Now that "doing a Delia" has entered Collins Dictionary, as an immortal token of Delia Smith's success in impressing her recipes on the national consciousness, I'm tempted to "do a Curtis".
Richard Curtis, writer of Four Weddings etc, and of Notting Hill, is currently the all-pervasive influence on British "relationship" comedies. Women Talking Dirty, an Elton John/David Furnish production directed by Coky Giedroyc and written by Isla Dewar, made two years ago, is out of the Curtis ready-mix packet.
Endlessly bright and upbeat, even when its two young things Cora and Ellen (promiscuously kooky Helena Bonham Carter with hair in multicoloured tufts, and steadier one-bloke Gina McKee) are under the Edinburgh weather, it flashes back through their several-years' relation-ship with personable but piggish chaps (Julien Lambroschini, James Purefoy) who ditch them.
The girls live with Bridget Jones untidiness in sparely but chicly decorated lofts and apartment courts in the pricy Scottish capital, near photogenic views of the castle, with no apparent need to do steady work or hold off landlords. Chummy parents "understand" Cora's need to accumulate kids sired by her live-in Frenchman or even her best friend's bloke. Neighbours are real treasures and include a posh lady concert pianist (Eileen Atkins) and those two stand-bys of Curtis comedies, a pair of gays (Richard Wilson, Kenneth Cranham), both long in the tooth but still capable of carrying in a home-made sherry trifle. Dinner parties with red candles and fancy napkins produce their ration of Curtis-style embarrassments, quickly resolved. And at the end, it's all much ado about nothing and nobody suffers, except perhaps Ellen's ex-husband, who forgets to take his horse-race winnings out of the big purple sofa when they split.
It's soap opera, fairy tale and female-buddy flick all in gift-wrapping paper. Despite that title, very little of the women's talk is dirty, though some, in braw Scots accents, is very near unintelligible.
Women Talking Dirty
Cert: cert15
