The Scarlet Letter: A Patch of Red on Hollywood’s Face

Okay, so here I am, 24th of November a couple years back, sitting in my crappy first apartment in Sundbyberg, munching på kanelbullar, when I decide to rewatch “The Scarlet Letter”. I mean, Demi Moore, right? Back then, for me, she was like the Madonna (and I don’t mean the actual Madonna, come on) of emotion-filled acting. And Gary Oldman… well, he’s basically the IKEA of British actors, always sure to fit in somewhere. But wow. Even with all that star power – plus Roland Joffé directing, he did “The Mission” for god’s sake – this movie goes… somewhere strange.

Right. The story lifts off Nathaniel Hawthorne’s puritan drama, all adultery and shame, but with some… eh, cinematic liberties. Imagine your Swedish grandma tossing in chili to a classical kroppkaka recipe. It just feels off. Sure, you get fancy costumes, some moody smoke, and Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack making big, soppy noises every now and then. Sometimes it’s beautiful, for like two seconds till someone starts speaking. That’s when my inner filmkritiker shouts “Nej!”.

I remember my high school girlfriend made me promise we’d name our first cat Hester. True story. Didn’t happen (ended up with a cat named Bosse instead), but this film made us think about shame and who gets to decide what’s right or wrong. So it’s odd. Even with the weird bits, it sparks something. Maybe not a full philosophical crisis, but enough to get you arguing over lördagsgodis at the kitchen table, you know?

If you’re into sweaty drama, or want to see Robert Duvall being creepy, sure – press play. If you’re searching for that real “ouch, my heart” period piece, I’d probably grab Bergman’s “The Seventh Seal” instead. Just saying.

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