As the first and last shots of this film, we see a granular photograph of an elderly man and a man in his prime, arms flung on one another's shoulders, gazing indecisively into the camera as if they're not very convinced what brought them out into the daylight to sit for this picture. And we take notice of Gene Hackman's voice: "Death ends a life. But it does not end a relationship." This film takes that unadorned reality and exercises it to make a moving, if slushy, account about blood relations, living and dying, and all the words that go unheard. The member of the old guard is played by Melvyn Douglas, and Hackman plays his son, and the film is about the turbulent feeling they have for one another, and about their failure to express that feeling, or a great deal of anything else.
The tale is set at a stage when the fogey's life is closing down, but he won't acknowledge it, and when the younger man's life is about to allow a fresh start. The stick-in-the-mud is eighty-one, and once upon a time he was one of the community's foremost citizens. Nevertheless, now he's essentially ancient history, left to live a calm life in the sprawling old family home. He lives there with his wife and his reminiscences, and a forceful overprotectiveness for his son.
What he wants from the son is a glimpse of affection. He doesn't connect with him. Actually, he fritters lots of time dozing off facing the TV. Yet he wants him there, virtually as a detainee, as he has a need for warmth deferred from his own ignored childhood. The son attempts to do his duty. Although his own wife died a year ago, and now he's resolved to marry a doctor who lives in California. This will entail leaving the hometown, and that'd be sacrilege to his father.
The predicament grows insistent when his mother passes. The old man appears to understand the death as a bother, reassigning his sorrow to recollections of his own mother's death some fifty years ago. But his reliance on his son grows to be full-blown. His daughter comes home for the funeral. In a convulsion of wrath, the intransigent had exiled her for marrying a Jew.
Now she rationalizes to Hackman, with a neutrality that seems brutal but arises from affection, that plans are going to have to be made about dad. He can't live in the immense estate alone. The problem is, his conceit makes him reject hiring the housekeeper he could effortlessly afford. He requires his son to look after him. And Hackman has not yet garnered the nerve to disclose his marriage plans.
Robert Anderson's piece makes a lifetime of sense. Yes, characters fuss and bicker, but the feelings have been gathered not from life but from dated TV. For every line delivered with authenticity, there's another that's lugged with all of the poise and none of the effect. But still, I must concede that his dialogue is straightforward and informative, sans the erudite flourishes or refinement that could've interfered with the characters. For Anderson's narrative, which looks to everyday pragmatism and would find symbolism precarious, the plain dialogue is important, so when we feel the theatrical roots of the script bleeding through the celluloid, it dulls the blade of the poignant material and earnest performances by feeling contrived.
Gilbert Cates' direction also defers to the reality that this is a movie not about visual flair or any other trendily cinematic self-consciousness. Not including an unsuitable song which creeps onto the soundtrack early on, Cates has directed exclusively to extract moving performances. Much of the film is simply between Hackman and Douglas and the characters appear to work so capably because they physically answer one another in every shot. The result is not of acting, but as if the story were occurring presently while we see it.
Death ends a life, but not a relationship. That's accurate of all intimate and profound human relationships. When one person dies, the other keeps speculating what could've been said between them, but wasn't. This film has the nerve to keep open-ended. The issues between father and son stay largely unsettled. That's actually more unfortunate than the reality of death, which is biological, but human nature shouts that parents and children should identify with one another.
The tale is set at a stage when the fogey's life is closing down, but he won't acknowledge it, and when the younger man's life is about to allow a fresh start. The stick-in-the-mud is eighty-one, and once upon a time he was one of the community's foremost citizens. Nevertheless, now he's essentially ancient history, left to live a calm life in the sprawling old family home. He lives there with his wife and his reminiscences, and a forceful overprotectiveness for his son.
What he wants from the son is a glimpse of affection. He doesn't connect with him. Actually, he fritters lots of time dozing off facing the TV. Yet he wants him there, virtually as a detainee, as he has a need for warmth deferred from his own ignored childhood. The son attempts to do his duty. Although his own wife died a year ago, and now he's resolved to marry a doctor who lives in California. This will entail leaving the hometown, and that'd be sacrilege to his father.
The predicament grows insistent when his mother passes. The old man appears to understand the death as a bother, reassigning his sorrow to recollections of his own mother's death some fifty years ago. But his reliance on his son grows to be full-blown. His daughter comes home for the funeral. In a convulsion of wrath, the intransigent had exiled her for marrying a Jew.
Now she rationalizes to Hackman, with a neutrality that seems brutal but arises from affection, that plans are going to have to be made about dad. He can't live in the immense estate alone. The problem is, his conceit makes him reject hiring the housekeeper he could effortlessly afford. He requires his son to look after him. And Hackman has not yet garnered the nerve to disclose his marriage plans.
Robert Anderson's piece makes a lifetime of sense. Yes, characters fuss and bicker, but the feelings have been gathered not from life but from dated TV. For every line delivered with authenticity, there's another that's lugged with all of the poise and none of the effect. But still, I must concede that his dialogue is straightforward and informative, sans the erudite flourishes or refinement that could've interfered with the characters. For Anderson's narrative, which looks to everyday pragmatism and would find symbolism precarious, the plain dialogue is important, so when we feel the theatrical roots of the script bleeding through the celluloid, it dulls the blade of the poignant material and earnest performances by feeling contrived.
Gilbert Cates' direction also defers to the reality that this is a movie not about visual flair or any other trendily cinematic self-consciousness. Not including an unsuitable song which creeps onto the soundtrack early on, Cates has directed exclusively to extract moving performances. Much of the film is simply between Hackman and Douglas and the characters appear to work so capably because they physically answer one another in every shot. The result is not of acting, but as if the story were occurring presently while we see it.
Death ends a life, but not a relationship. That's accurate of all intimate and profound human relationships. When one person dies, the other keeps speculating what could've been said between them, but wasn't. This film has the nerve to keep open-ended. The issues between father and son stay largely unsettled. That's actually more unfortunate than the reality of death, which is biological, but human nature shouts that parents and children should identify with one another.