Four stars. Rating: PG-13, and quite needlessly, for fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.29.13
Some of them sneak up on us.
At first blush, Philomena seems
the sort of mildly detached, urbane dramedy that the Brits deliver so well: a
“two-hander” that places a prim, proper and deeply spiritual old woman in a car
with a cynical younger journalist. It’s a road trip, a genre with which we’re
quite familiar: These two disparate characters will get to know each other,
achieving mutual respect and trust as the journey continues. Cue the inevitable
happy conclusion.
Except that Philomena isn’t
like that at all.
Director Stephen Frears’ new film
is an acting showcase for star Judi Dench, who delivers yet another mesmerizing
performance. Co-star Steve Coogan is a revelation in a dramatic role: a quite
impressive change of pace for a confrontational British comic actor who has
been nothing short of irritating in gawdawful projects such as Hamlet 2 and Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story.
They’re marvelous together,
displaying an oil-and-vinegar dynamic that leaves us wondering, as the story
proceeds, which one will get fed up first, and tell the other to sod off. Now,
that's dramatic tension.
And, oh my goodness, the story.
Shattering, unforgettable, deeply moving and laced with surprises, right up to
the final scenes that deliver a truly unexpected — and frankly heart-stopping —
portrait of vicious, unrepentant evil.
If that didn’t pique your
curiosity, nothing will.
Coogan doesn’t merely play a
featured acting role; he also co-produced and co-wrote (with Jeff Pope) the
film, having been deeply touched by the book on which this factual story is
based: Martin Sixsmith’s The Lost Child of Philomena Lee. Up to this moment,
Coogan’s writing oeuvre has been similarly comic, often of the shrieking
variety; with Pope’s help, he nonetheless delivers a sensitive, restrained and
genuinely touching script.
Clearly, Coogan recognized that
he need not oversell the material with florid dialogue or acting histrionics;
the story’s core facts deliver their own emotional wallop. Besides which,
Frears (Dirty Pretty Things, The Queen and many others) is too accomplished
a director to allow that sort of nonsense. He guided Helen Mirren to an Academy
Award; he may well have done the same for Dench here.
Sixsmith began his career as a
BBC foreign correspondent, working various parts of the world for nearly two
decades before crossing the aisle in 1997, to join Tony Blair’s just-elected
government. Four years later, Sixsmith was linked to the scandal that enveloped
Jo Moore, a government spin doctor who got caught burying domestic “bad news”
in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in the States.
It’s important to note that
Sixsmith was on the right side of the scandal. Proof of his efforts to prevent
additional, similar behavior by Moore were leaked to the press, which made him
a pariah at 10 Downing Street ... not the first time an honorable man has been
made a scapegoat for doing the right thing.
I mention all this because Frears’
film fails to supply these details, and merely introduces Sixsmith (Coogan) as
a deeply frustrated — and newly unemployed — journalist and (vaguely defined)
government wonk who elicits crocodile pity from former colleagues who bump into
him at obligatory cocktail parties. With nothing on his plate but a feeble plan
to write a book on Russian history, Sixsmith’s midlife crisis makes him the
perfect mark during a chance encounter with a young woman named Jane (Anna
Maxwell Martin).
Having overheard that Martin is a
journalist, Jane offers what she believes is an intriguing story: Her mother,
Philomena (Dench), has just admitted that she bore a child out of wedlock 50
years earlier, while still a teenager. That being Ireland in 1952, she was
shunned by her family and sent to a Catholic convent in Roscrea, Co. Tipperary,
where she bore the child and then had to work as a drudge slave in the
convent’s laundry for close to four years, by way of “compensation.”
She and her fellow “fallen women”
were allowed to spend one hour per day with their children ... but not for
long. As we learn via a series of flashbacks that are intercut with Martin’s
gradual absorption of the saga, young Philomena — a shattering performance by
Sophie Kennedy Clark — eventually had to watch, heartbroken, as her little
Anthony was adopted, against her will, by another family.
Sixsmith balks at first; this
sounds like a “human interest story” — a derogatory form of journalism, in his
condescending view — and he’s “above” such pieces. But he’s also intrigued,
almost against his will, by Philomena’s gracious piousness; despite having
every reason to be furious with the convent, or to feel betrayed by her
Catholic faith, she is no less loyal to God and the convent sisters.
