‘The Aftermath’

‘The Aftermath’



Those issues added up to immortal romance theatre for Bogie and Bergman at Casablanca. Matters aren't as blessed for the love triangle in the crux of The Aftermath, a stuffy, soggy slog of a film that fails to create a lick of sense.

However, Colonel Lewis Morgan (Jason Clarke) includes a gentleman's answer. He along with his German-hating spouse Rachael (Keira Knightley) will discuss the massive home they have requisitioned from local architect Stephen Lubert (Alexander Skarsgård) and also permit the widower and his eponymous adolescent daughter Freda (Flora Thiemann) to share the location together. In the loft, needless to say. There are limitations to sharing.

It is an excuse, actually, allowing Rachael and Stephen to get it while the colonel is away doing exactly what colonels do. You do not throw the gorgeousness of Knightley and Skarsgård to possess them pine off, imagining what it could be like to strip away from the time costumes of Bojana Nikitovic and make insane, nude love in the sensual mild offered by cinematographer Franz Lustig.

You also can not possess the viewer hating on both of these adulterers. The script is fast to reveal that Stephen is a fantastic German (he hates those damn Nazis) and Rachael's union is on the stones. The captain won't talk about his feelings of a family tragedy that nearly destroyed both their lifestyles. On the flip side, Stephen's feelings are simple to read. How he pushes his palms against Rachael's shoulder speaks volumes of romance books none of us must read. If you do not cry, there is a score by Martin Phipps, whose copious strings will probably shout for you.

Can a rewarding movie actually happen to be carved from the tear-jerking mess? It is possible. The wake of war would be a touchy issue for any filmmaker eager to dig deep to the strained relationship between the victors and the defeated. What is left is soap opera, leaving suds that the leading Knightley, Skarsgård and Clarke can not wash their performances.

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