Directed by Yaron Zilberman? Surely that’s a mistake Woody Allen made this, didn’t he? Is Zilberman a pseudonym for Allen?
Apparently not, but anyone walking into this silver-surfer film would be forgiven for thinking it’s Allen’s latest. Set in a snowy New York, with interiors all beautifully lit and very tasteful, along with exteriors of Central Park looking crystalline in the white frost, it’s got Allen’s influence all over it.
It’s also the latest in a string of films for grey-haired movie-goers remember, the ones no-one thought existed until The King’s Speech, but apparently turn out in droves for the right product. This certainly fits that profile, but it you’re going to make a film for the wrinklies you have to throw the best actors at it. Best Exotic Marigold Hotel had a great cast for example, and here we get three masterly actors giving it their all.
Christopher Walken takes the lead as a cello player in a respected quartet. His wife has died, so all he has to keep him going is his group, and the prospect of playing one last big tour with them. However when he is diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease about the worst thing for a cello player he readjusts his sights. He wants to give one last concert in New York, Beethoven’s fiendishly difficult Opus 131, before his hands go completely.
When he announces this to his group it has devastating effects. Philip Seymour Hoffman and Catherine Keener are married, but he suddenly announced he is fed up with playing second violin, and wants to play the lead. She is not too supportive, and the cracks in their marriage start to show. Meanwhile Mary Ivanir (no, me neither), the actual lead violinist, has his eye on their daughter, also a musician (Imogen Poots, annoying frankly).
Just as things start to disintegrate completely Walken pulls them all together will they perform one last time in his honour?
It’s a very safe, middle-class world here, with everyone living in gorgeous apartments, sipping wine or a latte in trendy bars and discussing their life’s woes. There isn’t a therapist’s chair in sight, there doesn’t need to be. However, the huge charm of the actors keeps the momentum going, and that’s a huge skill. Hoffman is his usual shambles of a man, dragging his big belly round central park and his resentments about his lack of talent with it. Keener is as watchable as ever, trying to keep her husband happy while realising he will never realise his talent and she might have wasted her years of touring at the expense of being a good mother.
Walken though is the real revelation, dispensing with his usual staring psycho routine and instead showing real vulnerability as a man stricken with an awful disease. In one scene his dead wife appears in front of him singing an aria it takes an actor of real talent to pull that off without it seeming too cheesy, but Walken does it beautifully. His speech at the end during his last concert it genuinely moving.
It’s easy to pick holes in the movie, as there are many flaws Poots’ irritating daughter character, Hoffman’s unlikely affair with a beautiful Spanish dancer, the slow, steady pace, but overall the film does keep the interest and intrigue. Ivanir’s character is the classic example he seems far too cold, obsessively rehearsing and criticising, until it’s clear that is the point of his character he wants technical perfection at the expense of real passion.
Overall verdict: Solid, superbly acted 40-something drama which just about gets away with its stodgy story through some powerful moments. The silver surfers will love it, the kids may well be bored, but it does what it says on the tin.
Reviewer: Mike Martin