Belfast (2021)

Score: 4 / 5

Knowing nothing about this movie in advance except its title, cast, and writer/director, I can tell you it's a complete and utter shock. Because it does indeed take place in Belfast during the earlier part of "The Troubles," the ethnic-nationalist series of conflicts that traumatized Northern Ireland for three decades. Yet the film doesn't really concern those issues, at least not at any macro level. Rather, Branagh tells a story of a young boy named Buddy who grows up in a working class family and tries to make sense of the conflict around him even as he learns to love the city they call home. The film is hardly fresh in its delivery -- it will invariably and unfortunately be compared to Alfonso Cuaron's Roma -- but Branagh is wearing his heart on his sleeve in a way that is accessible and meaningful to wide audiences, unlike that other over-lauded flick.

Its sweetness and sense of joy might feel, initially, undermined by Branagh's decision to shoot the film in black-and-white. But this vision endears it to a certain understanding of memory, reminding us that our past is plastic and as fantastic now as it was real then. It also helps us, perhaps see things from Branagh's childhood perspective a bit better, as Buddy is obviously meant to be a stand-in for the writer/director. His innocence and view of the world is occasionally complicated by sudden bursts of color, less traumatizing as in Schindler's List and more sentimental. Actually, tonally, I'd compare this more to Jojo Rabbit; although it is less absurdly comedic and more warm-hearted, there is a distinct effort to make sense of childhood trauma framed by ethnic and nationalist conflicts that, in turn, have fostered generational trauma still affecting descendants today.

Surely, as Branagh drew from his own experiences coming of age as a boy, we see and hear about the tumults in 1969 largely in broken fashion. Someone who knows nothing about the political problems in Ireland still won't be able to claim understanding after watching this movie; it's not a historical text, per se, but a memoir. Frankly, I don't know most of the details of this time period or location, but I knew enough to catch on that this movie wouldn't teach me anything new. Rather, through adult conversation heard through eavesdropping, Buddy (and we) learn that his parents are Protestant but unwilling to join their neighbors and fellow churchgoers in intimidating and, ultimately, attacking the local Catholics. As such, their household is in danger, and they face the choice to flee to England.

It's a fascinating look at the breaking of childhood molds for most of its first two-thirds. Buddy likes a girl in class -- the best girl in class -- and works hard to catch up to her academically so they can sit together in the front row. To help, Buddy is tutored by his wise and loving grandfather "Pop" (Ciaran Hinds), who simultaneously helps mend any potential fractures in his son's marriage. His son (Jamie Dornan) works in England and can only return home sporadically to his wife (Caitriona Balfe) and sons. Buddy overhears his parents arguing about a certain neighbor (Colin Morgan) who has targeted them for not standing up for the Protestant cause, a threatening figure who repeatedly comes calling. Buddy also learns to love his home from Pop, and how to love a woman like his grandmother (Judi Dench); when the day comes that the family discusses leaving Belfast, Pop indicates he will almost certainly stay in the place he's lived his whole life.

It seems like everyone in this movie knows darkly that they are operating on a quickly ending timeline, but they put on brave smiles and keep making do, celebrating holidays and playing in the streets even as barricades are erected. When Pop becomes ill and hospital-bound, at the worst possible time for the family, they still joke with each other and encourage each other to move on. Even as their homeland is crumbling around them, Buddy's grandparents shift from bellyaching about each other affectionately to intimately dancing in the living room as Pop sings Camelot's love ballad "How to Handle a Woman." In breathtaking moments like these, we see Branagh's determination to bring nascent, impressionistic memories to vivid life. But unlike Roma, which felt like a disjointed and badly annotated scrapbook of images, Belfast consistently makes itself accessible to people whose only context is that a conflict of religion and politics is brewing. Entrenching us in the experience of a child, one attempting to live his own life despite hardships, evokes the kind of "dear reader" feeling we get from reading The Diary of Anne Frank. 

