home
***
CD-ROM
|
disk
|
FTP
|
other
***
search
/
TIME - Man of the Year
/
CompactPublishing-TimeMagazine-TimeManOfTheYear-Win31MSDOS.iso
/
moy
/
012092
/
0120420.000
< prev
next >
Wrap
Text File
|
1992-10-19
|
4KB
|
84 lines
CINEMA, Page 58The Ultimate Other Woman
By RICHARD SCHICKEL
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE
Directed by Curtis Hanson
Screenplay by Amanda Silver
What profit political correctness if you've got a nut case
for a nanny? That, in essence, is the issue confronting Claire
and Michael Bartel (Annabella Sciorra and Matt McCoy),
exemplary citizens of that citadel of the new civic
punctiliousness, Seattle.
As we meet them, the Bartels (who are just a little bit
too goopishly written and played) have one pluperfect daughter
and are expecting what turns out to be an ideal little brother
for her. Michael is a scientist doing what we understand to be
socially useful research. Claire does volunteer work at the
botanical gardens. Clearly they like to grow new things. At the
same time, however, they have a decent respect for tradition:
their house is a handsomely refurbished old place, tastefully
decorated with antique mission furniture.
Not that good fortune dulls their sense of social
responsibility. When they hire a handyman, he is (as they might
prefer to put it) "differently abled" -- a sweet-souled
retardate named Solomon (Ernie Hudson, in a nicely judged
performance). When in the course of a prenatal examination
Claire is sexually abused by a gynecologist, she comes to feel,
after suitable soul searching, that she has no choice but to
bring charges against the doctor in order to save others from
her experience.
Big -- if entirely understandable -- mistake. For the
ruined doctor commits suicide, and his wife Peyton (Rebecca De
Mornay) suffers both a miscarriage and a descent into madness
as a result of the trauma. Assuming a false name and a false air
of accommodation, she turns up at the Bartels', seeking work as
a mother's helper. And, of course, revenge.
Uh-oh, one thinks. Another deranged au pair from B-picture
hell, stirring up our anxieties about the relative strangers to
whom, in these busy times, we are obliged to entrust our
children. But Peyton, whose mannerliness is lit by lightning
flashes of rage, is something more than that. She is the
ultimate Other Woman. Her aim -- at least in the beginning --
is not to terrorize but to estrange Claire from her family,
strip her of husband, children and middle-class comforts, drive
her out as Peyton herself has been driven out, and then move in
and replace her.
The interloper, well played by De Mornay, is a subtle
operative. Her weapons are pur loined letters, ambiguously
dropped phrases, plausibly planted evidence of misconduct. And
Claire, though she lives by all the best values and tries hard
to be supermom and superwife, has her vulnerabilities. She
doesn't always have the energy to be sexy. Even minor stress
brings on incapacitating asthma attacks.
Both containing and facing many of the contemporary
middle-class woman's most common fears, Claire is not quite what
she sometimes seems to be and always aspires to be. Something
similar might be said about The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. It
wants to be something more than a one-weekend stand for the
slasher fans. Shrewdly conceived, soberly paced, decently
squeamish about gore, it wants to get its true audience --
people very like the Bartels, when you come right down to it --
muttering into their Chardonnay about how this particular movie
got them to thinking. And about how it just may be the first
movie to combine, however tentatively, the seemingly
antithetical conventions of feminist discourse and horror.