Family ties, even when the dynamic is volatile, can be intractably strong.
It’s biological: We’re conditioned to love our parents, even when doing so is self-destructive.
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| Lindsay (Haley Bennett, left), J.D. (Owen Asztalos) and their grandmother (Glenn Close) watch helplessly as events spiral out of control, thanks to an increasing police presence. |
Toss a toxic mother into the mix, and the boy should have been doomed.
But he didn’t merely survive; he thrived, eventually graduating from Ohio State and obtaining a Yale Law School degree. He depicted this journey in his 2016 memoir Hillbilly Elegy; the book became a best-seller and a finalist for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, embraced as a revealing glimpse of the white working class.
Under the sensitive guidance of director Ron Howard and scripter Vanessa Taylor — Oscar-nominated for co-writing 2017’s The Shape of Water — Vance’s saga has become an absorbing and frequently gut-wrenching Netflix original film. The narrative glides smoothly between two time periods: J.D.’s realization, as a young teen (Owen Asztalos), that his mother has serious problems; and his reluctant decision, while at Yale (now played by Gabriel Basso), to return to the home he has tried to forget, in order to navigate a fresh family crisis.
The film is dominated by two powerhouse performances: Amy Adams, as J.D.’s unstable, unkempt and vicious-tempered mother Bev; and Glenn Close as her mother Mamaw, who becomes J.D.’s surrogate parent. Both actresses chew up the scenery in grand style, but never to a degree that feels exaggerated or baroque.
The story’s power comes from the persuasive depictions of both women: Bev, most frequently unpleasant, but with unexpected bursts of motherly kindness; Mamaw, most often caring, in a tough-love manner, but quite capable of unleashing her own demons.
At first blush, though — as we meet young J.D., visiting his grandparents with his mother and older sister Lindsay (Haley Bennett) — the overall dynamic seems protectively loyal. The occasion of an extended family photo gives Howard an opportunity to flash through a series of similar photographic portraits, stretching back generations: a clear message that this Appalachian clan has long been proud, defiant and caring of its own.
But this is the final day of a summer vacation under the watchful gaze of Mamaw and Papaw (Bo Hopkins). When Bev drives her two children back home to Middletown, Ohio, the dynamic shifts. Lindsay decamps to the company of her boyfriend — and soon to be husband — Kevin (Jono Mitchell), leaving J.D. in the sole company of his mother.
Along with her revolving door of male companions (apparently an ongoing thing, since the boy got his last name — Vance — from husband No. 3).
Money is always tight; Bev’s lack of patience becomes chronic. The atmosphere is palpably tense, particularly given the strength of Asztalos’ performance; J.D. continually tries to be a calm presence, while attempting to navigate his mother’s increasingly explosive behavior. It’s genuinely heartbreaking, as the young teen begins to recognize that he can’t “solve” the situation.
The climax comes during a truly terrifying sequence, when Bev’s volcanic temper explodes beyond control; the feral rage on Adams’ face is the stuff of nightmares, and a shocked J.D. is convinced she’s going to kill him.
Years later, now at Yale, J.D. is on the verge of landing his dream job: a giddy moment interrupted by a phone call from Lindsay. Bev, now a heroin addict, has exhausted all her chances. Lindsay, with a family of her own to care for, can’t handle this on her own any more; can J.D. please come and help?
Basso’s anguished expression speaks volumes. We want him to refuse — he has just scored a crucial call-back interview! — but we understand that, regardless of conflicted feelings about his mother, he can’t let his sister down.
And so now we meet Bev 2.0, Adams having added a drug addict’s cunning insincerity to the woman’s already combustible package.
The key to this performance comes from the way Adams manages to insert vulnerability into Bev’s personality. As abusive, mean-spirited and self-destructive as her behavior becomes, at times helpless frustration shows through; we glimpse the anguish of a woman whose lifetime limitations were set in place when she became a teenage mother. Improbable as it seems, we do sympathize with her. (If only a little. And only occasionally.)
It’s far easier to relate to Close’s Mamaw, who better controls her outward self, thanks to the wisdom of her advanced years. But she’s still gruff, occasionally intolerant, and bluntly no-nonsense. Although she loves J.D. deeply, she’s not about to let him sloth off, or feel sorry for himself … which becomes more challenging when the boy falls in with bad company.
At which point we wonder: How in the world can this lost, forlorn young teenager turn into an accomplished law school student?
On a lighter note, Mamaw also is granted the most biting of Taylor’s tart one-liners, which Close delivers with shrewd comic timing: often as her eyes flash a warning.
Bennett is more quietly memorable as Lindsay. Her often silent, crestfallen expressions speak volumes about how much shemust have endured, as the initial target of Bev’s mercurial wrath, and how often she later must have protected J.D. during his early childhood years.
Freida Pinto is terrific as J.D.’s Yale girlfriend and law school classmate Usha: just the right blend of concern, encouragement and curiosity (because, up to this point, he hasn’t admitted much about his upbringing). It’s something of a dramatic cliché for this sort of crisis to drive a wedge between such a young couple, but Howard and Taylor don’t succumb … and it’s sorefreshing. J.D. and Usha are good for each other, and that doesn’t change.
The twin eras — mid 1990s and early 21st century — and locales feel wholly authentic: undoubtedly helped by production designer Molly Hughes’ Rust Belt upbringing. The Appalachian setting is a supporting character, in its own way: not always flattering, but there’s never a sense of judgment or scorn. These people have just as much dignity (and perhaps more) as most big-city dwellers.
I’m often intrigued by cinematic serendipity, and Hillbilly Elegymakes an excellent bookend to Uncle Frank, also in current release. Both films get their narrative intensity from excellent performances and an unflinching, even painfully intimate, dissection of uncomfortable family dynamics.
Both are powerful and memorable.
And instructive.
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