Hugh Grant and David Furnish were among the loyal godfathers who attended the premiere of Damian Hurley’s first film last week.
What did they think, sitting in the darkness of the Fulham cinema in west London, as the horror of Strictly Confidential unfolded before them?
They are professional men, stalwarts of the film industry, masters of their craft. David has won an Emmy. Hugh was an Oompa Loompa.
Can’t they say or do something? Shouldn’t they stop this madness, instead of encouraging the talentless Damian to make a fool of himself?
The movie is not terrible, it is not horrible, it is not bad, it is worse than all that. Because Strictly is strictly boring and clunky, devoid of a single interesting or original moment, thought, scene, shot or word.
Damian Hurley gives his mother Elizabeth a firm squeeze as they pose for the press at the screening of their film Strictly Confidential.
The actress, 58, stars in her son’s directorial debut, which sees her appearing in several steamy lesbian sex scenes with co-star Pear Chiravara.
Twenty-two-year-old Damian wrote and directed what is clearly intended to be a gentle erotic thriller set on a Caribbean island, but one critic has described it as a film that reveals its secrets with “the nonchalant plop of a daytime movie.” soap’. Emphasis on the plop.
Amid the melancholy sunsets, waves crashing on the shore, and intrusive music, Damian cast his own mother, Elizabeth Hurley, in the lead role of heartbroken matriarch Lily, who has a lesbian affair with one of her friends. daughter.
Calling Dr. Freud! Are you waiting for us, Oedipus?
There are several scenes in which old Liz plants her clammy hands on the upper thighs of nightclub singer Natasha (Pear Chiravara) in the manner of a short-sighted labradoodle breeder feeling a puppy’s flanks for dysplasia. hip. The daring couple even kiss, with Liz’s terrifying lips moving in for a kiss like a peach-glossy sink plunger seeking heat.
However, once you put aside the novelty of a nepo son exploiting his 58-year-old mother’s sex appeal for commercial and artistic gain, you’re left with a bunch of poshos joking around in bikinis and low-cut dresses: the count cleavage is Austin Powers-level: spouting dumb dialogue.
‘Maybe this will give us closure. God knows we could all use some,” says Lily, drenched in the kind of full-coverage midnight makeup typically seen on drag queens. The script is laughable; a texting broadcast between dumb teenagers. ‘I’m sorry!’ ‘So that?’ ‘It doesn’t matter!’
“We shot it in 18 days,” Damian says by way of excuse. “It’s just a bit of fun.” So why is it streaming on Prime Video, Fandango at Home, Apple TV, and Roku? What other writer/director would be allowed so much generosity and exposure in his first film?
The 22-year-old cast his model mother in the lead role, in which she directed their racy sex scene.
Look, nepo babies are a reality. From the calamitous and hopeless Brooklyn Beckham to Lily-Rose Depp and Kate Winslet finding a co-starring role for her daughter Mia Threapleton in a recent production called I Am Ruth, the rich and famous are always going to pressure their own descendants or relatives to who are at the front of the line for great jobs, and I don’t even blame them.
Why not? Let’s be honest: most of us could and would do exactly the same thing, if we had half the chance.
Since humans first emerged from the swamp, yak handlers, plumbers, nurses, gardeners, television executives, accountants, shop owners, jam makers, dog walkers, bankers and everyone else has used their influence and inside knowledge to encourage or introduce their nearest and dearest to the family business.
And journalism is no exception. Every newsroom I’ve worked in has had its share of SADOs (Sons and Daughters of), but here’s the thing: most of them are pretty good at their jobs. Inherited family traits can be intellectual and spiritual as well as physical.
And let us not overlook the natural gift, the predilection, the unrecognized ability and the reflex instincts absorbed from the father’s guidance and the mother’s milk; from bib to crib to Lottie Moss, half-sister of supermodel Kate, launching on the X-rated website Only Fans. “I love the creative freedom it gives me,” said Lottie, Kate’s lookalike, who earns £30,000 a month for cashing in on her genetic heritage and posing in trousers.
