Far from Heaven is as Close to Hell as Heaven Allows

Far from Heaven (2002) is as close to hell as heaven, and fifties melodrama, allows (and that is saying something).  Norman Rockwell comes to mind.

On acid, that is.

It had me retching from the baby blue opening title sequence to the schmaltzy autumnal patterns in the closing credits.

I rarely watch bad movies because I eject them from consideration to begin with or once they have shown their true colors.  A special place exists in my rankings for “good movies” that I must rank as one star because they were so abysmally atrocious.  Thus, we have Far from Heaven.

A quick review shows that I am out-of-step with the critics and the general public, alike.  I’m kind of surprised at that, but not budging.  Hated it.

This is somewhat interesting because I have liked 1950s melodramas as they are a world unto themselves.  All That Heaven Allows comes to mind.  In fact, there are some loose parallels to All That Heaven Allows in the Far from Heaven disaster.

Part of my disdain must come from the long tail this era had.  If you were born in the fifties, you know what I mean.  It is quite possible you lived this movie or at least parts of it.  Gloved ladies in department stores, local society magazines, rigid stereotypes for everyone involved, and above all else, worry about what everyone else thinks of you.

This film takes the rigid stereotypes and puts them on steroids.  It would be funny, if not for stifling the urge to vomit throughout.  Syrup is great on pancakes unless you dump a whole water tower of the stuff on them.

This movie would be improved by giving it a John Waters treatment as the blackest of black comedies.

Fifties Movies Gifts on Zazzle

But, alas, as my movie menu stated, it is a sumptuous homage to the melodramas of the fifties.

Erp.

Here we have the darkest days of Ward and June Cleaver.

First, don’t adjust your set.  The color palette is interesting for a few minutes before nausea sets in.  It is almost as if the homage here is to the colorized films that came along later and not the originals of the fifties.  Yes, we get it, it is autumn in all its sumptuous autumnal glory up there in Hartford, Connecticut.

Next, aghast, there is a Negro in my backyard.  What is that colored person doing here?  The society writer suggests calling the police.  The way this is rendered takes a legitimate concern into the territory of arch stereotype.  It is hilariously and painfully bad.

However, the only thing I really admired about this film was Dennis Haysbert’s performance as an undercover sophisticate slumming as a lawn jockey.  This is really cringey.  He has a business degree, owns a small business, knows about art, and practically gets lynched for his troubles.

Then, the man of the house finds himself in a very repressed gay bar, gets caught by his suburban, but very understanding, wife, fails at some kind of medical gay conversion therapy, slaps his wife around when he fails at romancing her, and leaves her for a suspiciously under-age looking blonde boy-toy.  After initially treating the resolution of his “problems” as something like quitting smoking, all grouchy about it, his homosexual (she hates that word) crisis/torment ends in overwrought tears as he gives in to reality.  In a modern twist, she doesn’t even seem to give a rat’s rear end.

Finally, the neighbors and townsfolk get real gossipy and Jim Crow-like.  It’s really over-the-top as the incidents come fast and furious, but the lady of the house basically bends to their will.

When Far from Heaven was mercifully done, I was just relieved that the scandal sheets and society wags never got wind of the morphine-addled, mixed-race, gender-fluid, profoundly retarded teenager our “picture-perfect” couple had penned-up in its own filth in their basement jail cell.

Can you imagine?