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UK 1997
Reviewed by Andy Medhurst
Our synopses give away the plot in full, including surprise twists.
Arrested in a Lancashire cemetery as she tries to dig up a grave, Maria McCardle tells the police what led up to this event...
Businessman Gary Ellis is convinced that his television-producer wife Tess is having an affair with Alex, a writer colleague. The stress of Gary's jealousy causes him to have a heart attack. He survives, but is so weakened he needs a wheelchair. Tess turns to Alex for the passionate sex Gary can no longer provide. Teenager Sean McCardle is killed in a road accident by Nicola Farmer who is high on cocaine. Sean's mother Maria agrees to donate his heart to a worthy recipient, and Gary undergoes the transplant operation. It is a great success, and chastened Tess breaks off her affair, despite still being strongly attracted to Alex. Gary tracks down Maria in order to find out more about Sean, thinking this will be a one-off meeting, but Maria, whose intense grief has left her disturbed, begins to turn up frequently at the Ellis' house. She dislikes and alarms Tess and grows ever closer to Gary, warning him that Tess cannot be trusted. Tess and Alex recommence their affair, and a security camera records them making love in a carpark. By chance, Gary sees the footage and, driven insane by jealousy, decides to confront and kill Alex. He accidentally kills Tess, but then murders Alex and commits suicide. Maria, who has followed Gary, takes back Sean's heart from Gary's body and travels to Sean's grave, where she is arrested. In prison she steals a pair of scissors and shuts herself in a cell with the prison's drug dealer, Nicola Farmer.
Bold, bloody and excessive, Heart is a wild gamble of a film, yoking together marital psychodrama, Catholic angst, sexual dementia and jet-black jokes. It deserves praise for its ambitions, but the final product topples into absurdity. Contemporary audiences, schooled in cool irony and hip detachment, are liable to find its almost Jacobean commitment to unwavering intensity more amusing than moving. If the film's writer Jimmy McGovern had used this plot as a storyline in his series Cracker, it might have come off, but as a breathlessly paced feature film without the forensic avuncularity of Robbie Coltrane to temper and contain its extremes, Heart is too headlong, too manic, simply too much.
The actors seem understandably bemused, caught as they are between a Pennines-based reworking of Fatal Attraction and a punch-drunk production of 'Tis Pity She's a Whore. Christopher Eccleston's cardiac Othello rages appropriately, and Kate Hardie as his wife Tess here and there adds some welcome touches of humanity, but Rhys Ifans can do nothing with the slithering wretchedness of Alex except enjoy his one-liners. Saskia Reeves has the hardest job, playing both the most over-the-edge Catholic woman since Kathleen Byron in Black Narcissus (1947) and a mother whose devotion to her son has uncomfortably carnal dimensions. In a scene typical of McGovern's determination not just to break taboos but to put them through a mincer, she tells Gary how she once calmed her infant son to sleep by performing fellatio on him. It is only Reeves' shrewdly judged portrayal of crazed conviction that keeps such moments watchable.
This is director Charles McDougall's first feature film after years of television work (he directed McGovern's Hillsborough), and he opts for a 'kid let loose in a sweet shop' aesthetic, revelling in aerial shots, ultra-rapid cuts and an average scene length of 90 seconds. Heart reels with a fanatical desperation to be 'cinematic', choosing to define that word by adhering to a visual rhetoric so crammed, swift and restless seasickness beckons. Further queasiness is guaranteed by the choice of loaded pop lyrics to bludgeon home meanings - the fragility of Tess and Gary's brief reconciliation scene is made shriekingly obvious by having Echo and the Bunnymen's 'Nothing Lasts Forever' as its soundtrack, while the gorily graphic transplant surgery is accompanied by Dionne Warwick's 'Anyone Who Had a Heart'. Such thumping crassness is mitigated elsewhere by McGovern's relish for daringly dark humour, best exemplified here by a train conductor who simply clips Maria's ticket and pretends not to notice her blood-soaked hands.
Given its hugely admirable intention to shun the polite naturalism of orthodox British cinema in favour of a more unbridled vibrancy, it's a dreadful shame that Heart isn't a better film. Once or twice it achieves the quivering transcendence of absolute melodrama that it aspires to secure throughout, and Catholic audiences will enjoy being horrified by the scandalous undercurrents of McGovern's symbol-drenched script. (Note the mad mother's name and then think about the perverse pietàs conjured up throughout the film.) Overall, however, it's little more than a well-meant mess.