(Movie Reviews by Bob Racine)
The
phrase “fact based” is one I feel as if I have been running into far more than
usual in recent months. The creators of
the films to which I refer are acknowledging that there is a body of material
they are handling that can be documented but that liberties have been taken
with it for the purpose of telling an entertaining story. A disclaimer is being issued to the effect
that they have not raised any bar of truth telling so high that they feel the
need to be accountable to any court of authenticating inquiry. I have written about this in past reviews –
enough for me to have established that I am no purist in such matters. “The Insider,” the 1989 feature regarding the
exposure of the tobacco industry’s malfeasance which I examined in January,
does not contain one hundred percent fact, but it comes close enough that the
basic circumstances being dramatized are legitimately covered and enlarged
upon. The principle characters are
treated with journalistic justice, as is also the case with “Dallas Buyer’s
Club” and “12 Years a Slave,” more recently reviewed. These three might not have been literalistic
about facts but they are respectful of the truth embedded in those facts and
the identity and contribution of the characters portrayed. But I am having a little trouble in the
tolerance department regarding the two to which I now give my attention.
“Philomena”
gives an accounting of the struggle a mother, Philomena Lee, went through
trying to locate a son who was taken from her when she was but a teenager. She went fifty years without letting anybody
in her family or among her friends know of her experience, though not a day
went by in that half century that he was not present in her thoughts. Judy Dench gives a rich portrayal of the
woman, a very accurate one from all accounts.
She and the entire cast touch us deeply and the story plays to the
alternating rhythm of courage, hope, disappointment, forgiveness and
rediscovery.
The
screenplay begins with a flashback to 1951 when at sixteen she has a brief
sexual encounter that results in her pregnancy and her abandonment to an Irish
convent by her father. A strikingly
talented young actress named Sophie Kennedy Clark portrays the young distraught
Phil who has to watch her child being driven away by strangers, powerless to
stop them. Then we jump fifty years
ahead and the middle aged woman is breaking the news to her grown daughter Jane
(Anne Maxwell Martin). Upon her
daughter’s urging she enlists the help of journalist Martin Sixsmith (Steve
Coogan) to write the book that tells her tale.
Knowing that her son was adopted by an American family, she and Sixsmith
travel to the States to track him down, not knowing what they will find out. I am choosing not to tell anymore. Not knowing ahead of time what the search
uncovers allowed me to experience the woman’s inner conflict much more
personally and poignantly, and I wish all who see it the same depth of
experience.
I
recommend the movie without hesitation for all who enjoy an adventure of the
heart and soul that brings completion to a human life, especially someone who
has suffered unjustly. “I don’t want to hate anybody.” That appears to be the attitude, the
sentiment that guided Phil through the whole enquiry, the line beautifully delivered
at a tense moment of truth by Ms. Dench.
Stephen Frears’ direction is appropriately gentle and delicate, sounding
out the humor as well as the pathos in the drama.
My
only disappointment is in learning afterward that the contribution of Sixsmith
has been greatly exaggerated. He wrote
the book “The Lost Child of Philomena Lee” and deserves credit for giving the
woman a voice. But it was the daughter
Jane who made the journey to the States with her mother. She did the digging that the movie credits to
Sixsmith, the digging that not only turned up an amazing series of developments
but also exposed the dishonest dealings of the convent and the manner in which
it exploited a child in its care. If I
were she, I would be very hurt and disappointed, maybe not to the point of
suing but to the point of making a serious and loud complaint. Steve Coogan not only played the writer, he
composed the screenplay and co-produced the film. It appears to me that he wanted to create a
role for himself and reduced Jane to a minor player seen only on three brief
occasions in the footage. That is a
little too much license to suit me. But
at least, as I have already stated, Ms. Lee herself is given a fair shake.
The
person who gets anything but that is P.T. Travers, author of the world famous
children’s classic “Mary Poppins.” The
screenplay of “Saving Mr. Banks” is presumably about how Walt Disney (Tom
Hanks) cajoled her into signing over permission for the character to be the
subject of a movie. We of course all
know the outcome – the 1964 extravaganza that made a screen star out of Julie
Andrews, broke box office records as they had been established at that time,
advanced the art of combining live action and animation and introduced a
melange of original songs that still linger in the corporate memory. But in the final analysis “Saving Mr. Banks”
is one of those films that for all its spirit of fun never really justifies
being made. The whole premise is
false. Ms. Travers was nothing like the
stubborn and starchy prude that Emma Thompson portrays her to be. She was a quite sophisticated lady who lived
a very free-wheeling life long before it was cool or hip to do so. Just Google her and you will see for
yourself. She put a lot of heart and
soul into the planning of that musical, even though she had some reservations
at first about having Mary sing. It was
not she who played Disney; it was he who played her. She did not know until she sat for the
premiere that animation would be used against her wishes in visualizing the
fantasy characters. It is not surprising
that the Disney Corporation waited until after her death to make this
frolic. She might have had a stroke
watching it. There is not a single new
tune heard on this soundtrack, only a rehash of some of those composed for the
original picture.
As
in “Philomena” the current action is intercut with scenes from the woman’s
childhood. But unlike it, I could never
close the gap between that childhood and this straight-laced bore that Emma
Thompson has created. In the flashbacks
she is depicted as quite the adorable sweet kid with a sick but very loving and
attentive father whom she loses to a fatal disease early on, a child who rises
above the sadness and stress of her family life. There is also a dreaminess about her that I
cannot detect anywhere in the troublesome individual that Tom Hanks’ Disney
partners with. It is like watching two
separate films that do not really match up.
A movie that stands in the
lengthening shadow of an all time classic by which it is enormously
overshadowed! To what point? What I wish the Disney Corporation had done
with the money they wasted on this needless trifle is set up a new theatrical
release of “Mary Poppins” itself, celebrating its fiftieth year. At least two generations of kids have come
and gone, kids that have not seen it and probably have little familiarity with
it, if any at all. But “Saving Mr.
Banks” did have one positive effect on me and my wife Ruby: It reawakened our
yen to see that musical once more. That
is what I recommend to my readers. A flying, otherworldly nanny
(Julie Andrews) and a versatile clown (Dick Van Dyke) take two undervalued
children in Victorian England on the outing of their lives. The child in all of us will yet thrill to
this magnificent chunk of magic and make believe. Out-of-this-world orchestration, dancing and
lyrics – all offered in jumbo servings!
Take the jolly holiday trip with Mary and her friends. You can get it from Netflix.
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com. To learn
about me consult on the website the blog entry for August 9, 2013.
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