A Furrowed Brow
The Constant Gardener digs style over substance.
BY GREGORY WEINKAUF
Ralph Fiennes always used to make me ralph, but he didn’t in The Constant Gardener, so either my constitution is
growing more hearty or his is. Possibly both. True, he delivers some embarrassingly-off “dork” mimicry early on, and
his whole “cashing in on the tragic-romance-starved English Patient crowd” approach could hardly be called
adventurous or noble (was there a contract clause about him stumbling again, bereft, through the desert?). But here
Ralph does bring surprises: He has tethered himself to a feral director (Fernando Mereilles, of City of God fame), he
rarely opts for his annoying “fluty voice,” and -- best of all -- not once did I catch him using his erstwhile-inescapable,
Andrew-McCarthy-glazed, little-boy-lost staring technique. Either because this movie is absolutely cut to ribbons and
reassembled via Frankenstein-like editing, or because Ralph has finally learned not to try to upstage every other inanimate
object onscreen, the man is apparently no longer a liability, which makes for a more enjoyable cinematic experience all
round. (He’s still second-fiddle to his brother in my book, but at least he’s working to settle that score.)
Criticizing anything at all about The Constant Gardener is asking for trouble, because it is the sort of movie that forms
pacts and alliances among the self-appointed elite, e.g.: “Oh my god, did you see Constant Gardener?” “Oh my god, yes!”
“Oh my god, isn’t it amazing?” “Oh my god, yes, it sure is amazing!” and so on. To admit openly that one merely liked
(or even didn’t like) a movie like this is begging for a critical pounding (“But you liked The Man, you non-amazing
swine!”), but so be it: I kinda liked The Constant Gardener -- and when I liked it, in sporadic bursts, I liked it a lot. But
not consistently. Each project to its own standards and appraisal.
The story here concerns Ralph playing Justin Quayle, a timid member of the British High Commission who massages
plants in his spare time. Whilst delivering a U.N.-themed lecture in London for the absent high-roller Sir Bernard Pellegrin
(Bill Nighy, always a pleasure, but only allowed one dismal note here), Quayle is rudely interrupted by a volatile upstart
named Tessa (Rachel Weisz), who shouts him down about British political apathy (and worse) until everybody else flees
the room. Basically, they meet ugly. Naturally, seconds later they are hastily removing one another’s clothing for some
very unsettling British near-nudity (key word: “wattles”), and boom: They’re man and wife in Kenya. And she’s eight and
a half months pregnant. And maybe she’s boinking her compassionate African doctor sidekick, Arnold (Hubert Koundé),
on the side. And maybe she’s dead. And maybe she’s provoking lusty Danny Huston to puke into a dirty sink. And
almost as if on a dare, the doggedly philanthropic spitfire drives poor Ralph precariously close to his old staring habit --
many, many times.
The context itself is much more interesting: This being Africa. Africa in general, and specifically a Kenyan village
exploding with more than a taste of the funky-violent beauty-terror of Mereilles’ favelas in his home-turf crime-spree
coming-of-age melodramedy-thriller best-use-of-“Kung Fu Fighting”-in-a-movie-ever City of God. The extras in this
movie are so much more engaging and authentic than the leads that Mereilles almost seems to be competing with himself,
to see if the plot-logistics from David "John Le Carré" Cornwell’s novel (adapted by Jeffrey Caine) can withstand his
own stylistic and atmospheric onslaught. Narratively, we learn that wimpy Justin deeply loves ballsy Tessa, and we learn
that Tessa is fighting a clandestine battle against corporate shites who definitely do not prioritize, as she ballsily does, the
welfare of the common people. (It’s much to do with disease and pharmaceutics -- very worthy topics, but onscreen
here not terribly interesting.) Can this doomed romance and Justin’s vaguely detectivey story even stand a chance against
the legions of locals who -- thanks to Mereilles’ pulsing, polychromatic, explosive style -- fill their every frame with more
intrigue and life than a dozen great screenplays? Well, the struggle is a valiant one, but in the end style (buttressed by
astounding sociological authenticity -- or hyper-authenticity) surely wins out over substance.
