This movie was a pleasant surprise. I wasn't planning on seeing it until a friend recommended it to me. It's not great, but it's certainly entertaining, and there is a surprising amount of heart behind the physical action. But it is thrills that it was made for, and in that category it delivers. Liam Neeson's debut as an action hero (I believe) is pretty successful. He's a gifted, intelligent actor, so his world-weariness looks like wisdom most of the time. And it's just good to watch someone who isn't a muscle-flexing dumbass run, jump, and hit people. Does that sound elitist? So be it. I had some problems with the politics of the film, but that's often the case, so I just tried to sit back, relax, and let the movie take me in. For the most part, it did.
TAKEN
The title of this film describes, in effect, the experience of watching it. Taken takes hold of you and moves you right along for nearly all of its 93 jam-packed minutes. It’s a thriller that depends less on mood, character, or suspense than on sheer speed and relentless forward motion. It’s like a train on an express route: arriving at its destination is its paramount goal, which leaves little time to admire the scenery along the way.
The plot is succinct. A divorced ex-government agent, Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson), has retired early so that he can live near his 17-year-old daughter Kim (Maggie Grace) and try to build the relationship with her that he had sacrificed to his career while she was growing up. His ex-wife (Famke Janssen) has remarried into serious wealth, which makes this task all the harder. When Kim asks his permission to vacation in France with a friend, he reluctantly gives it; his fatherly worry reawakens all the old fears that went with his spying job. But Bryan’s “paranoia” proves instead to be prescience: no sooner have the two girls landed in Paris than they are abducted by a gang of Albanian thugs who are running an international sex slavery ring. Kim’s heartrending phone call to her father moments before she is dragged out the door of her apartment provides the film’s first real jolt of emotion, as well as the adrenalin needed to start the plot racing. From this point on, Mills is a man with a single mission: to find his daughter and bring her home.
Despite its many improbabilities, I rather liked Taken. Directed with zeal by former cinematographer Pierre Morel, the film concerns itself not with testing the limits of the action thriller genre but with staying safely inside its comfort zone and fulfilling our expectations. For the most part, it does this with enough energy to compensate for its lack of originality. Anyone who has watched the TV series 24 knows roughly what to expect: a headlong race against time, a tightly forged chain of events which are absorbing because of their speed and intensity, but which would never stand up to the scrutiny of logical analysis or exposition. Mills is even given his own time limit. A former associate tells him that after 96 hours, any hope of finding Kim will have vanished. Apparently, it takes that long for women to disappear completely into the sex trade underworld. So Bryan has four days to revive his skills as a spy—or, as he calls himself, someone who “prevented bad things from happening”—and rescue his beloved daughter.
What is most welcome about this film is that beneath the formulaic activity is a deeper layer, a substratum of emotion that is surprisingly powerful. This is entirely due to the presence of Neeson, who brings gravity and credibility to his farfetched role. Ten years ago, this movie would probably have been a routine Steven Seagal vehicle, but Neeson gives the obligatory heroics psychological depth and an urgency of purpose that distracts from the bareness of the mechanics. The anguish his suffering father experiences is not only believable in and of itself, it fuels the pace of the action. His performance is stronger than the thin premise deserves, but it’s what makes this film into something more than just a series of action set pieces. Supporting performers are generally effective--Grace is winning and vulnerable in the thankless part of victim, and Arben Bajraktaraj, as Albanian gang leader Marko, does some admirable snarling--but this is really a one-man show. Without Neeson at the center, the movie would stall in its tracks.
This seems to be the time for movies about rescuing heroines from prostitution. Recent Oscar-winner Slumdog Millionaire involved a quest of this kind, with references to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, but Taken’s version comes from closer to home. It’s pressed from the mold of John Ford’s classic western The Searchers, in which John Wayne spends years trying to retrieve his niece from a band of Comanches, and two modern equivalents written, as tributes to Ford‘s film, by Paul Schrader: Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (with Robert De Niro’s famous descent into the hell of New York City to bring back teenage prostitute Jodie Foster), and Schrader’s own Hardcore, in which another distraught father (George C. Scott) searches for his runaway daughter, who has become an actress in porn films.
