The movie begins with the success of "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand (Helen Mirrin) and covers the next fifteen or so years of her rise to the top of a collective movement known as "objectivism," which became a kind of cult with Rand as the golden-gowned Inca empress. What a dull movie.
Let's see. Mirrin is married to Frank (Peter Fonda), an alcholic wimp who paints and cultivates flowers. The couple take under their wing an admiring young married couple, Eric Stoltz and Julie Delpy. (I'm going to skip the characters' names because they're unimportant historically and dramatically.) Mirrin develops a maternal affection for Stoltz that soon enough blossoms into something more physical. Julie Delpy twigs to this. We know so because she confronts Stoltz: "She loves you! And you love HER!" Mirren and Stoltz meet together with their spouses and tell the truth. They want an open marriage, meaning Mirren and Stoltz get to hump each others' brains out without the same privilege being extended to Fonda and Delpy. The spouses grant Mirren and Stoltz one afternoon a week alone, but the pair have so much fun they begin bootlegging more hours into the arrangement.
Delpy, meanwhile, is having anxiety attacks, which are nerve wracking, as I can testify. In despair she calls Mirren from a café, begging to come to her for advice and succor, and Mirren comes back with a blistering accusation of selfishness. I'm not sure the screenplay recognizes the irony here, because Ayn Rand's "objectivist philosophy" is nothing if it is not a glorification of selfishness. Anyway, a kindly passer-by notices Delpy collapsing in the phone booth and he's a sensitive, caring type, a musician, and escorts her home. The relationship grows warmer but Delpy refuses to break her marriage vows and -- yawn -- excuse me -- she asks Stoltz for the same open-marriage arrangement that he's got. He balks.
He's got nothing to balk about. He's a practicing clinical psychologist and one of his patients, a beautiful young woman, Sybil Temtchine, develops a severe case of what we practicing clinical psychologists call "transference," not uncommon in neurotics. Rather less common is the way Stoltz exhibits what we practicing psychologists call "counter-transference." He humps her brains out too. To such an extent that Mirren begins musing aloud, "When was the last time we made love?" Are you confused yet? I only ask because I'm a little gemischt myself.
At any rate, Stoltz develops a case of conscious or something -- I may have had a period of microsleep at this point -- and resigns from the Institute. Mirren slaps him around, accuses him of treachery, and does her level best to destroy him. But the stalwart Delpy sticks with her husband and resigns in sympathy.
In the end, objectivism has become a terrific success after the publication of Rand's last book, "Atlas Shrugged," although the critics bombed it, and she makes lots of dough on the lecture circuit -- bold, unashamed before challenging questions from the crowd, full of wisecracks, reveling in her celebrity and money. It must be wonderful to have no doubts about one's self.
No viewer will learn very much about objectivism. It's not the central topic of the movie. The title tells it all -- "The Passion of Ayn Rand." That passion extended far beyond any desire to educate or convert the public. It encompassed power, possessions, and wealth.
What more is there to say about this dreary story. There's so much strenuous and lubricious sex in it that it could have shown up late at night on Cinemax except that the girls would all need bigger bosoms, something along the lines of watermelons. The musical score is mostly slow, sad, muted trumpet, straight out of "Miles Davis Plays Music for Lovers." The dialog sucks. "Did you talk to her about our problems?" "OUR problems? You mean that you don't like sex anymore?" There's an interesting story that was waiting to be built around the rise (and subsequent decline) of objectivism. How -- exactly -- does a cult begin? You need a charismatic figure, of course, and Ayn Rand provided it. Then you typically get proprietary sexual relationships and the concomitant jealousies or self abnegation. The difference between objectivism and most cults is that Rand's had a political, even a metaphysical flavor, whereas most are built around some variant of religious salvation. But cults, like Christianity was when it began, need an organizer and solidifier to follow the charismatic founder when he shuffles off this mortal coil. Christianity at least had St. Paul, but who was there to follow Ayn Rand, to organize the objectivists? Her husband Frank? The elderly and reclusive Frank, who lived off Rand's leavings? Frank, the mediocre painter? The wimp who loved Los Angeles because you could grow a greater variety of flowers there? I once spoke to an architect about "The Fountainhead." It's hero's architectural genius creates a gas station that one fictional critic calls, "An insolent 'No' flung in the face of history." "It's all very well," my architect friend admitted, "if you're a genius. But what about the rest of us, who are no more than good at what we do?" Yes. An interesting story is hidden in the shadows of this abject production, but it remains to be told.
