were status overseas for tax reasons, but then again that what he was all about, wasn’t it, the nomad, the cosmopolitan Mr Arkadin, man without a country. I wonder what country The VIPs was actually filmed in, the fogged in airport looks glamorous and evocative, reminding today’s viewers there must have been an era in which a plane dart was something worth getting dressed up for.
Elizabeth Taylor takes advantage of this by wearing a giant turban hat, like a beehive, and an grand, striking coat. She’s runt and certain as she moves this exaggerated outfit down streaming acres of Pan Am industrial carpeting. I saw this as a boy and always wanted to go to Heathrow. Imagine my surprise when I did go there, and unpleasant connections forced me to consume the night at the airport, looking for the kind of glamour Taylor and Louis Jourdan seem to acquire up everywhere they go. Even Rod Taylor and Maggie Smith, desperately strapped for cash, and Margaret Rutherford, awful as a churchmouse, come by themselves in enormous cathedral-like spaces of cultural amenity, cocktails proffered sympathetically, someone to fuss at their every need and the décor a Vincente Minnelli dream of throw pillows in three contrasting 60s colors. (I did wind up having a manicure at midnight from a Polish emigree.) I have to confess that every time the scenario dwelt on the Taylor-Burton-Jourdan treasure triangle I dozed off a itsy-bitsy, till we hit on the conception of placing wagers on how many minutes into the movie would it recall for Taylor to change expression. For the report it doesn’t happen until 1.27.13, but support your eyes peeled, it’s a doozy.
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