Butler's Cinema Scene

“MR. MALCOLM’S LIST” My rating: C (In theaters)

117 minutes | MPAA rating: PG

The borderline insufferable “Mr. Malcolm’s List” owes its existence almost exclusively to “Bridgerton,” the Netflix Regency-era bodice ripper that melded multi-racial casting with Jane Austen-ish sensibilities and a good dose of heavy breathing.

Screenwriter Suzanne Allain (adapting her novel) and director Emma Holly Jones (the two also collaborated on a 2019 short film drawn from the book) have given us one of those costume-heavy romances of manners so popular with fans of Anglo-centric entertainment.

The gimmick — not that it’s much of a gimmick in the wake of “Bridgerton” and the recent Dev Patel “David Copperfield” — is that the many characters, from snooty aristocrats to household retainers, are played by a diverse cast representing many races.

Thus our heroine — the sweet, sensible, honest and basically broke Selina — is played by Indian star Freida Pinto of “Slumdog Millionaire” fame; her comically scheming, nose-in-the-air cousins are portrayed by Zawe Ashton (whose mother is Ugandan) and Oliver Jackson-Cohen (generic white guy, natch).

The Mr. Malcolm of the title — a fabulously wealthy gent who keeps a list of all the qualities he demands from a potential wife — is played by Sope Dirisu, who is of Nigerian descent.

There’s considerable talent on display given the credits of the many cast members, but all have been undone by the simpering, artificial tone imposed by the writing and directing. The players assume a sort of comic exaggeration that reeks of high school theatrics. I didn’t believe a minute of it.

Moreover, the film never took me by surprise. The plot appears to be strictly by the numbers…I say “appears” because I could only take about 45 minutes of “Mr. Malcolm’s List.” In the unlikely chance that the film utterly redeems itself in the last three reels, I hereby offer my apologies.

Production values are okay, but most of us are past the point where we’ll happily leave the theater whistling the gowns.

| Robert W. Butler