Film Review: Philomena (dir. Frears, 2013)

From Chika Anadu’s great B For Boy to Anne Fontaine’s risible Adore motherhood proved to be the focus of a number of films in this year’s London Film Festival. Another notable connecting thread in this year’s fest was the resurgence of the buddy-buddy road movie in various guises, an aspect of works as diverse as Alexander Payne’s Nebraska, Arthur Landon’s Side By Side and Pawel Pawlikowski’s prize-winning Ida.

Stephen Frears’s latest, Philomena, combines both elements, focusing on the search of an Irish Catholic woman, Philomena Lee (Judi Dench), for the son she was forced to give up for adoption as an unwed teenager fifty years before. Alas, for all the acclaim that the film’s receiving, and for all that it’s inspired by emotive true events, Frears’s movie struck me as one of the more bogus and disappointing of the Festival’s major offerings.

 

Philomena’s quest to discover her son’s fate leads her from rural Ireland (where she’s meeting a wall of silence from religious authorities) to Washington D.C., in the company of Martin Sixsmith (Steve Coogan), the ex-BBC journo down on his luck after an unfortunate leaked comment, who becomes interested in Philomena’s story despite his initial disdain for “human interest” journalism. Adapted by Coogan and Jeff Pope from Sixsmith’s book The Lost Child of Philomena Lee, the film makes Philomena and Sixsmith’s double-act the focus, with the characters’ contrasting personalities – he Oxbridge, cynical, bolshie, atheist; she warm, curious, commonsensical, and, despite her experiences, still devoutly Catholic – played for plentiful odd couple comedy. The film also works out an irresistible parallel between the conservatism of fifties Ireland and eighties America and its effects on mother and son.

 

It’s a compelling story, no doubt, but one that sadly flounders due to the movie’s recourse to spelling-it-out obviousness at every single stage. With Philomena Frears has fashioned the kind of film in which everything is on the surface, every emotional beat emphasized in the King’s Speech manner. My feelings of foreboding about the director’s approach set in early, in a poor and painfully exposition-heavy opening sequence that clumsily sketches out Sixsmith’s past via TV news footage. And they were confirmed by the overwrought flashbacks showing Philomena’s parturition (“The pain is her punishment!” hisses one of the nasty nuns in a classic camp moment) and separation from her son. An example of Frears’s technique here: an early scene presents Sixsmith leaving a Christmas service as he tells his wife “I don’t believe in God” (information that you might think she’d already know). It’s followed immediately by a scene of Philomena reverently lighting a candle in church. Yes, the movie is really that crude and clunky in establishing its protagonists and their contrasting belief systems.

 

With weakly-drawn supporting characters disappearing as soon as they’ve served their plot function, Philomena is pretty much the Dench ‘n’ Coogan Show throughout and your response to it will doubtless depend on how delightful you deem their double act to be. Personally. I found myself resisting it. The fault, for me, lies mostly in Coogan and Pope’s script which, from an early “stool” gag onwards, too often opts for quipping over emotional insight and milks Philomena and Sixsmith’s interaction for crowd-pleasing comedy. It’s meant to be hilarious (and certainly a lot of viewers seemed to find it so) when Philomena pops out words like “bi-curious” and “clitoris” or alleges that homosexuality can be determined by a penchant for dungarees. At times, indeed, the film comes dangerously close to being a variant on The Trip with Dench replacing Rob Brydon. And when, in a religion-themed barney, Philomena tells Sixsmith that God would likely think the journalist “a feckin’ eejit” it’s the sorry spirit of Mrs. Brown’s Boys that’s looming large. It’s as if Frears, Coogan and Pope were screeching at the viewer: “You might have thought the subject matter was grim, but don’t worry. Look how funny we’re making this!"

Though the inadequate script does precisely nothing to give us a sense of Philomena’s life between the separation from her son and her present-day quest for him Dench, consummate actress that she is, brings some believable shadings to her characterisation, even when Coogan and Pope have Philomena twittering adorably about free transatlantic aeroplane drinks or the size of American buffet breakfasts. Alas, Coogan, who I’ve admired in films including Happy Endings and What Maisie Knew, is a singularly unappealing presence here, and by the time his Sixsmith is facing off with the nun responsible for Philomena’s tragedy (Barbara Jefford, playing as grim-faced a battle-axe as she did in The Deep Blue Sea) I found myself errantly hoping that the woman would rise from her wheelchair and smack him - such is the transparency and obviousness of the film’s Catholicism critique.

