"A New Door Opens For the South"

The Skeleton Key
directed by Iain Softley
written by Ehren Kruger

          The good thing about Louisiana’s current popularity with film productions, achieved through tax breaks and other incentives that make the state more attractive to movie shoots, is that even a dopey supernatural thriller such as The Skeleton Key provides some southern delights. Swampland plantations and delta blues records might be a bit generic, but they continue supporting the savory southern atmosphere necessary for greenhorn filmmakers and obtuse moviegoers. And for all the requisite clichés of streetcars, French Quarter “entresol houses” and crocodiles (I know its alligators, but in interviews Kate Hudson doesn’t, and that is the point), there are plenty of familiar elements that still interest the senses beyond assumptive recognition. Completely steeped in the region and its somewhat acceptable stereotypes, The Skeleton Key uses the civil battle between southern hospitality and northeastern impudence to illustrate the consequences of curiosity exhibited by snooping, interfering houseguests.
               Hudson plays Caroline Ellis, a transplanted caretaker from New Jersey, who is on a career path influenced by the loss of her father as only young women be in the movies(Twister, Contact, Lara Croft: Tomb Raider). Taking a job aiding stroke victim Ben Devereaux (John Hurt) on his boggy estate, she immediately clashes with the man’s wife Violet (Gena Rowlands), who prefers the job go to a well-mannered southerner. Caroline then causes more tension by allotting her abundant free time after giving baths and medication to meddling in the attic as she attempts to solve the mystery of what led to Ben’s affliction. As she becomes increasingly more suspicious of the wife, her actions and behavior develop into undeniable grounds for discharge, but she is never terminated because every girl prior has quit out of fear that the house is haunted by a Hoodoo curse. Never mind that the position is seemingly dispensable, with Violet fully capable of the work, the idea is that Caroline’s Yankee boldness makes her a good rival for the supposed ghosts.
             The movie could do well without all the black magic mumbo-jumbo and center on the cultural conflict between Caroline and Violet, but obviously the concern is more on cheap and cheesy fake-out chills and creepy props all leading up to yet another supernatural surprise-ending. The climax this time is so unexpected and ludicrous, yet slightly respectable in its nerve, that it diverts attention from any dissatisfaction with the stale build-up, which is good for those with short attention who later recall only parts they feel were pieces to a puzzle. But in the recap, along with the platitude it is easy to forget about Rowland’s notable balance between charm and venom, an evocation of old Hollywood tradition still shining through and damning the new. Hudson attempts to give hope to the Botox generation by using her three visible facial expressions (smiling squint, inquisitive squint and smart-alecky squint) as if there exists no others, nor any need for them, but she is merely a place-filler in a role capable of any young actress and her professional defeat by the elder Rowland is key.
             A southern distinction is also evident in the movie’s faults as New Orleans and its surrounding locations compleiment with unmistakable ambiance but collide with some of the negligent presumptions of nonnative artists. Peter Sarsgaard doesn’t display the worst Louisiana accent ever on screen, but his efforts overtake his performance as if he’s too uncomfortable with the voice to have any fun with his role as a trust lawyer befriended by Caroline. Meanwhile director Iain Softley takes the valuable scenery for granted by employing unimaginative camera tricks and weather elements that take away from the environmental particularity. Near the end when he suddenly decides to play with frame speed and film stock, the setting becomes momentarily inconsequential despite its ninety minutes of relevance beforehand.
            The south wins big in The Skeleton Key in both the film’s themes and its thoughtless treading on the territory, but winning big in a mostly inconsiderable release is still a small triumph compared to Hollywood’s constant misrepresentations. It is like winning Gettysburg against a Union Army dressed as clowns; the laughable circumstances resonate more than the single victory. Hopefully, though, the Louisiana Film Commission and The Skeleton Key will open doors to future advances in southern storytelling that aren’t outdone by awkward squandering and dazzling left turns.

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