3.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for dramatic intensity and brief profanity
By Derrick Bang
Family dysfunction is a longtime
cinema staple, and for obvious reasons: We feel much better about our own
lives, while vicariously experiencing the calamities others inflict upon
themselves.
John (John Krasinski), seeking a way to re-connect with his mother, Sally (Margo Martindale), impulsively sneaks a contraband breakfast into her hospital room one morning: pretzels and ice cream. |
But walking the fine line between
reasonable character flaws and exaggerated burlesque is a fine art; the
personalities in question must remain credible — at least to some degree — if
we’re to sympathize, and therefore consent to any lessons the writer may have
concealed within the anguish.
Scripter Jim Strouse manages
pretty well, with The Hollars. His
chaotic family study is both sweetly amusing and, at times, embarrassingly
intimate. The latter derives from the fine work, all around, delivered by a
top-notch ensemble cast led by the indomitable Margo Martindale.
The film is something of a
personal project for John Krasinski, who directs, co-produced and also
co-stars. It’s easy to see what drew him to this material, as Strouse includes
some perceptive truths — and uncomfortably accurate interpersonal dynamics —
amid this serio-comic study of a family in distress.
John Hollar (Krasinski) left his
middle-American small town years ago, to seek his fortune in New York City. He
lucked into a devoted — if somewhat insecure — girlfriend, Rebecca (Anna
Kendrick); they’re expecting a baby, but remain unmarried. This failure to
commit apparently derives from John’s dissatisfaction with a drone-like job
endured while he attempts to establish a career as a writer/artist of graphic
novels: a dream that just ... isn’t ... happening.
He’s summoned back home by the
news that his mother, Sally (Martindale), has been hospitalized with a
particularly nasty brain tumor. We get a sense that John, although inherently
kind and sensitive, has semi-estranged himself from a tempestuous family
environment; he returns to find that the flawed dynamic has blossomed into
full-blown crisis and chaos.
His father, Don (Richard
Jenkins), is inches away from losing the business he spent a lifetime building,
his entire staff unwilling to continue until they’re paid several weeks’ back
wages. Don also is hit the hardest by this medical crisis, literally crumbling
before everybody’s eyes.
Don and elder son Ron (Sharlto
Copley) are at each other’s throats, driven apart by differing opinions on how
their business should be run. The hot-headed Ron is something of an idiot
anyway, given to inappropriate non-sequiturs that reflect the sensitivity of a
9-year-old ... which is pretty much the way he usually behaves. Ron is further
distressed by an unhappy divorce from ex-wife Stacey (Ashley Dyke), which has
distanced him from the two young daughters he adores.
Ron therefore takes every
opportunity to spy on Stacey and the girls ... with binoculars, from within a
car parked just across the street from the house he once shared with them.
Which naturally troubles Stacey, whose current significant other — Dan (Josh
Groban), a local children’s pastor — does his best to defuse the situation. But
Dan’s unruffled calm merely infuriates Ron further (and their interactions are
pretty funny).
Once John reaches his mother’s
hospital bed, additional conflict emerges from her nurse, Jason (Charlie Day),
a long-ago high school buddy. Jason is none too pleased, because he’s married
to Gwen (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), a hottie who — back in the day — was John’s
steady girlfriend. John may have left her behind, but we soon discover that she
never lost her feelings for him.
Which, obviously, is the last
thing John needs, at the moment. It’s all so overwhelming that he resumes the
cigarette habit — including trying (and failing) to lie about it — that his
mother and Rebecca obviously chided him into quitting, at some point in the
past.
The first act, which establishes
all of these scenarios, is almost too difficult to watch; it’s deeply,
invasively personal, and we feel like voyeurs. And although these various
crises are enhanced for dramatic — and comedic — impact, none feels entirely
outside the realm of possibility. If the clashes, arguments and ill-advised
acts sound familiar, it’s because we’ve been there, to some degree.
Strouse has an uncanny ear for
family discord. And for the loving forgiveness that inevitably (hopefully)
follows.
To be fair, some of the set-ups are
a bit too contrived, as with John’s foolish
agreement to have dinner with Jason and Gwen, and the haste with which she
attempts to re-ignite old flames. The nervous John’s subsequent tell-all phone
confession to Rebecca also doesn’t quite ring true, although it serves the
purpose of bringing her into the mix. (Via an eight-hour cab ride. She’s rich.)
On the other hand, Strouse sets up
numerous moments of tenderness so acute that they hurt: none better than John’s
impulsive, loving act, as his mother is prepared for surgery. Also endearing:
when John shows up at Sally’s bedside one morning, with a breakfast definitely
not according to hospital dietary restrictions.
The Ron/Reverend Dan situation
also builds to a satisfying resolve.
What we eventually realize — this
is such an epiphany — is that
although Sally has been the matriarchal glue holding this family together, her
sheltering hand also has prevented everybody from moving forward. They’re stuck
in their individual, paralyzed ruts: unable to progress, or think for
themselves. I can’t help being impressed by Strouse’s perceptive wisdom.
Martindale — as always — is a
force of nature, albeit in a completely credible sense. She laughs and cries
with equal sincerity, Sally tut-tutting her husband’s tearful histrionics away,
or fixing Ron with a raised-eyebrow stare, upon learning of his latest antic.
Her gruff sangfroid is absolutely credible, as is Martindale’s shining moment,
when Sally — just before surgery — quite suddenly shatters.
No viewer can survive that scene
unmoved.
Jenkins, so often playing
characters in complete control, is equally credible as a man at the end of his
rope. (Heck, at the end of several
ropes.) Don’s very posture suggests fragility, his physical presence
debilitated by too much disappointment. He looks like a stiff breeze could blow
him away.
Kendrick unerringly nails the
right blend of control freak and nervous girlfriend, Rebecca obviously not
quite sure of John’s ability to go the distance. She knows that he wants to, but her concerns about
interfering circumstances are well placed. Kendrick keeps her vulnerable and
sympathetic; we bleed for Rebecca.
Copley’s Ron is irritating: a
festering sore whose behavior constantly grates. We want to reach into the
screen and smack some sense into the man ... which, of course, is the point.
He’s the black-sheep older brother who never got the big picture, and Copley deftly
catches that insufferable immaturity.
I’ve never cared for Day, who has
based his career on playing obnoxious, nasal-voiced twerps. He’s right on form
here, although — in fairness — Krasinski (as director) minimizes Day’s vocal
tics, while Strouse grants Jason a final scene with Don, that forgives some earlier
sins.
Winstead seems more a prop than
an actual character, and Randall Park never looks comfortable in his role as
Sally’s surgeon. Groban, on the other hand, is note-perfect as the benevolent,
smilingly tolerant Reverend Dan.
Amid all these slightly to hugely
damaged individuals, Krasinski’s John is the protagonist whose destiny seems
crucial. He’s the (essentially) “normal” character most likely able to get his
act together, if circumstances allow. Krasinski has a solid handle on John’s
insecurities and frustrations, while also smoothly transitioning — as the story
progresses — into becoming the subtle catalyst who will help everybody else.
It’s a broad emotional arc,
requiring careful nuance, and Krasinski handles it pretty well. He also
deserves credit for having coached similarly delicate work from everybody else.
Strouse’s
script isn’t note-perfect, as already established. But he scores far more often
than he misses, and patient viewers will be rewarded with a thoroughly
satisfying climax that addresses all of the emotional angst. The Hollars is a sweet little movie,
well deserving all the attention it can get.
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