Thankfully, this story doesn't involve that level of genocide, and apart from one particularly nightmarish gunfight in the street there isn't even much violence. But the emotional turmoil in Buddy's heart revs its engines in the final act of this film, when his family is forced to decide to leave their home, their neighbors, and their family. But to where will they transplant? England, where Pa already has a job? Or a more romantic, distant place like Vancouver or Sydney, as he mentioned earlier in the film? We don't ever really find out (of course Branagh in real life moved to England) except for the final sequence of the film, as Granny sends her son and his family away on a bus and achingly walks alone back to her house. Branagh dedicates this film thus: “For the ones who stayed. For the ones who left. And for all the ones who were lost.”

All is True (2019)

Score: 4 / 5

For all Kenneth Branagh's cinematic achievements -- feel as we may about them -- All is True is far and wide the most impressive to me. As director, here he exhibits the closest he has come to an arthouse film, and its understated but passionate sincerity is the most controlled and restrained he has ever been. I admire him for that, and of course for bringing Judi Dench and Ian McKellan along for the ride.

After the Globe burns to the ground, William Shakespeare (Branagh) leaves the London theatrical scene and returns to his home in Stratford-upon-Avon. Memories of his career haunt him as he attempts to reconnect with his family, his wife Anne Hathaway (Judi Dench) and daughter he had all but estranged years prior. He actively mourns the death of his son Hamnet some twenty years previously, a death his family has processed and moved on from. Though he may claim to desire uniting his family, his obsession with death and his depression over arrogance and genius wasted serve more to tear what filial connections he has asunder.

True or not is the sort of winking charm of this film. The oft-repeated titular phrase seems to genuinely want the plot here to ring true, though almost nothing is known or even suspected of the Bard's retirement. Rather the film strings together what amounts to fanfiction of the highest order,  combining melodrama and costume drama and some nice meditations on Shakespeare's work. Case in point: an unbelievably delicious scene in which the aging Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton (Ian McKellan), pays his friend and idol a visit, and the two sit before a fire musing on the value of the latter's sonnets, which they make clear were written about Wriothesley. While they do not speak of that love that dare not speak its name, the subtext is only too clear and heartbreaking.

It's all great fun for any Shakespeare fan or English major, but I can't imagine it's terribly accessible (much less entertaining) for anyone else. There are lots of tidbits of interest, especially for those of us highly suspect of the popular conception of Shakespeare's supposed life, but the film is generally a sweet and melancholy view of the artist as an old man piecing together the ruins of his life. The breakout performance belongs not to Branagh, though, fascinating as he may look under the heavy makeup, but rather to the actor playing his daughter, Kathryn Wilder. Ultimately, even with her powerhouse performance under the titans sharing her screen time, the film is the kind of thing I would pair with Roland Emmerich's magnificent Anonymous in class I'd teach on Shakespeare. A lot of fun, terribly interesting, gorgeous to behold, and fabulously conspiratorial.

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

Everyone may be a suspect, but guilt may lie with the filmmakers here.

As if another Murder on the Orient Express was necessary or even really wanted, Kenneth Branagh helms this stylish whodunit with panache if not passion. He and his team do some fun and interesting things with the familiar tale, but its overall effect is cheapened by stuffy sentimentality, repeated attempts at superfluous spectacle, and a surprisingly unfocused screenplay by Michael Green (whose amazing breakout year has included American Gods, Logan, Alien: Covenant, and Blade Runner 2049).

It all starts with a strange opening scene at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, one that introduces not only Branagh's own Poirot (who I had more than a little trouble believing, but that's just my own taste) but the film's forced efforts at leaping into the twenty-first century. It's a bizarre little plea for interfaith harmony disguised as an introduction to Poirot, as he wryly solves a silly but consequential little mystery for a rabbi, a priest, and an imam. Unfortunately, the modern social commentary doesn't stop there. While the presences of Penelope Cruz, Leslie Odom, Jr., and Manuel Garcia Rulfo are a lovely addition, they do change the texture of the story in dramatic and unnecessary ways. If we're going to change the source material, can we please have a better reason than publicity?