 

Frears certainly moves the movie along at a clip, but there’s a price to be paid for the film’s paciness: the whole thing feels superficial and just doesn’t go deep enough for the pain of parent/child separation that it’s meant to be exploring to really resonate. As a result Philomena has the quick-fix sketchiness of journalism or sitcom but gets nowhere near the richness of art. And as for that poster... Well, feck.

 

 

Philomena is on general UK release from 1 November.

Film Review: The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (Madden, 2011)

A group of Britishers find themselves variously disturbed, challenged, charmed and changed by a period spent at an establishment in India…? As coincidence would have it, I re-watched Black Narcissus (1947) shortly before seeing The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2011). And, well, the contrast between the two movies is marked, to say the least. For what’s turbulent, mysterious, unnerving and - frankly - erotic in Powell and Pressburger’s film comes out fairly safe, benign, comic and cosy in John Madden’s offering. Watching these two films, it’s easy to conclude that British cinema hasn’t so much progressed as regressed within the past 65 years. And yet the new film - indifferently reviewed but number one at the box office - has some elements of appeal.

Based on Deborah Moggach’s novel These Foolish Things, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel deposits its group of ageing-to-elderly characters (played by Judi Dench, Maggie Smith, Tom Wilkinson, Penelope Wilton, Bill Nighy, Celia Imrie and Ronald Pickup) at the Bangalore hotel of the title, a ramshackle guesthouse presided over by the eager though put-upon Sonny (a game but over-effusive Dev Patel). The group are there for a variety of contrived reasons - landing a job, having a hip replacement, tracking down an old lover, getting laid - and the film puts them through a variety of changes, some less predictable than others, it must be said.

India’s impact upon the English has of course been a popular topic for novelists and filmmakers, but The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel can’t be said to add a great deal to the culture-clash theme. At times - notably an unfortunate scene in which Dench’s character advises a group of Indian workers on what constitutes a good telephone manner - the picture acts as though postcolonialism had never happened. It’s not offensive, exactly: just oblivious.

Visually, the movie is mediocre - sallow-looking and poorly lit for the most part - and the script, by Ol Parker, feels under-worked. Wispy plot strands dangle loosely, and the tedious caste-crossing love story that constitutes Patel’s part of the proceedings generates zero interest. Indeed, the treatment of sexual and class issues leaves something to be desired. The melancholy gay character, “sympathetically” presented as he is, achieves a long-awaited moment of fulfilment and redemption - only to keel over dead a few minutes later. And it’s interesting that it’s the working-class character - dropping aitches and “comic” racist epithets - who’s initially made the biggest bigot, all the better to reveal her heart-of-gold by sympathetically connecting with an “untouchable” later in the film.

That The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel remains moderately enjoyable despite its obvious shortcomings is down to its deluxe cast, who contribute some believable human touches to their characterisations. Dench brings her special radiance - emotional transparency with a hint of something secret in reserve - to Evelyn, the cautious widow emerging from her comfort zone to embrace the possibility of change. Walking the teeming streets, she looks both touchingly vulnerable and heroically alert to new experiences. Quavering in Cockney, Maggie Smith reveals Muriel’s skills and sympathy as briskly and unsentimentally as she’s able. Tom Wilkinson underplays beautifully as he suggests the deep regrets that have haunted his character for decades. And Penelope Wilton and Bill Nighy sketch a marital history that comes out more nuanced, interesting and authentic than the Tom-and-Gerri love-in in Mike Leigh’s Another Year (2010).

Some of the performers aren’t so lucky - though enjoyable enough, Imrie and Pickup get most of the broad comedy bits, while Diana Hardcastle (responsible for one of my favourite moments on stage last year in A Delicate Balance with Wilton) is wasted as Carol, the lonely woman who Pickup finally scores with. Even so, it’s pleasurable to see such a strong British cast together on screen and the film does at least have the wit to play off of the actors’ previous collaborations at times; in particular, there’s a lovely brief exchange between Smith and Dench at the end in which the spirit of their history of film and stage partnerships is felt, ever so lightly.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel doesn’t have the charm of a comparable starry exercise in elderly empowerment such as Franco Zeffirelli's Tea with Mussolini (1999). But through the artistry of its actors, a fairly shallow enterprise gets a little bit of soul.

