I WOULD guess the maniacs behind this bungled fairytale would be pleased to hear their film described as odd. Not odd the way a Monty Python sketch or a David Lynch film is odd, but odd like the odd feeling you sometimes get before you have to rush to the lavatory with your hand over your mouth.
The Penelope team - currently under heavy sedation behind high walls, I trust - deserve that second star for their undeniable chutzpah, but the film (finished in 2006) should have remained locked in the vaults.
Christina Ricci, failing conspicuously to reverse her career slump, stars as a young woman who, her family having long ago offended a testy witch, is cursed to live life with the nose and ears of a pig. A breathless prologue explains that only marriage to a "blueblood" can alleviate the effects of the spell.
With this in mind, Penelope's parents invite a parade of toffs to take tea and make conversation with the poor girl, but, upon catching sight of the snout, each one runs screaming down the driveway. Then James McAvoy - a posh bloke ruined by gambling - saunters into view. Surely nice old Jimmy will understand that true beauty is on the inside.
The picture, which seeks to occupy the buffer zone between Narnia and Roald Dahl Island, features (literally) unspeakable dialogue, frantic performances and a hypocritical denouement that betrays its big lesson.
An attempt is made to make a geographically slippery Nowhere of the characters' surroundings, but, as this simply involves shooting the film in London while encouraging everyone to talk in American accents, the effect is confusing rather than bewitching.
How on earth did this get made? How on earth did all these famous people get corralled into participating? Catherine O'Hara, Richard E Grant, Ronni Ancona, Russell Brand, Nigel Havers, Lenny Henry and Reese Witherspoon all put their heads round the door. Perhaps voodoo is involved.
More likely, the presence of Ms Witherspoon on the list of producers did the trick. No magic is as powerful as star power.
