edward, don't lick max

In a very "that was so last season" moment, I saw Penelope a few nights ago on a whim; the film was at my Dollar Theatre and with one final night free from yet another semester of school, I took the chance for a last huzzah. And what a huzzah it was.

I wasn't expecting anything more than a pig-nosed Christina Ricci (so maybe such ambivalence is the key to my post-viewing raptures), but Penelope is a dashing mix of Amelie color and Tim Burton whimsy that I fell head-over-toes for. Her bedroom alone is worth the ticket and the two hours; a glorious palette of deep sages and muted golds, a collection of nature's offerings that any botanist might envy, a swing fit for a fairy queen strung up right smack-dab in the middle of the honeyed space. Outside of her sumptuous sanctuary, the story moves in some sort of suspended reality, pairing top of the line security cameras with ancient typewriters, retro Atlantic City neons with modern cityscapes, and a punked-out Reese Witherspoon to contrast Penelope's antique femininity. Never entirely sure how to locate yourself in a world where British accents run into American dialect unexplained, Penelope envelopes the audience in a whirl of fairytale reminiscent of a beloved childhood daydream.

While, yes, the dialogue doesn't quite keep up with the visuals, this film deserves so much more love than it ever received. Penelope's wide-eyed inner beauty is perfect family fare, a princess tale among the best of them. The minute it's out on DVD, it's on my shelf. And I rarely, if ever, make such a purchase. But Penelope? She's worth every penny.

{Oh, did I mention James McAvoy? As if his smile alone isn't reason enough . . . Go. See. Love.}