His shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s — Jim Broadbent may be the life of the party, but he most certainly ain’t no hollaback girl
This adaptation of the memoir by British poet Blake Morrison includes one of the most unfortunate transitions you’ll see in a movie this year. A shot of a grim-faced Colin Firth masturbating in a bathtub is abruptly followed by one of a withered Jim Broadbent about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Rarely have images of sex and death been juxtaposed to such cringe-inducing effect. This incident is also symptomatic of director Anand Tucker’s approach, which I would describe as heavy-handed or ham-fisted if I thought you could tolerate another masturbation reference.
In any case, what should be an essentially quiet and intimate drama about a writer’s fraught relationship with his charismatic father gets blown out of all proportion thanks to Tucker’s unsubtle tactics and a pair of lead performers who never stray out of their comfort zones long enough to convey something that feels true. While it may be churlish to complain that a male weepie about the passing of a patriarch is sentimental, this is still soggier than a washcloth.
Firth is in his quivering-upper-lip mode as Blake, who struggles with his conflicting feelings for his ailing pa, Arthur (Broadbent). Flashbacks reveal the ups and downs of life with Arthur, a country doctor with an outsized personality, a hunger for life and a tendency to stretch the truth. Blake’s grudge primarily stems from his suspicion that Arthur was less than faithful to wife Kim (Juliet Stevenson), though when the adult Blake confronts his mother, he realizes that the situation was more complex. Blake’s stroll down memory lane also necessitates a reunion with Sandra (Elaine Cassidy), the Scottish domestic with whom he once had his own affair.
Blake’s excavation of his daddy issues leads to the possibility of forgiveness and a deeper understanding of Arthur, yet the story fails to achieve the desired degree of emotional potency because of Tucker’s needlessly flashy directorial style (we really could have done without all the crane shots). While it’s always a pleasure to see that twinkle in Broadbent’s eyes, there’s little to distinguish Arthur among the actor’s gallery of mildly roguish codgers. Firth merely looks like he’s eaten something that didn’t agree with him — maybe it was the script.