All these films are obsessed with saving a young woman from sexual “defilement’ and cleansing her of that perceived shame, whether or not she's been a willing party to it. In the three earlier versions, rescue comes “too late”: the daughter has been initiated into sexual experience with undesirables (Indians, pimps, johns, pornographers) and the possibility of her redemption/purification and reentry into her former society is left up to the viewer. But in keeping with the times, and the need for contemporary American films to have happier endings, Taken takes no chances with ambivalence: it won’t be giving much away to reveal that Mills is successful, and Kim is spared everything he fears. Taken is the fairy tale version of the virgin/whore paradigm for women in American movies--the heroine’s virginity is preserved, and like a princess she is restored unambiguously to her former place, seemingly untouched by the entire ordeal.
Taken isn’t just a rescue fantasy, however, it’s a revenge fantasy as well, and here the script by Luc Besson (of La Femme Nikita fame) and Robert Mark Kamen takes a darker turn. It’s not just the delight the movie takes in dispatching bad guys--Mills kills a lot of men in a very short time, many of them brutally--it’s also the revenge it wreaks on the mother who opposes his view of parenting. In several early scenes, Mills spars with his former wife, Lenore, about his protectiveness towards Kim. Lenore accuses him of smothering their daughter, of trying to prevent her from growing up and learning about life; Mills insists he just wants to keep her safe, because he knows the world and the dangers that lurk there. He permits Kim’s trip to France at Lenore’s urging, against his better judgment. His judgment proves correct, of course, and his attempts to keep his daughter close by, and forever his little girl--his smothering behavior--is validated by the movie’s turn of events. This is a reactionary view, to say the least, and a solidly conservative take on the world as a dangerous place in need of swift, violent action to keep its evils at bay. The more liberal-minded mother is ineffectual and wrong, and the suffering she endures when she learns of Kim’s disappearance becomes her justified, almost self-willed, punishment.
Taken never presents much of a challenge to the viewer, and of course never aims to. It’s not built on surprises but on predictable solutions to familiar screen problems. Bring a willing suspension of disbelief and a passing familiarity with movie logic and heroics to the theater, and you'll find it’s a pretty easy film to take. But the standard action scenario does have a twist, and the twist is the humanity of its characters—in particular, the unexpected strength behind a movie father’s love.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Frost/Nixon
I'm a child of Watergate, and I remember spending a summer home from college watching the congressional hearings on TV. I also remember where I was when I heard that Nixon had resigned the presidency. And I've seen a number of movies, and read a couple of books about the events surrounding this sad episode in our history. All that was long ago, however. I do not purport to be any kind of scholar on the subject; in fact, most of the details have grown kind of fuzzy in my memory. Which is why I am glad to see that the subject is being revisited in this film, and the play it's based on, because it needs to be, continuously, so that those details remain fresh and are never forgotten. I only wish this film had done a better job of that. But it's an honest effort, and I agree with its overall point-of-view. I think it has unfortunate, and unintended, consequences, however, which you can read about below.
FROST/NIXON
To the generation that grew up firm in the belief that Richard Nixon=Bogeyman, this film presents something of a dilemma. On the one hand, it purports to dramatize the moment when the disgraced 37th president finally confessed to the American people that he had sinned against them. On the other hand, the characterization delivered by actor Frank Langella, and guided by director Ron Howard (both Oscar-nominated), in no way demonizes him. Good for the project overall, I suppose, but frustrating for those who still need to view Nixon as the devil. Full disclosure: I grew up during the Watergate era (politically as well as biologically), and I have always been of that camp. As a consequence, this movie had me squirming in my theater seat.
Frost/Nixon covers the events leading up to, and key moments from, the famous 1977 television interviews between British talk show host David Frost (Michael Sheen) and former president Richard Nixon (these interviews have recently been released in their entirety on dvd). Frost had made his mark on American television in the early part of the decade with a show devoted mostly to celebrity chitchat. Suave, confidant, cheeky, he combined the fun of swinging London with an earnestness that hinted at erudition. After Richard Nixon resigned the presidency, Frost concocted the idea of sitting down with him and going over his life in a series of interviews. It would be his biggest “get” ever, and the ratings—he was convinced—would go through the roof. A savvy entertainer, he turned out to be more right than even he probably anticipated.