Regardless, it doesn't take too long and our hero has boarded the titular train on his fateful journey. A particularly dour Johnny Depp plays Ratchett, a businessman afraid for his life, who unsuccessfully bullies Poirot into protecting him. Poirot is a man of apparently unshakable morals, it seems, and as he says early in the film, there is right and there is wrong. His opinion of Mr. Ratchett doesn't change for the better when the latter is found murdered in his bed. The thirteen passengers of that coach are all suspects, and as Poirot interrogates them and collects evidence, lies and trickery pile up into one of Agatha Christie's most beloved works. It's certainly one of my favorites, with a killer ending that, in my opinion, is one of the most satisfying and disturbing in all mystery literature.

Unfortunately, this film doesn't measure up to previous incarnations by a long shot. Sidney Lumet's 1974 version, though it too changed a few character names, is one of my favorite movies of all time. This film, like that, features no small amount of grandeur and style, in extravagant costumes and sets as well as in really dynamic camerawork by Haris Zambarloukos (Eye in the Sky, Sleuth, Mamma Mia!, Thor, Locke). His long tracking shots and attention to fabulous lighting are worthy of admiration. And while a feast for the eyes should be enough for a twisty mystery like this, Branagh and Green seem to think they need to add an irritating amount of spectacle. Swooping vistas of eastern Europe are grand in the 65mm film, but the extreme close-ups on actors' faces are a shallow attempt at intimacy and claustrophobia. Similarly, a few other camera gimmicks didn't work as well as Branagh may have hoped, such as the crime scene investigation, which all takes place overhead; cool, I suppose, but we are unable to see any faces or their emotion. Ratchett brandishes a gun at Poirot; one woman gets stabbed in the shoulder; a strangely Romantic lightning strike that causes an avalanche doesn't just stop the Orient Express from proceeding, but literally knocks it off its tracks. The film avoids any possible claustrophobia (a poor decision, I say) by having Poirot interrogate the suspects in various places around the train at various times, including one "picnic" as he calls it outside in the snow, as if he would do such a thing, much less expect it of a strong-willed British lady.

Irritated yet? Just wait. The film includes two ludicrous action scenes, which I would have laughed aloud during had I not been so anxious about what would happen. In one, a man attempts to burn incriminating evidence; he does so by inexplicably going outside the train, into the scaffolding under the bridge, and almost dying in the process. Why couldn't he have simply tossed the documents out a window? They're on a bridge in a snowy mountain range! Or burned it in the train, and scattered the ashes? It's just a cheap ploy by the filmmakers, who seem to think a good mystery has to have action sequences. In the other scene, another man shoots Poirot in the arm as he claims responsibility for the crime and the scene proceeds to turn into a fight between Poirot and the man. I could have accepted the scene, except of course that it is absurd and ends with no transition to the climax. Poirot wouldn't be caught dead fighting like a street thug, and more importantly, he'd never have to.

Speaking of characters, for the most part the cast is solid. The script does not allow for much characterization of anyone but Poirot, a sad fact for those of us who like character-based mysteries. Each interrogation of the suspects is interrupted either by (you guessed it!) spectacle or bewildering editing, which results in our inability to fully understand the criminal timeline and evidence amassed -- even those of us who know the story intimately. There are a few gems in the cast, mostly the A-listers who get the lion's share of screen time, including Michelle Pfeiffer, Johnny Depp, Josh Gad, and Daisy Ridley. Most of the rest of the cast gets severely limited exposure, especially Derek Jacobi, Lucy Boynton, and Olivia Colman. Judi Dench does her brief thing of scowling imperiously over everyone else, and Penelope Cruz turns the role that won Ingrid Bergman another Oscar into a bitter, shallow wretch of a Spanish missionary (wait, I thought this was supposed to be more culturally sensitive?). Whereas Christie and Lumet made their insular, claustrophobic stories to examine issues of human rationalization and projection, deception and delusion, and awful guilt, Branagh here mostly attempts spectacle and pleasure for a modern audience in focusing on celebrities in a more or less period film.

