Mrs. Henderson Presents REVIEW

In a lot of ways, the Weinstein Company’s new film “Mrs. Henderson Presents” is their typical Oscar bait, but really, when it comes down to it, it’s truly not. On the yes side, it’s a London period piece that revolves around the theater, and stars Judi Dench. On the no side, it’s directed by art house wildcard Stephen Frears, and has an astonishing amount of nudity. Perhaps in an effort to channel some of that “Full Monty” charm, this is the story of the glory of full on-stage exposure. Of course, the story itself is not of the stripped, but of the stripees, so to speak. And in this case, it’s not poor male blue-collar guys taking off their clothes, but willing young English girls. These elements add up to create a wartime tale that has charm all over its surface, but can’t quite escape the seedy fact that its pedaling the leering of nubile young naked bodies. And that is exactly what Judi Dench’s theater owner Mrs. Henderson and Bob Hoskins’ Mr. Van Damme are doing, albeit in a vaguely justified way of making it “for the boys on the front”. Never mind that they were off and running with their vaudevillian nudie revue before WWII ever broke out. But that detail, among so many others, can be likely attributed to the fact that this is “inspired by a true story”, with source books credited to the actual Mr. Van Damme, as well as one of his grand daughters. However accurate this really is, it is engaging as well as entertaining, all the while skirting the real issues it could raise of voyeurism and indulging skin fantasy.

The story begins with the flighty, well-to-do Mrs. Henderson becoming widowed, and wondering just what to do with herself. Out of left field, she buys a dilapidated theater in London’s theater district, and promptly gut rehabs it into a revolutionary 24-hour American vaudeville-style free-for-all. She hires the incorrigible Mr. Van Damme, a no-nonsense, experienced theater manager to handle the day-to-day business and artistic decisions, and the two proceed to clash personalities all the way to the ever-loving end. It isn’t long before their fully clothed, all-day revue goes from overnight sensation to yesterday’s news. In an unheard-of attempt to reinvigorate their popularity, Mrs. Henderson puts forth the notion of having naked girls in the revue, taking after their Windmill Theater’s namesake, the Moulin Rouge of Paris. And besides, who doesn’t like naked girls? A brief search ensues, and soon they have a nice group of girls with just the right face & nipple combination that Mr. Van Damme is looking for.

Only one problem remains – all this public nudity is totally against the law of jolly London. So, in a particularly memorable scene, Mrs. Henderson wines and dines the local official, Lord Cromer, played by Christopher Guest, into allowing the show to go on. The compromise is that none of the girls on stage can move, thus equating them more to fine art museum pieces than bump n’ grind pole dancers, but in my observation objectifying them just the same, if not more. (How humanizing is a depiction of live person who can’t move or barely even breath?) Hence, the fancy affluent audience is quickly replaced with a crowd of lower-class male cat-callers, all having the time of their lives. The film is careful to present at least one of the naked girls as a fully fleshed out human being, even if the stage show itself never does, nor can.

The credits reveal that apparently Bob Hoskins was one of the major creative forces in making this film happen, and he is rewarded with a plum role for his efforts. Unfortunately the audience is rewarded with a full frontal shot of his character amid the rest of the splendid scenery. The moment is not a total wash, as Dench’s Mrs. Henderson seizes the opportunity for not only a revealing observation about Van Damme’s religion, but also the type of refined barbed zinger we’ve come to expect from these sly, oh-so-clever costume dramas. (Fear not, Dench herself never disrobes in this film.) Yes, the film is molded in much familiarity, using the spectacle of naked girls combined with World War II to set it apart. It’s almost everything a Weinstein could ask for at Oscar release time. Everything but the proper backbone a film like this could truly use. In the end, when we learn the true motivation of Mrs. Henderson and her insistence on showcasing naked girls, it feels rather featherweight, especially in light of the wartime shelling that so horribly ravages the city around them. This is not to say “Mrs. Henderson Presents” isn’t enjoyable – it most certainly is. It simply doesn’t live up to the semi-lofty aspirations it seems to set for itself as evidenced in its production values, its cast, and its studio chiefs.

Aging upper-class bohemian audiences (known here in St. Louis as “Film Festival goers”) will eat this picture up, with its ever-so-delightful and daring depictions of proper London turned on its head by both war and boobies (not necessarily in that order). The film almost seems to say that the latter is the more scandalous of the two, as the characters eventually are moved to use their revue in their own odd, patriotic way. Never mind that putting nude girls on stage for drooling servicemen (even as the stage numbers reflect Frears’ considerable eye for adapting classical art into 3-D space via angles and lighting – see his “Dangerous Liaisons” for more of that) is about as effective a way of combating the Axis forces as the café table dancing of “Swing Kids”. This isn’t exactly telling us to make love not war, after all, although the allure of the revue is always sexual in nature, the show itself never truly is. In portraying this, perhaps Hoskins and company just let the hot air out of every artist’s sails who ever claimed to use nudity for anything more highly minded than a skin fix. But none of that matters here, as long as the Weinstein’s get their nominations, and audiences have an uproarious good time. And at least half of that is certain.

- Jim Tudor