After all, what she did was a
sin, and she accepts that.
Besides which, the convent’s
current staff has been quite cordial with their willingness to help Philomena learn
what became of Anthony, a clandestine quest that she has pursued for decades.
It’s not their fault that the information is hard to come by.
At which point, Martin’s
journalist’s radar starts beeping, and our suspicious eyebrows flare.
People already baffled, annoyed
or outraged by the Catholic Church won’t find anything here to allay their
dismay; indeed, my astonished rhetorical question to Constant Companion, as we
exited the theater during last week’s preview screening, was “Are there no
depths to which that cruel, heartless institution won’t sink?”
The flashback sequences are bad
enough, but brace yourself: Things get much, much worse, as this saga takes its
startling twists and turns.
Although the mystery of Anthony’s
fate is a thoroughly absorbing quest, we’re primarily riveting by the unfolding
relationship between Philomena and Martin. She’s unfailingly polite and
genteel: a true lady in every sense of the word. He’s condescending, flip and
quite arrogant, not to mention exasperated by his new companion’s continued
defense of The Church.
The beauty of this relationship is
that, for all her anguish — and it’s considerable — Philomena is a much happier
soul, with her unsophisticated view of life, than Martin, who has consorted
with powerful movers and shakers. Yes, we’ve seen this scenario a million
times, with homespun wisdom proving more than a match for aristocratic
refinement ... but Dench and Coogan re-define the template, making it seem
fresh, sparkling, charming and insightful all over again.
We’re utterly captivated, even as
we gnash teeth as details come to light.
Dench’s performance is a
masterpiece of subtlety, Philomena’s cheerful visage not quite concealing the torment
in her eyes. She’s simple but not simple-minded — an important distinction —
and Philomena’s spontaneous displays of worldliness, played for gentle comic
effect, are as jarring to us as they are to Martin. Coogan’s eyebrows rise in
genuine shock; we laugh heartily, while noting Dench’s delicately smug look,
denoting the satisfaction Philomena gets from defying expectations.
(Philomena’s familiarity with the
modern era, and its social mores, results from her long service as a nurse, a
career about which we learn nothing ... just as we learn nothing about the
post-convent personal life that obviously included a marriage and produced at
least one child. Granted, such details aren’t that relevant to the narrative at
hand, but it would have been nice if Coogan and Pope’s script had filled in a
few particulars.)
At other times, Philomena drives
Martin crazy, as when he politely asks about a romance novel she has just read,
only to have her deliver a long-winded synopsis that covers every ... single
... detail. Coogan wisely underplays such moments, his deadpan gaze that of a
man who knows that he’s trapped, and can’t do a thing about it.
But, then, Martin’s impulsive
superiority similarly irritates Philomena, and she never hesitates to say as
much ... sometimes rather explosively, albeit at low volume.
These lighter exchanges
notwithstanding, the memorable acting takeaways — the moments guaranteed to haunt
— come during Philomena’s stricken reactions to bad or frustrating news,
another dead end, or the unrelenting battle taking place within her soul.
Dench’s shattered features are heartbreaking, particularly as Philomena
constantly struggles to absorb, as a perceptive adult, the degree to which she
was indeed mistreated, back in the day ... and whether this should impinge upon
her Catholic faith.
If forgiveness is divine, then Philomena
Lee truly deserves to be sanctified. And Dench makes us believe that
wholeheartedly.
Alexander Desplat, the modern
master of poignant and often wistful scores — consider his unforgettable work
for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button — delivers a sweet, understated and
unerringly tender musical accompaniment: as subtle as Dench’s performance.
As a behind-the-scenes sidebar,
Frears’ film made recent headlines when the Weinstein Company — handling the
U.S. release — objected to the frankly idiotic “R” rating assigned by our
unfailingly daft MPAA board. Dench resurrected her performance as James Bond’s
“M” to star with Coogan in a hilarious short film designed to poke fun at this
insufferable turn of events; Harvey Weinstein, never one to shy from a fight,
appealed the rating ... and won.
Which is as it should be, because
this film deserves to be seen by everybody, at all ages. It’s a timeless
depiction of grace under fire, and redemption, and the gratifying realization
that people can, indeed, become the heroes of their own stories.
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