Apart from the film's reliance on spectacle, its greatest failing lies in its dripping sentiment. Nary a shot isn't Romantic or romantic, and while I like some eye candy like Branagh strutting along the roof of the snow-covered train for literally no reason, it doesn't mesh well with what is one of Christie's most disturbing and enchanting mysteries. We don't need to see Poirot fawning over a photo of his lover and repeating her name ad nauseam to have sympathy for his character. We don't need to see, at the climax, the suspects arranged in the mouth of a tunnel like the Last Supper to understand what's happening (and as if Princess Dragomiroff would deign to march through snow drifts!). And then there's the one-line groaners like Poirot's "There is right, there is wrong, and now there is you." There's a suspect's almost gleeful inability to maintain a lie during questioning, as he changes accents and behaviors on a whim without even attempting to look desperate, embarrassed, or ashamed. There's the revealed mastermind's "You are a clever man" before sobbing hysterically. And, worst of all, there's the flashback scene that depicts the murder in black-and-white; over the drama (which Lumet filmed as a straight-up horror scene to awesome effect) is played a romantic piano ballad that sounds like something from Twilight. It's not creepy, it's not warm and symphonic, it's not even a grandiose "AHA! It is solved!" Instead it's a sickly love song that makes no sense overlaying a gruesome murder and served only to irreparably rip me from the moment.

What else is there to say? It's an entertaining film -- until that climax -- and handsomely shot. I was disappointed more often than not, but if that's what it takes to keep Christie alive in the public eye, maybe it will be worth it. The ending suggests pretty overtly that the door to a sequel is wide open, but I certainly hope if Death on the Nile is green-lit, the filmmakers do it some justice. And, honey, do something about that mustache.

IMDb: Murder on the Orient Express

Victoria and Abdul (2017)

Score: 4 / 5

Victoria & Abdul is one of those movies it has quickly become cool to hate. I saw it and loved every minute.

Yes, it takes place at a time of and with people who were instrumental in the oppression and violence of British colonialism in India. No, it does not accurately represent their plight, and yes, it trivializes the severity of racist imperialism that amounted to genocide in many parts of the world. But Victoria & Abdul, as the title suggests, is about two individuals. It is not a historical film; it immediately declares itself to be "Based on real events" with a cutesy knowing little "...mostly" tacked on. Trite as that may be, it is also more honest than most films touting their historical accuracy. Stephen Frears (Florence Foster Jenkins, Philomena, The Queen) knows how to do this well, and this picture is no exception.

The film centers on an ill, aging Queen Victoria, whose court is riddled with scheming aristocrats and cruel bigots seeking power. Judi Dench, returning to screen as the empress, gives one of her best screen performances, riveting and often painful to watch. Her honesty about her health, age, and loneliness is some of the most vulnerable screen acting I've ever seen; I'd compare it, oddly enough, to Patrick Stewart in Logan earlier this year. She also has a curious sense of humor, which broadens and enlivens as the film progresses, but the filmmakers seem intent on projecting that onto the screen as well. Other characters are flat and caricatured, and, as far as Victoria and we are concerned, simply irritating.

As I say, the film centers on Victoria and her experience. With a few notable exceptions (we'll discuss presently), the film forces us to view the world much as Victoria does. We see sumptuous feasts for consuming, wicked underlings scraping and bowing while conniving behind closed doors, and duties so banal and confining that we -- like she -- would rather be in bed. Fabulous castles, decadent style, a whole world of beauty and extravagance at her fingertips. The camera paints for us a portrait of gardens and tapestries, food and music, and it's easy to forget the horrors of British-ruled India. "Aha! The film is reinforcing colonial racism!" Maybe. It's also making sure we sympathize with Victoria, because her life of luxury is all she knows. I think it's all most of us know, too; the film has a pretty specific target audience.

