Julia

Tilda Swinton is fearless. She’ll take on any role without her ego, paycheck, vanity or career path playing a part. All that matters, apparently, is whether the movie interests her, and whether she thinks she can do something interesting with the role. She almost always can. She hasn’t often been more fascinating than in “Julia,” a nerve-wracking thriller with a twisty plot and startling realism.
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Zonca has put together an ambitious and forthright story, but Swinton's contribution looks more like an actressy impersonation than a performance, and indeed Zonca's film itself looks like a European facsimile of Americana. Though impressive in some ways, the movie is straining too hard for its effects.
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As Julia struggles to survive her bad decisions, the film struggles to survive Julia. We never get a good look at her demons, just the havoc they wreak. The stakes get higher, a bad end looms large and Julia drinks less. But her stab at sobriety and accountability comes too late. We stopped caring a long time ago.
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There are few film actresses working today who can embrace the extremes of beauty and ugliness as persuasively as Tilda Swinton, and fewer still, I suspect, who have the guts to try. She’s a magnificent, bold, sometimes viscerally uncomfortable screen presence, with an otherworldly alabaster glow and a piercing gaze that seems to nail you to your seat. (She’s one of the few performers who justifies that overworked critical superlative, riveting.) When she’s on screen, you don’t want to look anywhere, even if the story is so bleak, so utterly and overwhelmingly pitiless that you want to look anywhere but at the screen, at anyone but her.
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