Here's a review of the new movie about J M Barrie, for National Review Online.
Finding Neverland Somebody, somewhere, hates imagination. In some Dickensian institution where children wear lace-up boots and stare glumly at their porridge, a wicked, wrinkled figure reflects gleefully that they will never hear of talking animals and flying ships. We know that such a killjoy must exist, because "Finding Neverland" is so heroically opposed to him. Throughout the film beautiful figures keep imploring us to welcome the liberating power of imagination, and they must be talking to *somebody*. I attended a screening for movie critics, and these tend to be more hard-boiled than most, but I still didn't spot anyone shaking his fist at the screen like Snidely Whiplash. I did eventually hear someone gently snoring. Every culture has its favorite stories, and here's one of ours: a good guy rises up against the sour, fun-hating oppressors, and teaches them a thing or two. Maybe he's the stranger who comes to a stuffy town and teaches it to dance; maybe he's the student who comes to a stuffy school and teaches it to party. (Teaching a virginal teen to get over her prudish hang-ups is popular storyline, too.) In any case, the story always concerns a Messiah of Fun who rescues others from their horrid straight-laciness. Straight-laciness is now so despised, however, that it's hard to find anyone who can plausibly champion it. Fun-haters are less believable than talking animals, so moviemakers who want to play this comforting, familiar tune must turn back the clock. "Finding Neverland" turns it back a full century, giving us J. M. Barrie (Johnny Depp) in 1904 This movie doesn't leave anything to the imagination. Exposition is announced like a train arriving on Track 12. Just-pretend is rendered with exacting realism. When Depp himself would, however. His delightfully oddball performance in "Pirates" last year was so original that it won him a supporting-actor Oscar nomination. Here he is studiously quiet, wide-eyed, and asexual, recalling nothing so much as the whimsical, limited Sam he played in "Benny & Joon." Passive, reflective, and prettily costumed, Depp's In the context of this plot it is necessary that Nicely done, but far more superficial than No such meatiness here. When Sylvia dies, Well, this is pure, double-filtered, lemon-scented hogwash. No grieving child should be loaded up with such malarkey-burdened with the obligation to materialize his own dead mother through mental exertion, burdened to think that the inevitably fading or fluctuating memory is his fault because he failed sufficiently to "believe." Contrary to popular opinion, believing don't make it so. There is a reality about life after death, a "so," that exists whether we believe in it or not. We don't know much about it and can prove even less, but that doesn't mean imaginary projections will constitute reality if we squeeze the sides of our head hard enough. Believing in belief is a useless, superficial exercise. Real human conviction and experience travel in less predictable patterns-as real playwright J. M. Barrie knew. ********
Frederica Mathewes-Green www.frederica.com |
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