Part of the problem is ambition: Mereilles on the Hollywood payroll is afforded too many options, so he elects to try all of
them. This is evident in the storytelling, as the romance and the political grandstanding seem to come from two entirely
disparate stories, crudely fused together by endless close-ups of Weisz being “gloriously compassionate” -- and frankly
she was better in those Mummy movies. The problem of scattered focus is not helped by convoluted and show-offy
globetrotting, and is further complicated by Mereilles' stylistic abandon: Although the editing (by Claire Simpson) is tight
and often daring, we simply do not need a static master shot to be broken up by those god-damned annoying “shaky-
cam” hand-held close-ups which make everything look like a Gap commercial. Stop already! It looks terrible. Likewise,
the constant switching from freaky color-timing to oh-so-1990’s bleach-bypass processing (Goodnight, Messrs. Stone
and Soderbergh). To play around a little -- sure, great, go for it. But rather than playing around constantly, how’s about
zeroing in and intensifying the emotions (as in City of God)? Cinematographer César Charlone provides many beautiful
(even breathtaking) shots and inventive angles here, but all the obsessing over formal elements grows wearying. By the
time we return to clammy England with clammy Justin having a clammy dinner-meeting with extra-clammy Sir Bernard, I
was ready to shout: “Okay, everything’s SPIRULINA-GREEN! How very SICKLY! MESSAGE RECEIVED!”
The Constant Gardener is laced with layers of subplot involving Danny Huston playing a scumbag (if you’ve seen
Ivansxtc, you know he’s good at it), an excellent Donald Sumpter (Rosencrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead) playing a
surprising ally in Justin’s quest, and Gerard McSorley (taking a nasty turn from his work in Bloody Sunday) playing a
very big obstacle in Justin’s way (showcased in a golf scene which just about rips off Goldfinger, of all things). There’s
also a break for a funeral partway through, at which Ralph gets to riff on his melancholy abilities (again, veering
disturbingly close to staring), but he quickly levels out to solve a practical issue: The locals want to pour concrete on the
coffin to keep out grave-robbers, but Ralph won’t let them, stating that nothing grows in concrete. Um…corpses grow?
Such concepts keep the mind clicking when the political intrigue sputters. And speaking of the mind, way after the movie
should have ended, an extra-grizzled Pete Postlethwaite turns up to natter on, something about God having one’s head
whilst the Devil has one’s balls. Then everybody gets chased and runs and feels vaguely sorrowful. As long as the
movie’s still rolling, it’ll have to do (and at least things finally do arrive at a nicely satisfying climax).
Probably the best way to enjoy The Constant Gardener -- somehow I am reminded of The Tailor of Panama -- is not to
think about it too much, or at all. When it’s alive (which is often), just feel it. (But do note that, as with City of God, the
director evinces a fiery desire to show us filthy shit and then rub our faces in it.) The project arrives with an Oscar-type
pedigree, thus many people will love it simply because they are supposed to. Many will cheer Mereilles simply because
he’s a crackerjack and clearly a hard worker dedicated to his hard art. But personally I was sustained by the African
context, the truly poetic visions (and stellar music), the unflinching beauty and terror surrounding these specific people in
this specific place (the kids alone make things worthwhile). I’m very tempted to give top honors to Iris Müller, who cast
the extras. While this movie, unlike other Hollywood-Africa fare, lacks a strong central figure like Denzel Washington as
Steven Biko in the ever-awesome Cry Freedom or even Brando gleefully mocking ill-attained "authority" in A Dry White
Season, The Constant Gardener, set a little to the northeast, nonetheless has much going for it in its indelible imagery of
uniquely Kenyan life and death and the wrenching in-between. Peel away the melodramatic posturing and the stylistic
overkill, and the African poetry proves stunning and very hard to shake.
The Constant Gardener
Entertainment Value: 6/13
Style: 9/13
Philosophical Insight: 9/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, 11 September, 2005
The Constant Gardener digs style over substance.
