Linda Lovelace’s special talent propels her to stardom as she hobnobs with high culture, but her abusive husband casts a pall on the seventies era fun.
This film is structured oddly. During the first hour or so, it delights in all the sex, fashion, sex, riches, and sex, and while it isn’t nearly as seductive as Boogie Nights or as a wild as The Wolf of Wall Street, Amanda Seyfried’s doe eyes certainly make it attractive. The second hour is dedicated to making us feel guilty about having fun. As a result the film becomes a reproach of the porn industry. This is fine, but the structure of the film seems aggressive and didactic.
Peter Sarsgaard is actually bad. It’s shocking, but his Ike Turner impression is cliched and without depth. Amanda Seyfried is perfect for Lovelace, but the film doesn’t give her much to play with. She is allowed to be sexy, and she is; she is allowed to be a victim, and she is; she is allowed to be triumphant, and she is. But the beats between these transitions aren’t fully explored.
Overall, this film had a lot of potential, but it doesn’t live up to it.
Lovelace
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