Four stars. Rated R, for highly disturbing scenes of torture and war violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 4.25.14
It’s somewhat ironic that the
“code of silence” shared by former British prisoners of war who survived their WWII
ordeal, while forced to help construct the Siam-Burma railway, seems to have
been echoed by filmmakers.
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| The calm before the storm: Patti (Nicole Kidman) has fallen deeply in love with Eric (Colin Firth), despite knowing very little about his past. Details will emerge soon enough, at which point we'll find out just how determined this woman can be, when it comes to uncovering the truth. |
Following the 1957 release of
director David Lean’s classic (if fictionalized) Bridge on the River Kwai, nobody
has re-visited those events on the big screen.
Ironic, because — as often
happens — truth is far more powerful than fiction. And, in this particular
case, even a bit stranger.
Director Jonathan Teplitzky’s
adaptation of Eric Lomax’s memoir, The Railway Man, is a deeply personal
film: by turns grim, heartbreaking and spiritually uplifting. It’s propelled by
yet another impressive and emotionally complex performance from star Colin
Firth, who appears to be cornering the 21st century market on delicately articulated
psychological turmoil.
Merely to glance upon Firth’s
face is to share in the grief of a man we don’t yet know; the invisible scars
radiate from him in waves.
But Firth isn’t alone. He’s
matched, scene for scene, by Nicole Kidman’s equally fine work. Her part isn’t
as showy, but it’s just as crucial; she delivers the same persuasive power with
small gestures. A tilt of the head, a half-smile that vanishes before
blossoming fully. The beginnings of a comment, swallowed before any words
escape her lips. A sense that this woman constantly walks on eggshells, lest
she unknowingly awaken more dormant memories in the man she loves, but doesn’t
yet know or understand.
Memorably deft performances, in
both cases.
For the most part, the same can
be said of scripters Frank Cottrell Boyce and Andy Paterson, who labored for
years to turn Lomax’s book into a film. Their first act is a clever tease:
deceptively light and sweet, almost a frothy romance, before dark storm clouds
begin to smother the cheerful, sun-speckled tone.
The longer second act is
horrific, in the manner of all powerful WWII sagas. The narrative may be far
removed from the usual Western European setting, and the enemy faces may be
different, but barbarism is universal. We wonder, once again, at man’s ability
to debase and torture his peers. Not even war — not even this war — seems an adequate
excuse for such spiteful cruelty.
The third act ... well, that’s
where Boyce and Paterson falter a bit. But only a bit, and I’ll get back to
that.