BY GREGORY WEINKAUF
Ralph Fiennes always used to make me ralph, but he didn’t in The Constant Gardener, so either my constitution is
growing more hearty or his is. Possibly both. True, he delivers some embarrassingly-off “dork” mimicry early on, and
his whole “cashing in on the tragic-romance-starved English Patient crowd” approach could hardly be called
adventurous or noble (was there a contract clause about him stumbling again, bereft, through the desert?). But here
Ralph does bring surprises: He has tethered himself to a feral director (Fernando Mereilles, of City of God fame), he
rarely opts for his annoying “fluty voice,” and -- best of all -- not once did I catch him using his erstwhile-inescapable,
Andrew-McCarthy-glazed, little-boy-lost staring technique. Either because this movie is absolutely cut to ribbons and
reassembled via Frankenstein-like editing, or because Ralph has finally learned not to try to upstage every other inanimate
object onscreen, the man is apparently no longer a liability, which makes for a more enjoyable cinematic experience all
round. (He’s still second-fiddle to his brother in my book, but at least he’s working to settle that score.)
Criticizing anything at all about The Constant Gardener is asking for trouble, because it is the sort of movie that forms
pacts and alliances among the self-appointed elite, e.g.: “Oh my god, did you see Constant Gardener?” “Oh my god, yes!”
“Oh my god, isn’t it amazing?” “Oh my god, yes, it sure is amazing!” and so on. To admit openly that one merely liked
(or even didn’t like) a movie like this is begging for a critical pounding (“But you liked The Man, you non-amazing
swine!”), but so be it: I kinda liked The Constant Gardener -- and when I liked it, in sporadic bursts, I liked it a lot. But
not consistently. Each project to its own standards and appraisal.
The story here concerns Ralph playing Justin Quayle, a timid member of the British High Commission who massages
plants in his spare time. Whilst delivering a U.N.-themed lecture in London for the absent high-roller Sir Bernard Pellegrin
(Bill Nighy, always a pleasure, but only allowed one dismal note here), Quayle is rudely interrupted by a volatile upstart
named Tessa (Rachel Weisz), who shouts him down about British political apathy (and worse) until everybody else flees
the room. Basically, they meet ugly. Naturally, seconds later they are hastily removing one another’s clothing for some
very unsettling British near-nudity (key word: “wattles”), and boom: They’re man and wife in Kenya. And she’s eight and
a half months pregnant. And maybe she’s boinking her compassionate African doctor sidekick, Arnold (Hubert Koundé),
on the side. And maybe she’s dead. And maybe she’s provoking lusty Danny Huston to puke into a dirty sink. And
almost as if on a dare, the doggedly philanthropic spitfire drives poor Ralph precariously close to his old staring habit --
many, many times.
The context itself is much more interesting: This being Africa. Africa in general, and specifically a Kenyan village
exploding with more than a taste of the funky-violent beauty-terror of Mereilles’ favelas in his home-turf crime-spree
coming-of-age melodramedy-thriller best-use-of-“Kung Fu Fighting”-in-a-movie-ever City of God. The extras in this
movie are so much more engaging and authentic than the leads that Mereilles almost seems to be competing with himself,
to see if the plot-logistics from David "John Le Carré" Cornwell’s novel (adapted by Jeffrey Caine) can withstand his
own stylistic and atmospheric onslaught. Narratively, we learn that wimpy Justin deeply loves ballsy Tessa, and we learn
that Tessa is fighting a clandestine battle against corporate shites who definitely do not prioritize, as she ballsily does, the
welfare of the common people. (It’s much to do with disease and pharmaceutics -- very worthy topics, but onscreen
here not terribly interesting.) Can this doomed romance and Justin’s vaguely detectivey story even stand a chance against
the legions of locals who -- thanks to Mereilles’ pulsing, polychromatic, explosive style -- fill their every frame with more
intrigue and life than a dozen great screenplays? Well, the struggle is a valiant one, but in the end style (buttressed by
astounding sociological authenticity -- or hyper-authenticity) surely wins out over substance.
