If Bill Nighy were able to shift a single eyebrow, I’ve no doubt the resulting expression would convey a wealth of emotion.
He’s that good.
His performance here, as a morose, quietly contemplative civil servant, is a masterpiece of nuance. Nighy’s dialogue is spare; when speaking, he brings a wealth of depth and significance to every word, every syllable. And even when silent, his posture and gaze convey everything we need to know about this man, at each moment.
Williams (Bill Nighy) is surprised to find Margaret (Aimee Lou Wood) working as a
waitress at her new posting, knowing that she took the job under the belief that she'd
be an assistant manager.
Some actors are born to play a particular role, and I can’t imagine anybody but Nighy playing this one. It will, I’m sure, remain his crown jewel.
Director Oliver Hermanus and scripter Kazuo Ishiguro deliver a meticulously faithful adaptation of Akira Kurosawa’s 1952 classic, Ikiru, which in turn borrowed heavily from Leo Tolstoy’s 1886 novella, The Death of Ivan Ilyich. (All concerned also owe a significant debt to Charles Dickens’ Bleak House.)
The year is 1953, the setting London: still struggling to recover from the bombing raids of World War II. Mr. Williams (Nighy), a lonely widower known by colleagues as “The Old Man,” is head of one department in a multi-story government building laden with similar subdivisions, all of which work hard at having nothing to do with each other.
Which is to say, most of these nattily attired men are hardly working.
It’s a bureaucratic maze of “D-19s,” “K Stacks” and countless other forms and protocols, where suggestions, proposals, petitions and heartfelt entreaties go to die, after being shuttled between — as just a few examples — Parks, Planning, Cleansing & Sewage, and Public Works (the latter a deliciously ironic oxymoron).
Public Works is Williams’ department, and whenever a folder shuttles back into his hands, he places in amid countless others on his desk. “We can keep it here,” Nighy sighs, in a disinterested tone. “There’s no harm.”
Rest assured, it’ll never be viewed again.
All of this is a shock to idealistic newbie Peter Wakeling (Alex Sharp), who is dismayed to find a similar mountain of paper at his desk. Secretary Margaret Harris (Aimee Lou Wood), sympathetic to his first-day confusion, quietly advises Peter to maintain the height of his “skyscraper” of unfinished work, lest colleagues suspect him of “not having anything very important to do.”
And Peter’s colleagues are a bored and useless bunch: Middleton (Adrian Rawlins), next in line for leadership, should Williams ever retire; and Rusbridger (Hubert Burton) and Hart (Oliver Chris), wannabe young toffs constantly snickering at somebody else’s expense.
That includes three ladies from Chester Street (Zoe Boyle, Lia Williams and Jessica Flood), who’ve been trying for months to have a children’s playground built upon the bombed-out remnants of an open lot in their neighborhood. Every department head agrees that this is a fine proposal, and well presented; every department head then insists that somebody else must take the first step.
“We can keep it here,” Williams drones, when the folder inevitably returns to Public Works. “There’s no harm.”
(Actually, I’m not sure things have gotten much better in the here and now.)
As it happens, this is no average day; Williams has a doctor’s appointment, and the news is dire. He heads home in shock, considering what to say to his son Michael (Barney Fishwick) and daughter-in-law Fiona (Patsy Ferran), who share his accommodations. Anybody with an ounce of sensitivity would perceive that something is wrong, but Michael can’t be bothered to glance up from his newspaper.
Fiona, in turn, is a grasping little shrew eagerly waiting for her father-in-law to die, so she and Michael can inherit whatever he leaves behind. Ferran makes her memorably loathsome.
Williams impulsively decides not to tell them, and instead contemplates options; the shift in Nighy’s features is subtle, and yet substantial. What should he do, with what remains of his life?
Abandoning work — to the astonishment of his colleagues, left behind to stare at an empty chair — Williams heads to a seaside resort, where he hopes to “live a little.”
Alas, as he confesses to newfound friend Sutherland (Tom Burke), when they meet in a café, “I realize … I don’t know how.”
Nighy’s anguish and embarrassment, during this brief confession, is heartbreaking.
No matter; Sutherland, a true libertine, can show the way.
But hedonism is only a distraction; it doesn’t compensate for Williams’ eventual realization that he has merely been taking up space for decades. What, then, instead?
Wood’s Margaret becomes a crucially important character during the second act, as Williams takes note of her optimism and youthful vitality. Hoping to enhance her status, she takes a new job at Lyons Corner House, where she has been promised a position as assistant manager. Williams shyly decides to spend more time with her, apparently hoping to discern the secret to her cheerful outlook.
This is the story’s most delicate relationship; Hermanus, Nighy and Wood don’t put a foot wrong. Williams’ interest in Margaret certainly isn’t sexual, but it’s 1953; tongues will wag at the apparent impropriety, as she’s well aware. Yet she also doesn’t wish to hurt Williams’ feelings. The resulting emotional dance is achingly tender and poignant.
Helen Scott’s production design is astonishing; every cramped office and pedestrian-laden street scene looks and sounds rigorously authentic. (Honestly, it feels as if this film was made in 1953.) Cinematographer Jamie Ramsay further heightens the effect with a deliberately grainy film stock — again, echoing the era — and excellent use of light and strong shadows. Plot and characters aside, this film also is beautiful to look at.
Emilie Leveinaise-Farrouch’s deeply moving orchestral score adds just the right touch, particularly during the film’s many montage sequences. Indeed, much of this saga unfolds without dialogue: once again a testament to the skill of Nighy and his acting colleagues.
Living is a thoughtful, touching and handsomely mounted study of the human condition: a profound experience that will linger long after the lights come up.
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