Three stars. Rated PG-13, for thematic elements and fleeting profanity
By Derrick Bang
Overt sentimentality is a tough
sell in this cynical era, so director David Frankel is to be congratulated: For
the most part, his film manages to be sincerely poignant, without sliding too much into eye-rolling schmaltz.
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| While trying to finish a quiet, isolated dinner, Howard (Will Smith) is surprised — and quickly annoyed — to be confronted by the personification of Love (Keira Knightley), unaware that she's actually an actress hired to deceive him. |
Allan Loeb’s original script is
an audacious blend of It’s a Wonderful
Life and Charles Dickens’ A Christmas
Carol, reconfigured for modern times. That’s risky for all sorts of
reasons, most notably because “borrowing” from such beloved classics invites
comparisons that make most such endeavors fall short. Whether this update
succeeds will be up to each viewer’s tolerance for Frank Capra-style melodrama
(known as “Capra-corn,” back in the day).
This also is an unusual effort
from a writer best known for slapstick moron comedies such as The Switch, The Dilemma and (God help us) Here
Comes the Boom. But Loeb apparently has a more serious side, and he
wrestles with some fairly weighty concepts here. It’s easy to see why the
result piqued the interest of star Will Smith, who has demonstrated a fondness
for holiday-timed melodramas such as The
Pursuit of Happyness and Seven Pounds.
Smith is very good at morose
angst; he suffers persuasively, radiating anguish with an intensity that can be
painful to watch. We definitely feel for the guy, in such storylines, and — as a
given narrative progresses — we become invested in his search for salvation,
closure, relief or whatever else seems just beyond his reach.
He stars here as Howard, a
charismatic New York advertising executive with a flair for inspiring both
clients and staff. We meet him giving a warm pep talk to the employees of his
successful firm: a moment enjoyed equally by his longtime business partners —
and friends — Whit (Edward Norton), Claire (Kate Winslet) and Simon (Michael
Peña).
But that was then. Flash-forward
a few years later, as the story actually begins, and personal tragedy — the
death of his young daughter — has reduced Howard to a disheveled, morose and
perpetually silent shadow of his former self. He shows up to work each day
solely to build elaborate domino mazes, ultimately knocking down each creation,
then starting another. The business, left without its captain, has been sliding
into oblivion.
Whit, Claire and Simon don’t know
what to do. Every means of engaging Howard has been ignored or rebuffed, and —
because he owns controlling shares of their company — they can’t even act on a
friendly takeover offer. (We assume it’s friendly. Loeb’s script is a bit
sketchy on certain important details: a failing that becomes more noticeable as
the story proceeds.)
Trying to avoid the drastic step
of having Howard declared mentally incompetent, his three friends struggle to
find some other solution. Whit comes up with an improbable scheme, after they
intercept three unusual letters that Howard has written: tormented, angry notes
to the three universal concepts that he once insisted — as the means to win
clients — are essential to everyone’s life. He penned them during an impulsive
moment of fury, addressed to Love, Time and Death.
If they can’t bring Howard back
into the real world, Whit suggests, why not try to engage him in his current reality? He wrote enraged
notes to Love, Time and Death, so why not have those entities confront him, in
an effort to lure him back?
Serendipitously, Whit has just
encountered a trio of actors seeking financial sponsorship for their
off-off-off-Broadway play: Brigitte (Helen Mirren), Amy (Keira Knightley) and
Raffi (Jacob Latimore). To their credit, they’re appalled when Whit, Claire and
Simon make this outlandish proposal. Amy is particularly incensed, believing it
cruel (a point that’s hard to argue).
This is also a crucial moment for
viewers. If you can’t get past this premise — and it is asking a lot — then the rest of the film collapses, and you may
as well exit the theater.
The three actors eventually
agree, for a fat fee; Brigitte — who views herself a diva — actually relishes
the notion of playing a role such as Death. And, so, Howard subsequently is
visited by these three “entities,” under circumstances designed to enhance the
desired illusion (such as Claire pretending not to see Raffi’s Time, when he
shows up to chat with Howard in the office).
And, miraculously, the ruse seems
successful ... at least, to a degree. Howard does begin to come out of his shell, if only defiantly. Much more
importantly, and unbeknownst to everybody else, he finally works up the courage
to attend group sessions led by a warmly sympathetic grief counselor (Naomie
Harris, as Madeleine).
Alas, at about this point, it
becomes obvious that Loeb’s ambitious script has bitten off far more than it
can chew. Apparently not satisfied with the dramatic potential of Howard’s
situation, Loeb further lards the scenario by giving Whit, Claire and Simon
their own crises, allowing each of the actors — in their infinite “thespic
wisdom” — to address those, as well.
With varying degrees of success, normatively
speaking.
The core story involving Howard
holds our attention, due mostly to the earnest, heartfelt performances by Smith
and Harris. The three new subplots are trite and superficial, mostly because
Norton, Winslet and Peña aren’t given enough material with which to build fully
dimensioned characters. We simply don’t care about them; their “issues” aren’t
the slightest bit persuasive, and Claire’s “situation” doesn’t even get
resolved.
On top of which, everybody can anticipate this story’s
Big Reveal, which is telegraphed so blatantly that Western Union should get
royalties. (In fairness, a second twist may catch some viewers by surprise.)
Smith’s dominant role aside,
Mirren steals the show, even though — by a stopwatch — she isn’t seen that
often. Brigitte is lofty, whimsical and archly imperious, like a seasoned drama
coach forever trying to coax expressive candor from everybody she encounters.
Mirren’s smile and pixie gaze are as radiant as the brilliant blue coat she
wears, in one telling scene with Smith. She brings far more verisimilitude to
this material, than it probably deserves; were everybody performing at her
level, this larkish fantasy could have been much more successful.
Knightley is mischievously effervescent
as Amy, whose reluctant participation in this scheme gives her a bit of depth
wholly absent in Latimore’s Raffi, who’s no more than a one-dimensional
smartass.
I applaud the heartfelt sincerity
with which everybody tackled this project, and Loeb makes some strong,
perceptive statements about grief and recovery. But if his goal was the sort of
third-act epiphany that wholly transformed Ebenezer Scrooge, he falls far
short. At an economical 97 minutes, Frankel’s film certainly doesn’t wear out
its welcome, but that also isn’t enough time to address all the plot
contrivances raised within Loeb’s narrative.
When Howard looks over his
shoulder, during his climactic walk in Central Park — granting us the final
scene that we knew was coming — the moment may raise a smile, but it isn’t
nearly as satisfying as Frankel and Loeb undoubtedly intended.
An
oft-quoted stage and movie adage notes that dying is easy, while comedy is
hard. Sentiment may be harder still, and — good intentions notwithstanding — Collateral Beauty doesn’t quite get
there.
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