Four stars. Rating: PG-13, and quite stupidly, for fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 3.1.13
Music fills almost every frame of Quartet, whether created vicariously by this delightful story’s many talented
characters, or delivered via Dario Marianelli’s evocative score, as a means to
augment a reflective or dramatic moment.
 |
| Although Jean (Maggie Smith, right) initially refuses to become part of the musical community at Beecham House, even she can't resist the kind, bubbly enthusiasm of Cissy (Pauline Collins). But Jean also faces other issues, not the least of which is a fellow resident who happens to be a long-estranged lover. |
Dustin Hoffman’s thoroughly
engaging directorial debut, working from Ronald Harwood’s adaptation of his own
stage play, is another charming — if occasionally bittersweet — reminder that
life need not end at 60, 70 or even 80. We’ve seen quite a few such films
recently, and while it’s not true that Maggie Smith has been in all of them,
she certainly dominates this one.
And that’s no small thing, given
the cluster of scene-stealers with whom she shares the screen.
She stars as Jean Horton, a
once-celebrated opera vocalist fallen on hard times, whose career is naught but
a fading memory; she now must swallow her pride and accept government-supported
lodging at Beecham House, a retirement home for musicians. But we don’t meet
her right away; Harwood first introduces us to the celebratory warmth and magic
of Beecham itself, which echoes morning to night with the rich sounds of
pianos, strings, woodwinds and quite a few other orchestral instruments, along
with plenty of singing.
Beecham’s residents are a bit
more a-flutter than usual, because they’ll soon be performing in the retirement
home’s annual fundraiser, timed to celebrate the birthday of famed opera
composer Giuseppe Verdi. The event is being helmed by the imperious Cedric
Livingston (Michael Gambon), a fussy, fusty martinet who lounges about in day
robes and barks commands like a traffic cop.
He’s the only Beecham resident
who doesn't make his own music, and thus exemplifies the punch line of that
venerable saying: Those who can’t, direct. But nobody seems to mind; Cedric
merely clings to the remnants of the career he knows best, as they all do.
Contrasting Cedric is Reginald
(Tom Courtenay), a calm, quiet and emotionally withdrawn scholar who gives
occasional lessons in opera history to local teenagers. Harwood grants us a
glimpse of one such session, and it’s utterly enchanting; we expect poor Reggie
to be overwhelmed by these kids, but in fact his gentle but authoritative
delivery holds their attention — and ours — as he considers the intriguing
similarities between opera and rap.
Reggie’s best friend is Wilf
(Billy Connolly), a sly, randy goat forever trying to make time with Beecham’s
much younger doctor/administrator, Lucy Cogan (Sheridan Smith). Actually, Wilf
is equal-opportunity; he also flings passes at his peers and the various nurses
and staff members. One suspects that he wouldn’t quite know what to do if
somebody took him up on such an amorous offer ... then again, he’d clearly have
a good time working it out.
Reggie and Wilf customarily share
their meals with Cissy (Pauline Collins), a bright-eyed, effervescent bundle of
energy who — sadly — is beginning to tiptoe down the road toward dementia.
Sometimes we see the woman who must have captivated audiences as a performer:
quite bubbly and flirtatious. Then, unexpectedly, she simply disappears into
another region, often a fragment of her past pretending to be the here and now.
Collins handles this delicate
role superbly. At first, we assume Cissy is merely absent-minded; we then
realize that she spends far too much time enclosed within ear buds, wholly
absorbed by the “somewhere else” that music seems to transport her.
Despite the obvious propensity
for galloping egos, harmony reigns in Beecham ... at least, until Jean shows
up.
Smith’s arrival at this facility
is a masterpiece of silent drama, with poor Jean flinching at every new sight
and sound, during the drive up the grounds, like a frightened bird being
stalked by some unseen predator. In fairness, this could be the usual initial
reaction; Reggie, Wilf and Cissy might have been just as apprehensive, back in
the day, before adjusting to what has become a comfortable routine.
