There are very few films that I would be totally content to watch on mute. Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette, Terri Gilliam’s Brazil and now, Stephen Frears’ Cheri. I wanted to dissolve into the celluloid and exist surrounded by those blues, greens and golds for eternity. The Art Nouveau luster of this film made the story seem like fluffy whip cream on top of the most spectacularly artful cake imagined.

Not to take anything away from the always beautiful and immensely talented Michelle Pfeiffer. Her portrayal of an aging, but always realistic, courtesan was skillfully constructed. The balance of beauty and emotion clearly conveyed by the subtle raise of an eyebrow, or shift of a smile.

And Rupert Friend, always easy on the eyes, did a fantastic job of being a complacent, spoiled, son of a whore. You couldn’t help but understand his plight, even if you would not begin to sympathize with him.

The story was quaint and the ending emotionally, if not actually abrupt. But the visual display (swoon) was unparalleled. Michelle Pfeiffer’s costumes alone made me hunger for the days when women truly dressed for tea, even the wanton ones. Her hats were like fine sculptures. Her furnishings like perfectly composed symphonies. Each room a separate movement played by an orchestra of color, texture, pattern and light.

It takes a lot to get me out of the house to see a film. Truth be told, I knew next to nothing about this one other than it was a period film about a boy named Cheri. Still, I left the theater feeling much like I had just left a museum. I was delighted and uplifted and emotionally satiated. Cheri is a perfect window into a beautiful world. Forget the debauchery and the disparate age difference dilemma. Like watching a painting that just so happens to change for 2 hours, its Art in Film form. Its message is one that holds true on a universal, and timeless level, but its glamour is distinctly that of memory.

Words by Barbie Brady