The potential for a fascinating look at the aftermath of Watergate is certainly here. So what exactly is wrong with Frost/Nixon? It probably is terrific theater (the screenplay is by Peter Morgan, based on his well-received play). But adaptations are tricky; it’s a rare film that can successfully capture the singular style and impact of another medium. Not to mention that the play is about a third medium, television. What makes great television, or a compelling play about it, does not guarantee that a great or compelling film will emerge from either. Under Ron Howard’s capable but uninspired direction, this proves true. Frost/Nixon comes off more like a casual backstage tour of its events rather than a gripping backstage drama of how they transpired. It has a loose, gossipy feel to it; if you’re looking for historical insight or revelations about the people involved, you’ll have to look elsewhere. Howard and Morgan are on the trail of smaller game.
They begin by tracking dual story lines which alternately follow Frost and his associates plotting to woo Nixon onto TV and Nixon’s gloomy exile at his seaside home in San Clemente, California, where he dreams of reentry into public life. Eventually, these plots come together as serious negotiations between the two sides begin, terms are agreed to, and Frost assembles his team of researchers to help him “prepare” for the interview. That word was in quotes because Frost’s idea of preparing, according to the film, is to let his researchers (Oliver Platt, Sam Rockwell, Matthew Macfadyen) do all the work, while he burnishes his reputation as a party- and premiere-attending man-about-town, in between pitching his show to prospective backers (all the major networks have turned him down, and this is, of course, in the era before cable). As it progresses, the film gradually builds its portrait of each man as they prepare for their history-making contest before the cameras.
These portraits are meant to be the film’s strength, but they are actually its greatest weakness. There is no question that both men are subjects worthy of screen treatment, although it might not be immediately obvious in the case of Frost, who is portrayed as shallow, self-absorbed, and clueless about how unprepared he is for what he’s planning to do. Early in the story, he smoothly picks up a woman (Rebecca Hall) on an airplane, and she becomes his companion for the remainder of the film. It is clear that he views Nixon in the same light: an easy conquest for his charm. Ironically, it is only when things begin to go wrong--one potential sponsor after another turns him down, and his search for money becomes increasingly desperate, and comic--that his character starts to develop into something more interesting than the Lovable TV and Party Guy. As his position weakens, his character deepens, but Sheen’s performance unfortunately does not follow along. It may not be wholly his fault: despite the direction the script maps out for him, Frost’s part is seriously underwritten. But even so, Sheen simply finds no way to suggest what’s happening behind the crumbling façade of Frost’s self-assurance beyond clutching his head and mussing his beautifully coiffed hair. The script wants you to believe that Frost finally grows into the responsibility of his role, but it’s a suggestion in the story outline and not a realized fact on film.
Nixon is a different story, and it’s a story the American public doesn’t seem to tire of. This Foundering Father endlessly fascinates, illustrated by the number of times he’s been portrayed in film or other media. Is there another U.S. President who is the subject of an opera (John Adams’ Nixon in China)? And, of course, his disembodied, living head was a recurring figure in the animated television series Futurama. I have admitted my discomfort with the notion of a repatriated Richard Nixon. Yet I welcome the introduction of a character with enough edges and angles to keep the film from becoming too obvious a civics lesson/morality play. The screenplay gives us this Nixon: a heavily scarred monument to ambition and pride, furious, hurt, his hunger for vindication and approval so palpable it’s like another person in the room. Yet for every diatribe against the liberals that hounded him from office, every crass joke, or lip-licking reference to the fee he will be paid for his TV appearance, there’s an image of an isolated, introspective Nixon, sculpted in shadow, his eyes haunted by what he sees of the past, or of himself, when he dares look inward. It’s the image of a tragic, fallen man, and it might be the most romantic picture of Nixon ever painted.
Serving this end is Langella’s performance, which truly commands the viewer‘s attention, although not always for the best reason. Gone are the weird tics and mannerisms, and that nervous, unconvincing smile, of Tricky Dick; in their place are a reflective, melancholy bow of the head or a poignant stare offscreen—Lear in exile, contemplating his failure. And he does that haunted eyes thing a lot, which is pretty effective. But like so many other actors trying to capture this most mannered of politicians, Langella falls victim to the temptation to impersonate. How does one do Nixon without some approximation of the Voice? Not possible, of course, and Langella’s attempt is often painful to listen to--a lugubrious and weirdly folksy vocal characterization that sounds at times like Jimmy Stewart doing his impression of Dracula. I’m not sure what director Howard could have been hearing that he liked.