Jean, however, isn’t ready to be
agreeable; she isn’t even willing to socialize, insisting that her meals be
delivered to her room. Worse yet, she has contentious “history” with Reggie,
who is furious to learn of her arrival, angrier still that Dr. Cogan didn’t
warn him about it. Details are slow to come, but this much is immediately
obvious: Somewhere along the way, Jean broke his heart. And time has not healed
that particular wound.
To Cedric, though, Jean’s
presence is the answer to a prayer. Years and years ago, Reggie, Jean, Wilf and
Cissy shared the stage during a still-celebrated opera production; having them
together again, reviving the performance that cemented their collective fame,
means being able to charge premium prices for the upcoming gala ... and
therefore increases the chances of a box-office take large enough to keep
Beecham afloat.
Alas, this proves unlikely not
only because of Reggie’s hostility, but also because Jean has abandoned
singing. Performance stress and competition with her peers — one of whom, the
regal Anne Langley (Gwyneth Jones), also resides at Beecham — prompted Jean to
flee, almost in terror, from the demands of her own career. But this isn’t
something she can admit to anybody, and thus she behaves with waspish aloofness
toward everybody else in the retirement community.
And as we well know from Gosford
Park, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, eight Harry Potter movies and three
seasons (and counting!) of television’s Downton Abbey, nobody can deliver a
tart line better than Maggie Smith. Jean’s frosty jabs are to die for.
They’re also a self-defense
mechanism, and of course we understand this immediately. The uplifting,
resuscitating power of music notwithstanding, Beecham House can’t completely
conceal what it actually is: the final curtain call for these troupers. Many
(most?) of these people are present because they’ve already lost husbands,
wives and lovers: the people who’d be caring for them elsewhere, under ideal
circumstances.
Farewells obviously are a constant
occurrence, and Harwood doesn’t let us forget that, either.
The softly developing drama
unfolds in a rhythmic manner, Hoffman often interrupting — or punctuating —
intimate encounters with exuberant rehearsals or spontaneous recitals. Harwood
uses Jean’s character to stress his story’s key moral: Some of life’s cruel
twists cannot be changed, as with Cissy’s deepening dementia. But our
self-imposed constraints — withdrawal, apprehension, fear — can be overcome ...
and should be.
And we marvel at the cleverness
with which Harwood has developed these four characters. Reggie initially seems
the wise one, but in fact he’s shackled by his own bitterness; we eventually
recognize the long-suppressed pain that fills his eyes and constricts his
movements, once Jean appears. The flip, seemingly superficial Wilf actually is
the perceptive nurturer; pay close attention to the way Connolly hovers
protectively over Cissy, or the understated camaraderie that always cuts
through Reggie’s hardened exterior.
Cissy, in turn, remains this
group’s luminous heart, despite her tendency to drift. The mere thought of completely
losing her actual self is shattering. Collins’ performance is every bit as
subtle, Cissy’s emotional unpredictability every bit as compelling, as Smith’s
handling of Jean.
Hoffman’s directorial approach is
perhaps too leisurely, or Harwood’s screenplay a bit too sparse; the core
quartet and primary supporting characters — Cedric, Dr. Cogan — obviously would
have held audiences rapt during a live stage production, but this film would
benefit from opening up, to allow more time with Beecham’s other assorted
residents and staff members.
That said, there’s no denying the
delicate power of Hoffman’s visual sense; I love how he understands when to
have cinematographer John de Borman pull back, so that — for example —
Courtenay and Connolly are small figures at one corner of Beecham’s large and
luxurious grounds. Hoffman’s approach has a cadence every bit as structured as
the various bits of music being prepared for the Verdi gala.
Be sure, as well, to linger
during the closing credits, as now-and-then photos confirm that Hoffman filled
Beecham House with celebrated talents who’ve led long and glorious stage and
opera careers.
It’s the perfect coda to a
thoroughly charming little drama.
No comments:
Post a Comment