Review of 2010: Theatre - 10 Favourite Productions

While no single production stood out for me this year, 2010 certainly offered some incredible theatre experiences, of which the ten below - presented in order of viewing rather than preference - were among the ones that I enjoyed most. No new plays on the list, I’m sorry to note; again, this will hopefully be remedied in 2011. Click on the titles for full reviews of the productions.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Rose Theatre, Kingston)

In a year that saw some highly eccentric (though often exhilarating) takes on Shakespeare, it’s pleasing to recall Peter Hall’s marvellous traditional production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Rose Theatre. Full of fun and feeling, the production was elegantly designed, finely detailed and well-cast across the board, with particularly good work from Rachael Stirling, who brought a wondrous grandeur and intensity to Helena’s unrequited love for Demetrius. But, inevitably, the star of this particular show was Judi Dench whose Titania (via Elizabeth I!) was variously ethereal and earthy, and never more cherishable than when hee-hawing with delight at Oliver Chris’s adorably transmogrified Bottom.

Waiting For Godot (Theatre Royal Haymarket)

“Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon, my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot …” Somehow I never thought I’d shed tears during a Samuel Beckett play but Roger Rees’s delivery of Vladimir’s great late monologue moved me deeply, and exemplified the ways in which Sean Mathias’s brilliant production excavated the play’s tender, human heart.

London Assurance (National Theatre, Olivier)

Pitched somewhere between Restoration comedy and Whitehall farce, the National Theatre’s exuberant and utterly charming revival of Dion Boucicault’s 1841 comedy became something of a phenomenon. With deliciously florid, full-on star performances from Simon Russell Beale and Fiona Shaw, and great supporting turns from Richard Briers, Nick Sampson and Michelle Terry, Nicholas Hytner’s production gave pure pleasure from beginning to end, and I could happily watch it again tonight.

Women Beware Women (National Theatre, Olivier)

Marianne Elliot’s lavish staging of Middleton’s revenge tragedy had as many questionable ideas as good ones, and the elaborate (yet limp) staging of the final massacre was a silly and sad mistake. But at its best the production gripped like a motherfucker. It earns its place on this list due to the thrilling staging of the famed scene in which the fiendish Livia (Harriet Walter) distracts the Widow (Tilly Tremayne) with a game of chess so that the rape of the latter’s daughter-in-law can be accomplished. At such moments, Elliot’s production clearly had Middleton’s witty, warped vision entirely in its grasp.

Avenue Q (Wyndhams Theatre)

Thanks to the venerable Mr. Ian Foster at There Ought To Be Clowns whose great review persuaded me to experience the delights of this hilarious, adorable and insightful musical at long last.

The Thunderbolt (Orange Tree Theatre)

The best production that I saw at the Orange Tree Theatre this year, Sam Walters’s droll and very moving revival of Pinero’s play.

Hamlet (National Theatre, Olivier)

TV crews, security cameras, suited security guards with ear-pieces - I winced at the beginning of the NT’s Hamlet, and imagined that I was in for a miserable time. But by the end Hytner’s production had won me over entirely, and provided yet more reasons to love the Greatest Play Ever Written, not least Rory Kinnear, giving great Dane. 

Broken Glass (Tricycle Theatre)

Enticing me over to the Tricycle Theatre for the first (but definitely not the last!) time, Iqbal Khan’s stunning revival of Arthur Miller’s 1994 opus about the fall-out of Kristallnacht and its effect on a Jewish couple in Brooklyn ended up being perhaps my favourite production of the year. The extent to which Miller succeeds in linking what he calls “a public concern and a private neurosis” in Broken Glass is debatable. But the play’s flaws didn’t seem to matter very much, not with performances of this calibre: Antony Sher, Lucy Cohu, Nigel Lindsay, Madeline Potter and Emily Bruni were simply superb. Khan’s production was gripping, intense, haunting and beautiful; what a shame that it didn’t manage to transfer.

The Glass Menagerie (Young Vic)

While it didn't quite match Rupert Goold's immaculate 2007 production, great performances from Deborah Findlay, Leo Bill, Sinéad Matthews and Kyle Soller distinguished Joe Hill-Gibbons’s thoroughly involving revival of Tennessee Williams’s classic.

Richard III (Propeller; Yvonne Arnaud Theatre)

Combining vaudeville and Latin Mass, carols and rap, puppetry and torture porn, Ed Hall’s all-male Propeller company re-imagine Shakespeare’s most notorious history play as some gonzo Victorian medical drama. Chilling, funny and frequently barking mad, the production dug out the play’s political seriousness and its ghoulish comedy to produce as exciting and inventive a staging as I can ever imagine having the privilege to see.

And finally, a shout-out to those actors, writers and directors whose talks and Masterclasses have offered so much insight and inspiration throughout the year, in particular Fiona Shaw, Simon Russell Beale, Lesley Sharp, Miriam Margolyes, Deborah Findlay, Simon Callow, Willy Russell, and Judi Dench.