By Eleanor Ringel Cater
We all know Barbie is pretty in pink.
Her movie, however, is only pretty good. And it’s very pink.
The Peptol Bismol pink that drenches Greta Gerwig’s “Barbie” is actually one of the picture’s best aspects. The production design is knowingly incorporated into the film’s overall theme and reinforces the self-awareness that’s essential to the movie.
Gerwig, who made the wonderful “Ladybird” and the even more wonderful “Little Women,” is, no question, a player. So is her co-writer and real-life partner, Noah Baumbach (“Marriage Story,” “The Squid and the Whale”). The good news is that “Barbie” is a smash hit.
The less-good news is that “Barbie” is, at best, half a movie. It’s as if Gerwig had the idea that a movie about the celebrated doll could also be a vehicle for some spoon-fed feminism – more badly needed than you’d think if you look at some of the grotesque Internet backlash – but couldn’t really come up with a script that could carry out her theme.
Essentially, Barbie (the marvelous Margot Robbie, also a producer) must leave her perfect Barbie Land after having thoughts of death and cellulite. She and Ken (Ryan Gosling, also brilliant) end up in the questionably “real” world of southern California, where he learns about the patriarchy and how much fun it is to read books about trucks, and she learns…well…what most women have learned since the beginning of time: guys rule.
Random example: what do coaches, even the most benign, enlightened coaches, call their players when they haven’t done well?
Ladies.
Or, more simply, you throw like a girl.
Anyway, Barbie learns things. Ken learns things. Will Ferrell as the clueless head of Mattel learns nothing. And the source of all wisdom is Ruth Handler (Rhea Perlman) who created Barbie by ripping off a German sex doll (she named it after her daughter).
So much for the movie, which disappointed me but has delighted many, as its humungous box office has shown. And a hit movie floats all boats (check out the “Oppenheimer” returns). The thought occurs: is Barbie the next Tom Cruise?
Click here for Hannah Elise Jones’ complementary review of “Barbie.”
But – bad segue here – what was on screen was the least memorable part of my second visit to the newly re-opened Tara Theater. As a native Atlantan, I remember when the Tara and its sister theater, the Twelve Oaks, debuted in the late ‘60s. We’d already been through Selma and sit-ins and yet nobody I knew winced at the idea of naming two new theaters after Old South plantations (yes, fictional, but still).
What Chris Escobar has done with the Tara is a marvel. It’s a true act of movie love at its purest (and smartest). Beyond such niceties as a caring staff, spotless restrooms, excellent presentation of product, etc., there’s a sense of history, respect and affection. The auditoriums are named after the guys who helped the Tara happen: Jack Halpern, Kenny Blank, George Lefont and Eddie Parrott (google ‘em).
The lobby is filled with jaw-droppingly unique memorabilia. Stuff like pre-digital projectors (for film). A huge movie boom. A moviola machine (think that’s what it’s called) showing an old William S. Hart cowboy short.
The concession stand, which is where you also buy your ticket, is well-maintained with a backdrop that not only welcomes you back to the Tara but also clearly lists costs, which speeds things up considerably.
And they care about customers. The day I went to “Barbie,” there’d been a technical glitch with “Oppenheimer.” The guy who sold me my ticket and my Goobers took a moment to explain that was why “Barbie” might start a few minutes late (like, seven minutes, it turned out). I’ve been going to the movies for decades, and I’m not sure that’s ever happened before.
Of course, there are movie posters and lobby cards everywhere you look, ranging from “The King of Comedy” and “Kagemusha” to “Ghost” and “Heaven’s Gate.” This is a place where it really pays to get to the movie early – not just to get a good seat but to look around at the care Escobar has lavished on the environment.
One caveat: there’s a poster for the disgusting Al Pacino movie, “Scent of a Woman.”
It has to go.
Otherwise, movie time at the Tara: perfection.
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