Enter Abdul (played expertly by Ali Fazal, matching his co-star with grace and humor), a young clerk from Agra, who is selected for his stature (and, likely, education) to gift Victoria with a gold coin, a symbol of gratitude and loyalty to the empress. After brazenly looking Her Majesty in the eye, Abdul finds himself summoned by Victoria to attend her personally. She is intrigued by this exotic man, but her commodification of him is never consummated; he begins to teach her. She grows hungry for knowledge of Urdu and the Qur'an, much to the horror of her household, and elevates Abdul to the position of her Munshi, teacher. Their friendship is also deeply personal, as they confide in each other and treat each other as intimate family. Victoria's will to live returns, and she embraces the culture of India which she, admittedly, has overlooked and forsaken.

Of course all will not end well, as Victoria's age and illness lead to her eventual death (but not before she delivers, in close-up, an Oscar-nomination-worthy speech about her situation). Her efforts to protect Abdul are undone by her cruel and jealous son, Edward VII (a delicious Eddie Izzard), who burns their correspondence and casts Abdul and his family out of the country. It's a difficult film to watch as we see this intolerance and violence, but it makes you re-consider who is really to blame in the situation. Sure, Victoria had been hated for her seeming attempts to bridge the cultural divide and promote tolerance, but isn't it horrifying too to think that her cultural appropriation and lack of genuine action on behalf of her Indian subjects could be cast as humanitarian, even progressive?

Movies like this are feel-good movies that work by appealing to our ignorant whiteness, that try to let us forgive ourselves for the unspeakable horrors we have enacted around the world through colonized oppression. We don't deserve that. But on the other hand, let's not discredit the effect movies like this can have on people who don't think critically about these issues. This isn't a lesson in history; it's equally not a moral treatise. I spoke with an elderly white man outside the theater who was amazed that "someone like Abdul" could be so kind and loving to people who hated him so much. I read a post from an acquaintance saying that if Judi Dench wasn't horrified by being friends with a Muslim, she would try not to be either. Whatever those statements are ultimately worth, it is encouraging that the people for whom this film is aimed may be getting some good messages out of it.

If all movies being released had messages like this, then we could certainly be more vocal in critiquing its subtext of imperialist rhetoric and racial treachery of Abdul (yes, his role could be read like Samuel L. Jackson's in Django Unchained). There is no arguing that this film could and should have done better. But this is one humble film with a heart of compassion, and to write it off because of its depiction of false history -- which has little to do with the drama it's really portraying -- is a weak and petty position to take.

IMDb: Victoria and Abdul

Tulip Fever (2017)

Score: 3 / 5

Who knew tulips could be so sexy?

They were, at least, in 1634 Amsterdam. Everyone wanted tulips, so their market soared until they, inevitably, crashed. So too with love, apparently, as Tulip Fever paints it. The macrocosm of city commerce during a time of obsession and sacrifice is mirrored by the romantic drama of a small household. Choosing a compelled (not forced or arranged, exactly) marriage over becoming a novice in a nunnery, beautiful, orphaned Sophia (Alicia Vikander) weds and beds wealthy widowed merchant Cornelis Sandvoort (Christoph Waltz). Cornelis desires a child above all, though the two are apparently unable to conceive.

Christoph Waltz starts his role with eccentric flair and strange nuances. Cornelis, obsessed with fathering a child but no less concerned with the happiness of his stoic wife, develops a comical ritual of prayer for fertility, pissing in the chamberpot, and calling his "little soldier" to attention. It's a sad sort of self-deprecation that at first feels disgusting, but over time is endearing; never mind the little moment when he climaxes and refers to cannons firing. We learn over time that he genuinely loves his wife, something Sophia also realizes too late. He's not Ralph Fiennes in The Duchess, and though this film has its fair amount of dark stylizations, it's not a domestic horror picture. Indeed, during the climax as the baby is being born, Sophia sheds a series of single tears, ashamed of her deception and the pain she will soon cause her husband.