The key question, however—and the one that had me squirming in my seat at the beginning of this review—is this: Does Frost/Nixon give Richard Nixon the exoneration he so desperately sought during his lifetime? Of course, the film does not give us the real Nixon; no narrative, even a careful work of “faction,” can do that. It offers us instead a construct of historical hindsight, a wish-fulfillment portrayal of a Nixon tragically aware of his shortcomings, his squandered opportunities, and the uncomfortable place he will occupy in American history. The last image Howard offers us is of Nixon standing alone on his balcony, staring moodily out at the ocean at dusk: the image of a man contemplating the emptiness of his future, perhaps, or the vast expanse of what he's lost. Frost’s chief researcher, James Reston, Jr. (Rockwell) states earlier in the film that he wants the television interview to serve as the trial Nixon never got, the trial America needs to have, in order for the country to find some sort of peace. This film may have set out to give him that trial once again, but it’s hard not to see in it the resurrection of Nixon as a man: lonely, regretful, oddly graceful in the final stance of defeat. It really should be called Nixon/Frost. The former president comes out on top.
FROST/NIXON
To the generation that grew up firm in the belief that Richard Nixon=Bogeyman, this film presents something of a dilemma. On the one hand, it purports to dramatize the moment when the disgraced 37th president finally confessed to the American people that he had sinned against them. On the other hand, the characterization delivered by actor Frank Langella, and guided by director Ron Howard (both Oscar-nominated), in no way demonizes him. Good for the project overall, I suppose, but frustrating for those who still need to view Nixon as the devil. Full disclosure: I grew up during the Watergate era (politically as well as biologically), and I have always been of that camp. As a consequence, this movie had me squirming in my theater seat.
Frost/Nixon covers the events leading up to, and key moments from, the famous 1977 television interviews between British talk show host David Frost (Michael Sheen) and former president Richard Nixon (these interviews have recently been released in their entirety on dvd). Frost had made his mark on American television in the early part of the decade with a show devoted mostly to celebrity chitchat. Suave, confidant, cheeky, he combined the fun of swinging London with an earnestness that hinted at erudition. After Richard Nixon resigned the presidency, Frost concocted the idea of sitting down with him and going over his life in a series of interviews. It would be his biggest “get” ever, and the ratings—he was convinced—would go through the roof. A savvy entertainer, he turned out to be more right than even he probably anticipated.
The potential for a fascinating look at the aftermath of Watergate is certainly here. So what exactly is wrong with Frost/Nixon? It probably is terrific theater (the screenplay is by Peter Morgan, based on his well-received play). But adaptations are tricky; it’s a rare film that can successfully capture the singular style and impact of another medium. Not to mention that the play is about a third medium, television. What makes great television, or a compelling play about it, does not guarantee that a great or compelling film will emerge from either. Under Ron Howard’s capable but uninspired direction, this proves true. Frost/Nixon comes off more like a casual backstage tour of its events rather than a gripping backstage drama of how they transpired. It has a loose, gossipy feel to it; if you’re looking for historical insight or revelations about the people involved, you’ll have to look elsewhere. Howard and Morgan are on the trail of smaller game.
They begin by tracking dual story lines which alternately follow Frost and his associates plotting to woo Nixon onto TV and Nixon’s gloomy exile at his seaside home in San Clemente, California, where he dreams of reentry into public life. Eventually, these plots come together as serious negotiations between the two sides begin, terms are agreed to, and Frost assembles his team of researchers to help him “prepare” for the interview. That word was in quotes because Frost’s idea of preparing, according to the film, is to let his researchers (Oliver Platt, Sam Rockwell, Matthew Macfadyen) do all the work, while he burnishes his reputation as a party- and premiere-attending man-about-town, in between pitching his show to prospective backers (all the major networks have turned him down, and this is, of course, in the era before cable). As it progresses, the film gradually builds its portrait of each man as they prepare for their history-making contest before the cameras.
