Either it's the season change or I'm morphing into the Madwoman of Chaillot. God. I am angsty and anxious and agitated or, as my nana would say, "Beth, you are being a pill!"

What gives? Is this merely work nerves? Aging? Normal frustrations? I have no fucking idea. All I know is you'd think I'd had a breakfast of piss and vinegar.

So, perhaps we should write off my write-up below. But I have to get it off my chest and move on. Last night we went out to see Little Miss Sunshine which was both quite enjoyable (the little girl Olive was PRECIOUS-- oh my god I loved her) and inflamed all my existential triggers.

Logically, I know this is all temporary. Planets crashing overhead, chemical reactions in my bloodstream, a glimpse of Bush's puppet in Iraq wound up to patter American mid-term election propaganda-- any of these could cause me to implode. I'm going to go work on my Halloween costume-- that should cool me down.

Meanwhile, here's what I came in to say.

Parts of this post will end up over in opine so that at some point in the future I can review it from a distance to see whether this response is yet another example of what a tiresome blowhard I?ve become or if I was actually able to articulate an opinion that I still hold.

Before I get into the details of why Marie Antoinette was such a profound disappointment for me, it is important to note that the simple fact that the film elicited a strong, emotional response is an indication of its inherent value as were it merely tripe I would?ve stepped over it and kept on walking down the street.

Also, bear in mind that I had Sofia Coppola up on a pedestal; I thought we were soul mates of the BFF variety. The sharp realization that this crush was nothing but a sophomoric projection of my own creative anima was as painful as any adolescent disillusion I ever experienced. (Actually, worse as the idol of my adolescence was Albert Camus and he wasn?t in any position to let me down seeing as he?d long since wrapped himself around a tree) My point being, that it?s my fault I expected so much from this film, not hers.

Enough. The film began well enough. I have no objection to Kirsten Dunst in the role aside from the fact that a 24 year old woman is never going to deliver the impact you might?ve gotten had you seen a 14-year old girl handed off like a Christmas ham wrapped in a blue ribbon.

Those early scenes had the most possibility for setting the tone for all that transpired, but, for me, they barely scratched the surface of capturing how it must have felt for a child to be ripped from everything and everyone she knew and thrust into a society so perverted and twisted with absurd protocols and frightening make-up and wigs that it would be like entering a bad dream with no escape.

The elements were there?they just weren?t unearthed.

From that point on, I had issues with the casting. Why Molly Shannon was in the film I?ll never know. Jason Schwartzman is a fine actor but he was totally miscast here and I hold Sofia responsible for both of these distractions. And if anybody wants to get up in my grille about how great a Jason did playing this role?I would argue all you could do was see HIM, the actor, trying to do this role.

But all of this would have been nothing. Midway into the film I was still there, still willing to suspend and follow my queen. For instance, I?ve read that some people took issue with the soundtrack of the film. Me? I loved it. I thought it was a brilliant move and helped to align this wacked-out society, where people line up to walk past the dauphin and dauphine to watch the royals eat lunch, with our own current crazed culture where whole magazines have been created to provide detailed shots of the throw pillows on beds of movie stars.

No, where I lost it was in the second half of the film which devolved into some kind of weird Vogue photo shoot cum feminine hygiene commercial?a stultifyingly boring montage.

I get that their life was frivolous. I get that there should be no substance to it. I get that it should have no meaning. The problem is that watching the film I distinctly felt that this was all Sofia could deliver. As a child who has lived in a similarly indulged and rarified world, she can only deliver prettily constructed tableaux. There was no underlying commentary. There were no layers. Not a one.

And, the French Court of Versailles which should have been terrifying in its caustic power was nothing but a bunch of cardboard cut-outs. Never frightening, never powerful.

Again, there were many opportunities to pull in the genuine human element but the film was nothing but surface. And, yes, I get it?they are all surface, isn?t this the intention of the filmmaker? Isn?t she a genius for creating this empty, hollow, yet gossamer spiral? A veritable Icarus careening toward the sun?

No. It is the film that is empty.

Who cares? I can hear it already. Who cares? Stupid story. Stupid creature. No import. Ah, here is where I?ll fight to the death. The story of Marie Antoinette is every bit as important as the ego imbalance, greed, and desire for power that we see in men who launch unprovoked attacks on sovereign nations, or rob the retirement funds from thousands of people so that they can have millions in their bank account. It is a compelling tale of how a person can be shaped by their environment.

I had only read two pieces concerning this film before I saw it?one was the review in The New Yorker that I completely glossed over (ha--now who?s shallow?) and an interview with Sofia where she brushed off the audience in Cannes who booed.

I was so certain that this film had been misunderstood. I was so certain I would love this film. And yet, the moment it concluded I was overwhelmed with a particular anger and a feeling I had never experienced in a film before: a tremendous desire to boo.

Now, feel free to cut my head off.

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