Still trusting in their marriage, Cornelis arranges for a portrait to be painted of the two of them, and hires young Jan van Loos (Dane DeHaan). It's a Titanic-style romance that you know won't end well. Without even having met her properly, Jan stares at her during their first sitting, and it's a miracle her husband doesn't catch on. Then again, if Dane DeHaan glared at me that way, I'd probably call the police, but movie logic isn't always a thing. He compulsively paints her, and she seems so pleased I kept expecting her to say something like, "Paint me like one of your Dutch girls, Jan." No such luck. They begin a heated affair, one she disguises with voluminous robes and speedy excursions. Running through the marketplace as she does, it's a wonder no one recognizes her. Jan and Sophie share intimacy that sharply contrasts with her stilted, stunted sex scenes with Cornelis. In fact, a memorable sequences juxtaposes the cold officiousness of the portrait sittings with the hot kineticism of adultery: "You may rest, Mr. Sandvoort," Jan once says, knowing full well that the cuckold isn't doing much else in bed.

At the same time, there's some fire down under in the Sandvoort house. Maria the maid (Holliday Grainger) and the local fishmonger (Jack O'Connell) really turn on the heat in the kitchen until they put a bun in the oven. In order to save Maria's reputation and job -- and her own marriage -- Sophia embarks on a preposterous plan to hide the pregnancy but also to pretend to be pregnant herself. It's a convoluted, totally unbelievable scheme, but everyone involved seems to make it work without a hitch. Even the creepy but ultimately helpful gynecologist Dr. Sorgh (Tom Hollander) manages to convince Cornelis of the proceedings.

I don't want to spoil it for you, but Tulip Fever follows the period-romance template to the letter. In fact, it plays ever so slightly with becoming an erotic dark romance, especially about halfway through when the tulip market inflates and so do the sex organs of our lead players. They scurry around town like rats, hump like rabbits, then return home like angels. Candlelit interiors, heavy wooden hallways, beautifully thick costumes, and lots of staring out windows keep the drama rich if a bit silly. Silly, you ask? You betcha. Tom Stoppard's script (Anna Karenina, Shakespeare in Love, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead) is thin and confused, trying to do too much at times, and barely doing anything at others. When another fishmonger shows up at Maria's kitchen door offering his wares, he earnestly looks at her and says, "I've got a nice thick eel." Another: Jan tells Sophia, in one post-coital scene, that their plan will work, "All we have to do is put all our eggs in one basket." The movie is filled with howlers like these, effectively ripping us out of the drama of the movie.

They should have kept the humor to a minimum, or at least leave it in capable hands. And no, I don't mean Zach Galifianakis, who shows up for a couple times for some idiotic reason, mostly to proclaim his inability to adopt a convincing accent and become the butt of jokes regarding his alcoholism. I mean someone like Tom Hollander, who steals his scenes, or Dame Judi Dench as the Mother Superior of Sophia's home. The abbess also has her hands in the tulip trade, and her utterly arresting stoicism makes you squirm as she delivers one-liners with bone-dry conviction. Or even Matthew Morrison, who shows up a few times as Jan's dear friend, which prompts me to wonder why Sophia doesn't choose him to have an affair with, because -- well, no explanation necessary.

The film feels narratively busy, helped along by feverish editing that jumps between people and places faster than necessary. Coincidences pile on misdirection, and by the finale I felt that I'd been had by the filmmakers. It began with such promise, we might say, especially with the lush production value (thank you, Weinstein Company!) and casting choices. But all crashes -- much like the tulip trade -- and the impossible climax and implausible denouement, plus a series of false endings, strip away the stylish guise of the film and reveal a cruel trick. Is the story a steamy period romance? A sad melodrama about idiots who get in over their heads? A dry tragicomedy that champions lower class workers?

Does it matter?

IMDb: Tulip Fever

The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2015)

Score: 4.5 / 5

John Madden has done it again, following up his fabulous The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2011) with a sequel that's slightly more kinetic and spectacular but which has lost none of its pure heart and spirit of joy. Where the first was a fantastic foray into the unknown, this second concerns the aftermath of that: getting comfortable with a new and exciting world, and reconciling a personal victory with interpersonal affection.