These portraits are meant to be the film’s strength, but they are actually its greatest weakness. There is no question that both men are subjects worthy of screen treatment, although it might not be immediately obvious in the case of Frost, who is portrayed as shallow, self-absorbed, and clueless about how unprepared he is for what he’s planning to do. Early in the story, he smoothly picks up a woman (Rebecca Hall) on an airplane, and she becomes his companion for the remainder of the film. It is clear that he views Nixon in the same light: an easy conquest for his charm. Ironically, it is only when things begin to go wrong--one potential sponsor after another turns him down, and his search for money becomes increasingly desperate, and comic--that his character starts to develop into something more interesting than the Lovable TV and Party Guy. As his position weakens, his character deepens, but Sheen’s performance unfortunately does not follow along. It may not be wholly his fault: despite the direction the script maps out for him, Frost’s part is seriously underwritten. But even so, Sheen simply finds no way to suggest what’s happening behind the crumbling façade of Frost’s self-assurance beyond clutching his head and mussing his beautifully coiffed hair. The script wants you to believe that Frost finally grows into the responsibility of his role, but it’s a suggestion in the story outline and not a realized fact on film.
Nixon is a different story, and it’s a story the American public doesn’t seem to tire of. This Foundering Father endlessly fascinates, illustrated by the number of times he’s been portrayed in film or other media. Is there another U.S. President who is the subject of an opera (John Adams’ Nixon in China)? And, of course, his disembodied, living head was a recurring figure in the animated television series Futurama. I have admitted my discomfort with the notion of a repatriated Richard Nixon. Yet I welcome the introduction of a character with enough edges and angles to keep the film from becoming too obvious a civics lesson/morality play. The screenplay gives us this Nixon: a heavily scarred monument to ambition and pride, furious, hurt, his hunger for vindication and approval so palpable it’s like another person in the room. Yet for every diatribe against the liberals that hounded him from office, every crass joke, or lip-licking reference to the fee he will be paid for his TV appearance, there’s an image of an isolated, introspective Nixon, sculpted in shadow, his eyes haunted by what he sees of the past, or of himself, when he dares look inward. It’s the image of a tragic, fallen man, and it might be the most romantic picture of Nixon ever painted.
Serving this end is Langella’s performance, which truly commands the viewer‘s attention, although not always for the best reason. Gone are the weird tics and mannerisms, and that nervous, unconvincing smile, of Tricky Dick; in their place are a reflective, melancholy bow of the head or a poignant stare offscreen—Lear in exile, contemplating his failure. And he does that haunted eyes thing a lot, which is pretty effective. But like so many other actors trying to capture this most mannered of politicians, Langella falls victim to the temptation to impersonate. How does one do Nixon without some approximation of the Voice? Not possible, of course, and Langella’s attempt is often painful to listen to--a lugubrious and weirdly folksy vocal characterization that sounds at times like Jimmy Stewart doing his impression of Dracula. I’m not sure what director Howard could have been hearing that he liked.
The key question, however—and the one that had me squirming in my seat at the beginning of this review—is this: Does Frost/Nixon give Richard Nixon the exoneration he so desperately sought during his lifetime? Of course, the film does not give us the real Nixon; no narrative, even a careful work of “faction,” can do that. It offers us instead a construct of historical hindsight, a wish-fulfillment portrayal of a Nixon tragically aware of his shortcomings, his squandered opportunities, and the uncomfortable place he will occupy in American history. The last image Howard offers us is of Nixon standing alone on his balcony, staring moodily out at the ocean at dusk: the image of a man contemplating the emptiness of his future, perhaps, or the vast expanse of what he's lost. Frost’s chief researcher, James Reston, Jr. (Rockwell) states earlier in the film that he wants the television interview to serve as the trial Nixon never got, the trial America needs to have, in order for the country to find some sort of peace. This film may have set out to give him that trial once again, but it’s hard not to see in it the resurrection of Nixon as a man: lonely, regretful, oddly graceful in the final stance of defeat. It really should be called Nixon/Frost. The former president comes out on top.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Happy-Go-Lucky
The main thing to say about this film is that it is pretty much a one-woman show. The movie IS Sally Hawkins. If you're as captivated by her performance as I was, then this movie will delight you to no end. If you find her annoying or uninteresting, then chances are the movie won't affect you much at all. But what kind of emotional armor could you be wearing to resist her? She's simply amazing, and she gives as completely lived a performance as I've ever seen in a movie. How did she not get a nomination for best actress at this year's Academy Awards? How did Happy-Go-Lucky not win the award for best original screenplay? (I mean, Milk was very good, but the screenplay was often unruly, and the film's power came mostly from its performances.) I don't know the answer to these questions. I just know I can't wait to see this film again.
HAPPY-GO-LUCKY
The title of this splendid British film (Oscar nominee for Best Original Screenplay) is a bit ironic, because Happy-Go-Lucky is often not a very happy film at all. Although essentially a comedy, it delves into some pretty dark corners of the human soul—sexual frustration, anger, bigotry, child abuse, and madness all make their startling appearances in what is otherwise a buoyant celebration of a unique free spirit and her irrepressibly upbeat approach to living.
Poppy is a 30-year-old kindergarten teacher of boundless enthusiasm, for her students, her friends, and seemingly everyone she meets during the course of her day. As portrayed by the wonderful Sally Hawkins, Poppy is also endearingly eccentric—no saccharine Pollyanna, she’s an outrageous (though innocent) flirt, a bawdy drinking companion, and a deliberate but disarming disturber of the peace for those quiet, serious souls she considers to be in need of a good shaking up. In fact, it is her self-described mission in life to raise people’s spirits, to make them see the possibilities for joy around them, and she carries it to great—and sometimes maddening--lengths.
Happy-Go-Lucky certainly begins happily enough. In an opening credits sequence that nearly bursts from the screen, Poppy rides her bicycle through the streets of London, gaily weaving around traffic as the camera sweeps ahead of her, smiling, laughing, observing, drinking in every moment and sight along the way, and making them all as lovely as she is. The film that follows is essentially an exploration of the energy behind this ride, of the effervescent personality and joyous connection to the world that it represents. At heart it’s a character study: what little plot exists is provided by the daily ups and downs of Poppy’s existence, by the various encounters--some random, some routine—with all those lucky enough to cross her path.
This quality gives it something in common with the Italian Neorealist films of the post-World War II era, films whose artful arrangement of the simple incidents of everyday life often emphasize character over the furtherance of story. In fact, Happy-Go-Lucky might be slyly alluding to that famous film movement in a very specific way: after the exuberant opening, Poppy’s bicycle is stolen while she is browsing in a bookstore (and flirting, unsuccessfully but hilariously, with its owner). In Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves, probably Neorealism’s best-known film, a bicycle stolen near the beginning of the story starts a man on a downward spiral towards tragedy. No such fate awaits Poppy, however--she quickly shrugs off her loss as one of life’s little annoyances, absorbing the incident into her optimistic worldview, something to be regretted but still laughed at and gotten over. The difference in reactions, and the way this film recovers and begins anew in the very next scene, not only marks an important divergence in purpose between the two films, but also suggests that writer-director Mike Leigh (Secrets and Lies) might have inserted the theft as an in-joke for cinema lovers.
Still, Poppy’s life is by no means trouble-free. Several of the film’s episodes describe trials that test her spirit, trials which grow darker as the story progresses. A child in her class is the victim of abuse at home; a tense weekend spent at her married sister’s house uncovers old family wounds; and in the film’s most mysterious and moving sequence, Poppy discovers a disturbed homeless man while walking alone at night, and though his behavior is erratic and potentially a danger to her, she bravely (or foolishly?) tries to befriend him.
And then there’s Scott. Poppy’s penchant for trying to bring out the best in people meets its severest test when she decides to learn to drive (a consequence of the bicycle theft). Her weekly lessons with Scott (Eddie Marsan), a driving instructor with some serious issues, provide the film’s free-flowing story line with its most overt organizing principle. An angry, embittered, bigoted man who resents Poppy’s relentless good cheer, Scott resides at the antipodes of Poppy’s world. They clash over everything, from what she wears to her inability to stop chatting during her lessons--even over her attempts at friendship. And yet slowly, inevitably perhaps, Scott begins to answer her invitation to relate to her as a human being rather than as just another student. In the end, they affect each other in ways neither could foresee, and while the audience might not be completely surprised by the dilemma Scott eventually finds himself in, the explosiveness of his reaction to it is a shock that threatens to rip the delicate fabric of the film apart.
The driving metaphor is brilliant, providing multiple ways to picture the central conflict of Poppy’s life: her struggle not just to enjoy her time on earth but to define it in terms of personal freedom, her own as well as others’. Scott’s dogged determination to remain disengaged is embodied by his profession: keeping one’s eyes on the road, moving straight ahead down predetermined paths is essential to the business of driving. Poppy, of course, is used to the greater freedom of riding a bicycle, and her inability, or unwillingness, to adapt to the more restricted circumstances of an automobile finds expression in her continuous stream of conversation and her continued attempts to notice everything interesting around her. What Scott warns are distractions, Poppy sees as the reasons she’s alive in the first place.
The enclosed space of Scott’s tiny car perfectly depicts this contradiction. Poppy is almost literally trapped, confined by a seat belt and by Scott’s instructions, his attempts to control every movement of her hands, her head, her eyes. Hawkins’ energetic and voluble performance is answered by Marsan’s tight-lipped, glowering turn as Scott in a conflict of personalities that redefines the notion of incompatibility. Despite the fact that they sit in such cramped proximity, they hardly share this space: Leigh depicts them mostly in separate shots, rarely in the two-shots that he employs for Poppy’s encounters with the other people in her life, where entire conversations play out in a single continuous take, using the unbroken frame and real time to capture the ease with which she relates to them.
This tactic is put to especially good use in the scenes devoted to her budding relationship with Tim (Samuel Roukin), a social worker who comes to help the abused boy in her classroom. Poppy’s interest in a man strikes the right chord this time, and the chemistry of their first date leads to what has to be one of the most sweetly erotic love scenes ever filmed. Leigh once again trusts his actors to play the entire scene in a single shot, and the simplicity of the set-up, plus the charm of Poppy’s goofy approach to foreplay, make their transition to lovemaking seem both effortless and real.
It’s a mark of the command Leigh has over his material that he follows this romantic interlude with the fury of the final encounter between Poppy and Scott, and it feels dramatically right. Both terrifying and sad, this final “driving lesson” is about how one navigates through the traffic of other lives, and it leaves the viewer grasping the irony that although Poppy has finally succeeded in breaking down Scott’s reserve, it has made her realize that there are times when she needs to invoke that protection for herself.
Happy or sad, Happy-Go Lucky engages the viewer as completely as it does because of Sally Hawkins’ incredible charm as Poppy. The film marks the harmonic convergence of an amazing actress and a role she seems not so much to perform as to let radiate from her. But more important than its winning portrait of an unforgettable character, Happy-Go-Lucky offers us a reminder of what character is, or can be: the ability, in often unremarkable circumstances, to live one’s life remarkably from within.
HAPPY-GO-LUCKY
The title of this splendid British film (Oscar nominee for Best Original Screenplay) is a bit ironic, because Happy-Go-Lucky is often not a very happy film at all. Although essentially a comedy, it delves into some pretty dark corners of the human soul—sexual frustration, anger, bigotry, child abuse, and madness all make their startling appearances in what is otherwise a buoyant celebration of a unique free spirit and her irrepressibly upbeat approach to living.
Poppy is a 30-year-old kindergarten teacher of boundless enthusiasm, for her students, her friends, and seemingly everyone she meets during the course of her day. As portrayed by the wonderful Sally Hawkins, Poppy is also endearingly eccentric—no saccharine Pollyanna, she’s an outrageous (though innocent) flirt, a bawdy drinking companion, and a deliberate but disarming disturber of the peace for those quiet, serious souls she considers to be in need of a good shaking up. In fact, it is her self-described mission in life to raise people’s spirits, to make them see the possibilities for joy around them, and she carries it to great—and sometimes maddening--lengths.
Happy-Go-Lucky certainly begins happily enough. In an opening credits sequence that nearly bursts from the screen, Poppy rides her bicycle through the streets of London, gaily weaving around traffic as the camera sweeps ahead of her, smiling, laughing, observing, drinking in every moment and sight along the way, and making them all as lovely as she is. The film that follows is essentially an exploration of the energy behind this ride, of the effervescent personality and joyous connection to the world that it represents. At heart it’s a character study: what little plot exists is provided by the daily ups and downs of Poppy’s existence, by the various encounters--some random, some routine—with all those lucky enough to cross her path.
This quality gives it something in common with the Italian Neorealist films of the post-World War II era, films whose artful arrangement of the simple incidents of everyday life often emphasize character over the furtherance of story. In fact, Happy-Go-Lucky might be slyly alluding to that famous film movement in a very specific way: after the exuberant opening, Poppy’s bicycle is stolen while she is browsing in a bookstore (and flirting, unsuccessfully but hilariously, with its owner). In Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves, probably Neorealism’s best-known film, a bicycle stolen near the beginning of the story starts a man on a downward spiral towards tragedy. No such fate awaits Poppy, however--she quickly shrugs off her loss as one of life’s little annoyances, absorbing the incident into her optimistic worldview, something to be regretted but still laughed at and gotten over. The difference in reactions, and the way this film recovers and begins anew in the very next scene, not only marks an important divergence in purpose between the two films, but also suggests that writer-director Mike Leigh (Secrets and Lies) might have inserted the theft as an in-joke for cinema lovers.
