Part II of Old Son Speaks: Film and Book Reviews

What follows is a series of critical reviews of foreign films and, occasionally, novels I’m reading. Please try and remember the medicine analogy earlier. When I write about a film I am, in a sense, recommending it. Because it worked for me; however, it does not mean it should work for you.

I am discreet, but I have greater tolerance for that four-letter Anglo-Saxon word that has become a grammatical "filler" for both men and women. I hear the words but I do not listen. The characters speak the words, I don’t and don’t use such words.

The films I chose are almost “skinless.” I have learned, however, that in Sweden if there is water, a woman will quickly unclothe and dive into it.

So, there will be moments. Many of you, for this reason, will want to move on to greener pastures.

Remember: Motrin does not cure every headache. If you see film and books as “medicine,” i.e., equipment for living, this stuff just may not work for you. God bless and good hunting.

Finally, these are my views and not the official views of the LDS church. I speak without authority of any kind. If you want lasting counsel, look to the Brethren, not me. 


First Review:  The Descendants

Very few women can resist George Clooney, so I took my daughter to the matinee in order to get out of a rare Austin downpour.

I got what I  feared most in watching this Academy Ward darling. The baby shower has begun. Million await the Red Carpet reality show. But the Oscars never go to the really good actors—or rarely.

How could America’s sweetheart, Sandra Bullock [Blind Side] take the Oscar away from Helen Mirren for The Last Train Station, Tolstoy’s death, which culminates two days of tumultuous arguments whether his complete works should be signed over to the Communist Party or remain in the Tolstoy estate.

The focus in Descendants is as much on Matt’s dying wife, who has been unfaithful to him, as it is on the effervescent Clooney. In fact, there seems to be a lot of the “real” Clooney in real life.  In the film, he has two daughters, money, looks and power. As one critic carps, “it’s hard to be a land baron in Hawaii.”

However, My Sunday school lessons echo in the back of my head, and I work to clear them, in order to be “objective.” The fact remains, however, that Clooney, one of life’s great successes--rich, handsome, a home in Italy, amply provided with the most beautiful women the country can stock [in spite of its larger more important financial problems], sadly and openly admits it’s too late to have children. “I’ve known too many women to decide.” Now that’s the stuff of a real film: The story of a man who has “everything” but no wife and children.


Whoops, he did that in another film, Up in the Air, a better film.

I only push this because Clooney is not comfortable with children. He doesn’t know how to hug a child. His body language around two grieving, confused daughters is awkward. And I’m not convinced wrapping up in a quilt and eating ice cream, watching March of the Penguins is the convincing beginning of a new family chapter.

He remains handsome, always impeccably dressed even as a happy so-called casual Hawaiian.  The color red makes his abundant locks stand out. In the film he has more money than he can ever spend—oh, and two foul-mouthed, unruly children he must take responsibility for because he has apparently spent too much time being a lawyer.

Now we all know the story of the dying CEO who on his death bed does not say, “I should have spent more time at the office.” Nearly everyone could make that deathbed statement.

Secondly, Clooney rides alone in this film. Shailene Woodley, touted on line as a “possible candidate for best supporting actress” does outgrow some of her crass immaturity, but the transition is too quick, too fatuous. She’s a “woman” only in the last scene. Granted, Clooney’s breakdown scene and forgiveness of a wandering wife is convincing.

And this is only one of three problems in the film. We’re in the hospital room too much and we’re not sure Matt’s wife’s adultery with Brian is merited. Who not why becomes the film.

But this film wants to be 3 hours long. Native Hawaiians clap when Matt gives his “we’ve taken over their island” speech, but that won’t change much. Beyond the calendar shots, Hawaii looks a lot like Atlanta to me. No, I haven’t been to Hawaii, nor will I make it in this life. Natives must have also liked the authentic music in the background. In spite of the traffic, there is lots of vegetation.

But there is no supporting cast to prop up Clooney. We get more gratuitous four-letter words than we need, and we skim the surface. Judy Green’s cameo appearance, hot coffee in hand, tears and flowers later in the hospital moves us. Clooney’s wife really did pick an idiot to engage in an affair and hope for marriage later. He doesn’t even show up to say “good-bye” to his ever-willing  squeeze.  I  have a complicated idea: Let’s have Clooney marry Judy Green, Brian’s wife. Meld two families and paint an unfortunately American scene.

No, this American film fails when set it against the Israeli produced Human Resources Manager.

Perhaps our obsession for so-called “real life,” the reality shows, have already contaminated our love of true, theatrical performance. We seem to know the real life drama of a Snooki or her abdominal wonder side-kick, “The Situation,” but we don’t know art—the art of Helen Mirren or Hiam Abass, whose performance in the political allegory, The Lemon Tree, outshines the trio of George Clooney, Shailene Woodley and Judy Green put together.