I think it would be fair to say the first film focused more on Tom Wilkinson (who is obviously not in the sequel) and Judi Dench, each trying to declare something about themselves in the midst of cultural changes. This film, on the other hand, seems to focus more on Maggie Smith and Dev Patel, attempting to make the best possible choices for themselves and the ones they love. In this way, the film straddles the vastly different problems facing two generations. In the first, Patel's character was primarily comedic and an aggressive plot device; in this, he takes center stage as a troubled fiancée seeking to win back his love from a perceived threat to his financial success and social status. Amidst the celebrations of youth and love, we follow Maggie Smith in her efforts to help the young man save his business and his romance. Having grown very fond of her young friend, she also keeps hidden some potentially devastating medical news from everyone at the hotel.

Much like the first film, this picture has raucous comedy, including farcical car chases and pitch-perfect one-liners popping off every few minutes. In sharp contrast, it also has striking moments of somber reflection and introspection, mostly delivered by Maggie Smith. Lillete Dubey, playing Dev Patel's character's mother, has some really nice dramatic scenes with Richard Gere, too, which I was ready for back in 2011. Beautiful costumes, fabulous lighting, and breathtaking sets decorate this picture in ways that might even surpass the first installment. The engagement parties are notably spectacular, especially the one which culminates in a rousing mass dance. Dev Patel might have won my heart up on that stage.

I could keep going, but you get the idea. I loved it, I hope there's another, I cried a lot, I laughed a lot, and I left feeling lively and affirmed. I should say, though, those last few minutes are brutal. Maggie Smith's voice-over about death and love and life is timeless and poignant and devastating and everything cliché I could possibly say. And yet it is perfect. Okay, I'll stop before I cry again.

IMDb: The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2011)

Score: 4.5 / 5

John Madden (director of Shakespeare in Love (1998), Proof (2005), The Debt (2010), Mrs Brown (1997), and Ethan Frome (1993), if you didn't know) heads this delightful excursion into another world. A ragtag group of retirees find themselves in search of something they've been missing their whole lives: life. So they pack their bags for India and the promise of a luxurious hotel "for the elderly and beautiful." After arriving at their dilapidated destination, romance and comedy ensue in one of the most memorable adult fantasies in recent history.

A dream cast creates this ensemble picture, and their respective wits increasingly sharpen each other for the two-hour running time. Judi Dench, Bill Nighy, Tom Wilkinson, and Maggie Smith display their comic and dramatic selves in masterful performances that drive straight to the heart. Supporting these four are Penelope Wilton, Ronald Pickup, and Celia Imrie, who each display fabulous comedic timing and sassy characterizations. Dev Patel (whom I only remember from 2008's Slumdog Millionaire) expertly plays the optimistic, almost manic hotel manager.

Ensemble casts are beautiful when each member is given ample time to shine, though this is understandably difficult to accomplish. Madden succeeds in balancing his A-listers with his unknowns, and allowing each to perform at their relaxed and intelligent best. And though there is some criticism that the film employs racist and ageist stereotypes, I think that for every stereotype it hints at (never overt or condescending) it also depicts the realities of the cultures in question. India may be the exotic Other of the film, but so are the "invading" Westerners, in a way, who carry most of the film's social baggage with them. And the infectious joy flooding off the screen highlights diversity and community, rather than humorous riffs off cultural differences. Ultimately the film explores the psychology of older people attempting to reclaim their lives; the fact that they are in India is merely a symbolic manifestation of their place in an unfamiliar world. Madden obviously admires it for its unique beauty, and graciously shares that vision with us.

 With its script of hilarious one-liners and occasionally heightened dialogue, the film sparkles at every turn. It feels neither forced nor trivial in its expertly weaved pattern of drama and comedy. Though the romantic element is by no means original, Madden keeps a relaxed grip on its reins. He isn't interested in geriatric titillation, but rather in a notion that increased age should not equate to increased torpidity. These characters are yearning for something more; as such, they are both desperate and vulnerable. They are also relatively alone in a strange country with only each other to lean upon. Despite these extreme internal forces, each character bravely reaches out in order to make some sense of their new lives. And the actors capture every nuance of that complex identity.

IMDb: The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel