CINEMA: Sisters and a king

MORE slog than romp, The Other Boleyn Girl (rated PG-13) tells the salacious story of two hot blue bloods who ran amok and partly unclothed in the court of Henry VIII.

Best known for losing her head to the king, first metaphorically, then literally, Anne Boleyn (Natalie Portman, saucy), along with her sister, Mary (Scarlett Johansson, sedate), entered the court of the king (Eric Bana, brooding and glowering) when he was still wed to Catherine of Aragon (Ana Torrent).

A man of considerable and changeable appetites, the king yearned for a male heir and anything in a frock who wasn’t the queen. His sexual wish was their command.

According to this oddly plotted and frantically paced pastiche — written by Peter Morgan, directed by Justin Chadwick — the girls were more or less the Paris and Nicky Hilton of the Tudor court.

In the film’s version of the Boleyn family saga, based on the novel by Philippa Gregory of the same title, they were pimped out by their scheming, ambitious father, Sir Thomas (a spidery Mark Rylance), who sought to advance the family on the backs of his daughters while Mrs Sir Thomas (Kristin Scott Thomas) clucked darkly from the sidelines.

Forced to compete for kingly favours, the women were soon rivals.

The story of Anne Boleyn may sound as if it’s been cut from classier cloth than that delirious Robert Aldrich film, but history tells a juicier story.

One of Anne’s biographers, Joanna Denny, writes that while at the French court Mary got around.

Instead of letting the story rip, though, the film plays it safe and predictable by dividing the sisters into the bad brunette and gentle blonde.

The Boleyn sisters were the kind of trouble that can make for bodice-ripping entertainment, but they were also the kind of unruly women who sometimes risked burning.

Anne faced the sword, not the stake, but that’s jumping ahead of this story and its galloping horses, bustling gowns and rampaging royals.

It’s a marvel that something that feels so inert should have so much frenetic action.

Shot in high-definition video with a murky brown palette (perhaps to suggest tea-stained porcelain and teeth), the film is both underwritten and overedited.

Many of the scenes seem to have been whittled down to the nub, which at times turns it into a succession of wordless gestures and poses.

Given the generally risible dialogue, this isn’t a bad thing, despite Morgan’s previous credits (notably The Queen). Portman’s eyes, Bana’s hands and Johansson’s chin all receive vigorous workouts. — NYT