However stumbling into at least one of the cinematic features that normally put me off—namely, the uncountable montages, because they always feel like a facile narrative trick that only succeeds in pushing me away from what interests me the most, the characters, especially these, which are brilliant—there’s a certain charm to Priscilla’s candid sincerity that didn’t leave me untouched or, for that matter, not entertained.
Where another director would have probably fallen into the temptation of shooting scenes of sex, excesses, or various abuses, Sofia Coppola finds her story elsewhere, with taste and discretion, allowing her voice to be stronger than the canon as to both the subject, the themes, and the genre. Not only she refuses to embrace the myth. She deconstructs the perceived sense of exceptionality of both the protagonists and their story into common terms of normality, to then chase and eventually find a truer, more human, and profound essence.
Almost forgot, the gigantic and charismatic Jacob Elordi plays the best Elvis I remember having seen on screen. Ignoring size and physiognomy—haven’t checked, but I doubt that Elvis was so statuesque—he has just the controlled, understated demeanour and intriguing shyness, whether genuine or faked, the King used to exhibit off-stage and during interviews.
