Priscilla movie review: A love story that's more smothering than sweet

Well, well, well, what have we here? We have Priscilla — Sofia Coppola's latest concoction of seduction, celebrity, and a dash of teenage naivety. As I sat through this cinematic journey into the golden age of Elvis and Priscilla, I couldn't help but feel like I was flipping through the pages of a vintage romance novel with a slightly worn cover. Sure, there's a certain allure to the tale of a young girl swept off her feet by the King of Rock and Roll, but Priscilla somehow manages to make it feel like a rose-tinted nightmare.

From the get-go, we're served a dose of nostalgia, complete with milkshakes in a West German diner and a young Priscilla, played quite convincingly by Cailee Spaeny, navigating the pitfalls of falling for a man who's not only twice her age but happens to be the undisputed musical sensation of the time — enter Jacob Elordi as the hip-shaking heartthrob himself.

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Coppola's touch is unmistakable in crafting visually appealing worlds that are, more often than not, gilded cages for her female protagonists. Priscilla, too, finds herself trapped in the lavish yet isolating confines of Graceland, where the line between adoration and derision becomes as blurry as an old black-and-white photograph.

Yet, for all its visual splendour and a commendable performance by Spaeny, Priscilla feels like it dances around the edges of its own potential. It's a film that knows it's hollow, a confection of slipper-pink nail polish and cutesy knick-knacks, but somehow, that acknowledgment doesn't elevate it beyond the realm of mere aesthetics. It's as if the film is aware of its own shortcomings but chooses not to dig deeper.

And speaking of digging deeper, Coppola, with her own lineage entwined with the cinematic world, could have provided a more nuanced exploration of the Presley marriage dynamics. Instead, Priscilla often feels like a faithful adaptation of Presley's memoir, lacking the grit and psychological dimensions that could have given it a more profound impact.

Sure, we get glimpses into Priscilla's struggles — the isolation, the compromises, the alleged infidelities of Elvis — but they feel like sketches rather than fully realised strokes on the canvas of a woman's life. It's a bit like looking at a masterpiece from afar and realising that, upon closer inspection, there are more shadows than substance.

As Priscilla navigates the glittering yet tumultuous world of fame and love, we are left wondering if there was a missed opportunity to explore the complexities of a woman finding her identity amidst the glitz and glamour. Coppola, much like Priscilla herself, chose the safety of the familiar over the risk of delving into the uncomfortable truths that could have made this biopic truly resonate.

In the end, Priscilla is a delicate masterwork that tiptoes around its subject matter, celebrating female self-ownership while remaining sympathetic and cautionary about the perils of losing oneself in the arms of a man. It's a film that knows its own artificiality, but whether it embraces it knowingly or succumbs to it inadvertently is a question left lingering.