Snow Cake kicks off with a car crash and the rest of the film soon follows suit. This Canadian-set drama from British director Marc Evans offers a mesmerising bonfire of the vanities, crowned by the ludicrous pairing of Alan Rickman and Sigourney Weaver as a depressed murderer and a live-wire autistic woman who likes bouncing on trampolines. "Despite our faults we work quite well together, don't we?" chuckles Rickman at one stage. Perhaps Snow Cake will blossom into a lucrative comedy franchise, with a bevy of sequels involving more odd-couple escapades, more romantic misadventures. More trampolines.
Until then we are left with a sanctimonious little affair that deposits Rickman's doleful ex-con at Weaver's home in the run-up to her daughter's funeral. Despite mooching around town like the saddest camel on earth, Rickman improbably attracts the attentions of every woman he meets. A middle-aged busybody accosts him on the street to explain that she is a divorcee. The beautiful next-door neighbour (Carrie-Anne Moss) promptly drags him into bed. Even the cute veterinarian's assistant appears all set to fellate him by the rabbit hutch at a moment's notice.
If Rickman suffers these indignities like a man with his mind on other things, he's probably just shell-shocked by the antics of his co-star. Weaver's performance is so extravagantly awful, you can't take your eyes off it. When she is happy she gurgles, gurns and waves her arms like a demented mime. When she is upset, she flaps them in a fury, frets over the housework and shrilly orders Rickman to take out the trash. "I don't do garbage!" she roars, although in this case she has gallantly made an exception.