Let's see. Mirrin is married to Frank (Peter Fonda), an alcholic wimp who paints and cultivates flowers. The couple take under their wing an admiring young married couple, Eric Stoltz and Julie Delpy. (I'm going to skip the characters' names because they're unimportant historically and dramatically.) Mirrin develops a maternal affection for Stoltz that soon enough blossoms into something more physical. Julie Delpy twigs to this. We know so because she confronts Stoltz: "She loves you! And you love HER!" Mirren and Stoltz meet together with their spouses and tell the truth. They want an open marriage, meaning Mirren and Stoltz get to hump each others' brains out without the same privilege being extended to Fonda and Delpy. The spouses grant Mirren and Stoltz one afternoon a week alone, but the pair have so much fun they begin bootlegging more hours into the arrangement.
Delpy, meanwhile, is having anxiety attacks, which are nerve wracking, as I can testify. In despair she calls Mirren from a café, begging to come to her for advice and succor, and Mirren comes back with a blistering accusation of selfishness. I'm not sure the screenplay recognizes the irony here, because Ayn Rand's "objectivist philosophy" is nothing if it is not a glorification of selfishness. Anyway, a kindly passer-by notices Delpy collapsing in the phone booth and he's a sensitive, caring type, a musician, and escorts her home. The relationship grows warmer but Delpy refuses to break her marriage vows and -- yawn -- excuse me -- she asks Stoltz for the same open-marriage arrangement that he's got. He balks.
He's got nothing to balk about. He's a practicing clinical psychologist and one of his patients, a beautiful young woman, Sybil Temtchine, develops a severe case of what we practicing clinical psychologists call "transference," not uncommon in neurotics. Rather less common is the way Stoltz exhibits what we practicing psychologists call "counter-transference." He humps her brains out too. To such an extent that Mirren begins musing aloud, "When was the last time we made love?" Are you confused yet? I only ask because I'm a little gemischt myself.
At any rate, Stoltz develops a case of conscious or something -- I may have had a period of microsleep at this point -- and resigns from the Institute. Mirren slaps him around, accuses him of treachery, and does her level best to destroy him. But the stalwart Delpy sticks with her husband and resigns in sympathy.
In the end, objectivism has become a terrific success after the publication of Rand's last book, "Atlas Shrugged," although the critics bombed it, and she makes lots of dough on the lecture circuit -- bold, unashamed before challenging questions from the crowd, full of wisecracks, reveling in her celebrity and money. It must be wonderful to have no doubts about one's self.
No viewer will learn very much about objectivism. It's not the central topic of the movie. The title tells it all -- "The Passion of Ayn Rand." That passion extended far beyond any desire to educate or convert the public. It encompassed power, possessions, and wealth.
What more is there to say about this dreary story. There's so much strenuous and lubricious sex in it that it could have shown up late at night on Cinemax except that the girls would all need bigger bosoms, something along the lines of watermelons. The musical score is mostly slow, sad, muted trumpet, straight out of "Miles Davis Plays Music for Lovers." The dialog sucks. "Did you talk to her about our problems?" "OUR problems? You mean that you don't like sex anymore?" There's an interesting story that was waiting to be built around the rise (and subsequent decline) of objectivism. How -- exactly -- does a cult begin? You need a charismatic figure, of course, and Ayn Rand provided it. Then you typically get proprietary sexual relationships and the concomitant jealousies or self abnegation. The difference between objectivism and most cults is that Rand's had a political, even a metaphysical flavor, whereas most are built around some variant of religious salvation. But cults, like Christianity was when it began, need an organizer and solidifier to follow the charismatic founder when he shuffles off this mortal coil. Christianity at least had St. Paul, but who was there to follow Ayn Rand, to organize the objectivists? Her husband Frank? The elderly and reclusive Frank, who lived off Rand's leavings? Frank, the mediocre painter? The wimp who loved Los Angeles because you could grow a greater variety of flowers there? I once spoke to an architect about "The Fountainhead." It's hero's architectural genius creates a gas station that one fictional critic calls, "An insolent 'No' flung in the face of history." "It's all very well," my architect friend admitted, "if you're a genius. But what about the rest of us, who are no more than good at what we do?" Yes. An interesting story is hidden in the shadows of this abject production, but it remains to be told.