On the other hand, Rafe Spall may be Timothy Spall’s son, but they are both fantastic actors in their own right. Benedict Cumberbatch’s parents were both actors, successful enough to afford to send his son to Harrow, but his success is entirely his own. Two more words. Miley Cyrus.
The truth is that all dynasties prosper for a reason. I once worked Saturdays at my aunt’s hair salon, so I’m as guilty of cashing in on my family connections as Roman Kemp, and if you want an ammonium perm or peroxide-cap highlights, give me a call. My rates are still reasonable.
Meanwhile, the showbiz hierarchies will always plant their dull bulbs in the rich mulch of nepo manure, hoping they will bloom into magnificent celebrity flowers. But here’s my fear: isn’t the hype around Damian Hurley going too far? Too far away?
In the genetic lottery of life, Damian has had fabulous luck and tragic bad luck. A successful MAW (model, actor, whatever), he has the cheekbones, height and connections to make it all happen before he turns 25.
He’s charming and so hauntingly beautiful that he could be the alien son of Elizabeth Hurley and Keira Knightley, if such a thing were possible. And it could well be in his next film.
The couple have been promoting the film together in both the US and UK, pictured here in Chelsea for its London premiere.
However, Damian was 18 when Steve Bing, the billionaire father he had never met, took his own life in Los Angeles. That can’t be easy for him. Especially since Bing initially questioned his paternity and the legal dispute reached down to DNA.
But Mama Liz went into overdrive and assembled a team of wealthy and influential godparents to make up for the paternal void in her only son’s life.
They included Elton John, David Furnish, Hugh Grant, actor Denis Leary, American millionaire Teddy Forstmann and aristocrat Henry Dent-Brocklehurst, whose family owns Sudeley Castle, among others.
Liz didn’t sleep with all of them, at least that’s what I assume, but it says something good about her that she’s still friends with many of her exes. This includes her ex-husband Arun Nayar, whom Damian has always considered “Dada”, his key father figure.
Nayar was there for the Strictly Confidential premieres in both London and New York and I really take my hat off to him for that support. Especially since it’s been over a dozen years since he and Elizabeth divorced.
However, when Damian and She-Damian embarked on their publicity rounds to promote Strictly in London this week, the cloven hoof arose. Honestly, have this pair of complacent fools, mother and son, ever listened to themselves?
‘Oh God, I love all European cinema!’ shouted Damian on Virgin Radio. How much did Liz help make the movie? asked host Chris Evans. “I helped tremendously,” he purred, bristling with husky superiority and a Pussy Galore, The Grandma Years vibe.
Wearing a glamorous outfit, mom and son walk the red carpet at the 2024 Vanity Fair Oscar Party in Beverly Hills, California, last month.
On all the radio and television shows, Liz and Damian reiterated their mutual belief that it is absolutely fine for their only film qualification to be a childhood interest in making films.
“I got my first camcorder when I was eight years old and then I started writing and directing short films,” he said. “And Mom was the star of many of them.”
Shamelessly, Mama Liz even suggested on national radio that the tragedies Son Damian has suffered were the inspiration for his celluloid foam debut.
“He’s tapping into some sad elements that he had to deal with when he was too young,” he said without blushing.
Who do these ridiculous aspiring film auteurs think they are? Alfred Hitchcock and his muse Tippi Hedren? Steven Spielberg and the shark Jaws?
If Strictly Confidential wasn’t the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, then these publicity performances were: a masterclass in self-deception. You might not be surprised to know that Damian Hurley already has a new film project in the works.
“It’s the most favorite thing I’ve ever written,” he says, perhaps excluding that notebook where, as a child, he wrote “I love mom” a thousand times.
At the moment it is just waiting for financing. And the tragedy is that you won’t have to wait long.