Part of the problem is ambition: Mereilles on the Hollywood payroll is afforded too many options, so he elects to try all of
them. This is evident in the storytelling, as the romance and the political grandstanding seem to come from two entirely
disparate stories, crudely fused together by endless close-ups of Weisz being “gloriously compassionate” -- and frankly
she was better in those Mummy movies. The problem of scattered focus is not helped by convoluted and show-offy
globetrotting, and is further complicated by Mereilles' stylistic abandon: Although the editing (by Claire Simpson) is tight
and often daring, we simply do not need a static master shot to be broken up by those god-damned annoying “shaky-
cam” hand-held close-ups which make everything look like a Gap commercial. Stop already! It looks terrible. Likewise,
the constant switching from freaky color-timing to oh-so-1990’s bleach-bypass processing (Goodnight, Messrs. Stone
and Soderbergh). To play around a little -- sure, great, go for it. But rather than playing around constantly, how’s about
zeroing in and intensifying the emotions (as in City of God)? Cinematographer César Charlone provides many beautiful
(even breathtaking) shots and inventive angles here, but all the obsessing over formal elements grows wearying. By the
time we return to clammy England with clammy Justin having a clammy dinner-meeting with extra-clammy Sir Bernard, I
was ready to shout: “Okay, everything’s SPIRULINA-GREEN! How very SICKLY! MESSAGE RECEIVED!”
The Constant Gardener is laced with layers of subplot involving Danny Huston playing a scumbag (if you’ve seen
Ivansxtc, you know he’s good at it), an excellent Donald Sumpter (Rosencrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead) playing a
surprising ally in Justin’s quest, and Gerard McSorley (taking a nasty turn from his work in Bloody Sunday) playing a
very big obstacle in Justin’s way (showcased in a golf scene which just about rips off Goldfinger, of all things). There’s
also a break for a funeral partway through, at which Ralph gets to riff on his melancholy abilities (again, veering
disturbingly close to staring), but he quickly levels out to solve a practical issue: The locals want to pour concrete on the
coffin to keep out grave-robbers, but Ralph won’t let them, stating that nothing grows in concrete. Um…corpses grow?
Such concepts keep the mind clicking when the political intrigue sputters. And speaking of the mind, way after the movie
should have ended, an extra-grizzled Pete Postlethwaite turns up to natter on, something about God having one’s head
whilst the Devil has one’s balls. Then everybody gets chased and runs and feels vaguely sorrowful. As long as the
movie’s still rolling, it’ll have to do (and at least things finally do arrive at a nicely satisfying climax).
Probably the best way to enjoy The Constant Gardener -- somehow I am reminded of The Tailor of Panama -- is not to
think about it too much, or at all. When it’s alive (which is often), just feel it. (But do note that, as with City of God, the
director evinces a fiery desire to show us filthy shit and then rub our faces in it.) The project arrives with an Oscar-type
pedigree, thus many people will love it simply because they are supposed to. Many will cheer Mereilles simply because
he’s a crackerjack and clearly a hard worker dedicated to his hard art. But personally I was sustained by the African
context, the truly poetic visions (and stellar music), the unflinching beauty and terror surrounding these specific people in
this specific place (the kids alone make things worthwhile). I’m very tempted to give top honors to Iris Müller, who cast
the extras. While this movie, unlike other Hollywood-Africa fare, lacks a strong central figure like Denzel Washington as
Steven Biko in the ever-awesome Cry Freedom or even Brando gleefully mocking ill-attained "authority" in A Dry White
Season, The Constant Gardener, set a little to the northeast, nonetheless has much going for it in its indelible imagery of
uniquely Kenyan life and death and the wrenching in-between. Peel away the melodramatic posturing and the stylistic
overkill, and the African poetry proves stunning and very hard to shake.
The Constant Gardener
Entertainment Value: 6/13
Style: 9/13
Philosophical Insight: 9/13
-Gregory Weinkauf, 11 September, 2005
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