Still, Poppy’s life is by no means trouble-free. Several of the film’s episodes describe trials that test her spirit, trials which grow darker as the story progresses. A child in her class is the victim of abuse at home; a tense weekend spent at her married sister’s house uncovers old family wounds; and in the film’s most mysterious and moving sequence, Poppy discovers a disturbed homeless man while walking alone at night, and though his behavior is erratic and potentially a danger to her, she bravely (or foolishly?) tries to befriend him.
And then there’s Scott. Poppy’s penchant for trying to bring out the best in people meets its severest test when she decides to learn to drive (a consequence of the bicycle theft). Her weekly lessons with Scott (Eddie Marsan), a driving instructor with some serious issues, provide the film’s free-flowing story line with its most overt organizing principle. An angry, embittered, bigoted man who resents Poppy’s relentless good cheer, Scott resides at the antipodes of Poppy’s world. They clash over everything, from what she wears to her inability to stop chatting during her lessons--even over her attempts at friendship. And yet slowly, inevitably perhaps, Scott begins to answer her invitation to relate to her as a human being rather than as just another student. In the end, they affect each other in ways neither could foresee, and while the audience might not be completely surprised by the dilemma Scott eventually finds himself in, the explosiveness of his reaction to it is a shock that threatens to rip the delicate fabric of the film apart.
The driving metaphor is brilliant, providing multiple ways to picture the central conflict of Poppy’s life: her struggle not just to enjoy her time on earth but to define it in terms of personal freedom, her own as well as others’. Scott’s dogged determination to remain disengaged is embodied by his profession: keeping one’s eyes on the road, moving straight ahead down predetermined paths is essential to the business of driving. Poppy, of course, is used to the greater freedom of riding a bicycle, and her inability, or unwillingness, to adapt to the more restricted circumstances of an automobile finds expression in her continuous stream of conversation and her continued attempts to notice everything interesting around her. What Scott warns are distractions, Poppy sees as the reasons she’s alive in the first place.
The enclosed space of Scott’s tiny car perfectly depicts this contradiction. Poppy is almost literally trapped, confined by a seat belt and by Scott’s instructions, his attempts to control every movement of her hands, her head, her eyes. Hawkins’ energetic and voluble performance is answered by Marsan’s tight-lipped, glowering turn as Scott in a conflict of personalities that redefines the notion of incompatibility. Despite the fact that they sit in such cramped proximity, they hardly share this space: Leigh depicts them mostly in separate shots, rarely in the two-shots that he employs for Poppy’s encounters with the other people in her life, where entire conversations play out in a single continuous take, using the unbroken frame and real time to capture the ease with which she relates to them.
This tactic is put to especially good use in the scenes devoted to her budding relationship with Tim (Samuel Roukin), a social worker who comes to help the abused boy in her classroom. Poppy’s interest in a man strikes the right chord this time, and the chemistry of their first date leads to what has to be one of the most sweetly erotic love scenes ever filmed. Leigh once again trusts his actors to play the entire scene in a single shot, and the simplicity of the set-up, plus the charm of Poppy’s goofy approach to foreplay, make their transition to lovemaking seem both effortless and real.
It’s a mark of the command Leigh has over his material that he follows this romantic interlude with the fury of the final encounter between Poppy and Scott, and it feels dramatically right. Both terrifying and sad, this final “driving lesson” is about how one navigates through the traffic of other lives, and it leaves the viewer grasping the irony that although Poppy has finally succeeded in breaking down Scott’s reserve, it has made her realize that there are times when she needs to invoke that protection for herself.
Happy or sad, Happy-Go Lucky engages the viewer as completely as it does because of Sally Hawkins’ incredible charm as Poppy. The film marks the harmonic convergence of an amazing actress and a role she seems not so much to perform as to let radiate from her. But more important than its winning portrait of an unforgettable character, Happy-Go-Lucky offers us a reminder of what character is, or can be: the ability, in often unremarkable circumstances, to live one’s life remarkably from within.
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