By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
Marvin's Room, starring Diane Keaton and Meryl Streep as sisters who reunite uneasily for the first time in 20 years, is one of those movies about people who confront the choices they've made and become better people for it. Adapted by the late Scott McPherson from his popular 1992 play and directed by Broadway veteran Jerry Zaks, it turns downbeat into uplift. Inspirationalism wafts off the screen in little perfumed puffs.
Yet the material gets to you anyway. The difference between Marvin's Room and a TV soap opera such as As the World Turns may not be vast, but Keaton and Streep manage to pull something emotionally valid out of the ozone. They bring a truth--an actor's truth at least--to their scenes of coy, grievous confrontation. When you walk out of Marvin's Room, you may feel both bamboozled and moved. The actresses dip their toes in the soap-opera bubble bath, but their work here is fiercely cleansing.
For 20 years in Florida, Bessie (Keaton) has devoted herself to the care of her ailing father, Marvin (Hume Cronyn), and Marvin's dotty sister, Ruth (Gwen Verdon). Lee (Streep) has been living in Ohio as a single mother, working in a hair salon. Her two sons are poles apart: Geeky, good-natured Charlie (Hal Scardino) spends his time poring over Jules Verne's Twenty-thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Hank (Leonardo DiCaprio) is a loveless delinquent who opens the film by torching the family home--his reward is a lockup in the state mental ward. Lee can't do a thing with Hank, but together with Charlie, they hit the road to visit Bessie when she writes she's been diagnosed with leukemia and needs a bone marrow match.
The sisters' reunion is a farrago of mixed emotions. Lee, the prodigal daughter, resents Bessie's beatific ease even when faced with calamity. She resents the way she has been drawn back into the family circle only because, she feels, she may be of some medical use to her sister. As a tense, diffident friendship warms between Bessie and Hank, Lee's resentments mount. Bessie, the childless old maid, is even a better mother than she.
And what does Bessie resent about Lee? Not much, actually. Bessie is so selfless she's saintly--and McPherson intends no irony in that sainthood. When Bessie talks to Lee about how much love there has been in her life caring for their father, you might think Bessie is trying to one-up her sib. But no, her grace is guileless--she really is a saint.
Probably no actress alive could wear Bessie's halo as smartly as Keaton. She wipes away your cynicism. With any other actress in the part, Bessie's goodness might have seemed ga-ga. With Keaton, you can see the hurt and the rue out of which that goodness came. Bessie's transcendence is hard-won. When she becomes critically ill, she's beyond terror. She has spent so much time ministering to the illnesses of others that her own illness is no stranger to her. Mortality composes her.
Streep is a more mannered actress than Keaton, but her performance is just about as uncompromising. She doesn't soften Lee for us; she doesn't hang her head in recrimination even when the script seems to be nudging her in that direction. In some of her other roles, Streep's willfulness could be wearying; she's so bullish about not being actressy that at times she's all actress. Streep even at her best can seem closed off--she wears a bulletproof vest of technique.
But Streep's air of remoteness and self-consciousness works for Lee. This is a woman who would be hypersensitive to appearances; she makes her living dolling up the unattractive, and she knows what a piece of armor a beauty makeover can be. Her deepest moment with Bessie comes when she fits her with a new wig to replace the unflattering shag that covers her near-bald pate. It's as if the full resonance of what she does for a living--and what she has done with her life--suddenly breaks through her guard.
Just about everything in Marvin's Room besides the two actresses doesn't wash. Talented as he is, DiCaprio is grooving on rage without providing much else. He's turning into an actor who's all attitude, and most of that attitude comes out of his mouth; he hasn't yet mastered how to use his body expressively, so at times watching him is like looking at a yowling head. Hume Cronyn spends the entire movie yowling too. Whenever Bessie's saintliness needs a nudge, the incapacitated Marvin brays from his bed until she calms him with an improvised mirrored light show.
Robert De Niro turns up in a cameo as Bessie's doctor, and it's the closest he has ever come to playing Mr. Rogers on film. He exudes neutered niceness. Gwen Verdon has the clunkiest role: Addled, fixed with some kind of pacemaker that keeps opening garage doors, she's a TV soap-opera devotee. Her devotion is supposed to be heartwarming, but all we keep thinking is how close those soap scenarios are to Marvin's Room.
That similarity may be intentional. What McPherson's saying is: Don't be a snob--there's truth in suds if you scrub down deep enough. Except he doesn't scrub all that deeply. As a family drama, Marvin's Room owes something to It's a Wonderful Life. Bessie is like Jimmy Stewart's George Bailey--the sibling who had bigger plans in life but sacrificed them for a greater good. But Bessie's self-sacrifice turns out to be no sacrifice at all. Quite the reverse: It becomes the light of her life. Lee's "plans," by contrast, took her away from family, so she must pay dearly.
McPherson is lobbing an old chestnut here: The soulless career woman who is brought to a reckoning by the motherly caregiver. The dying, childless Bessie is untainted by ambition, while Lee--who has the good health and the children--is isolated in her worldly unhappiness. There's something archaic and punitive about this. Imagine, for example, how this saint-and-sinner scenario would be overturned if Lee had found fulfillment in her life, in her career. But the life-affirming lessons in Marvin's Room all run one way: Lee learns from Bessie how to care, but Bessie doesn't learn much from Lee. She doesn't need to. She's pretty damn near perfect.
Bessie, in all her perfection, is like a fantasy figure both of how to endure and of how to provide. McPherson, who died of AIDS complications, must surely have had AIDS in mind while writing Marvin's Room. Bessie's predicament carries metaphorical weight; so does her selflessness. Whether we are afflicted or tending to the afflicted, this angel of mercy represents how we would all like to be.
The character of Bessie is a risky conception for a playwright to pull off. Pure goodness grates. But the right actress can make goodness compelling--transcendent even. The people who made this film made a lot of wrong turns, but they made one turn so magically right that it took them straight into the marrow of their art. Marvin's Room is anointed by Diane Keaton.
Lots of hearts are in the right place in Rob Reiner's Ghosts of Mississippi, but none are beating. Scripted by Lewis Colick and based on the true story of how the killer of civil rights activist Medgar Evers was finally brought to justice, the film is a dull and platitudinous piece of Oscar bait.
Alec Baldwin plays Hinds County assistant district attorney Bobby DeLaughter, who is assigned to the case in 1989 after evidence comes to light of jury tampering in the two 1964 Evers murder trials--both ending in hung juries. The role doesn't bring out the best in Baldwin--rectitude never does. He shows us his concern for justice by inhaling deeply and not blinking a lot. The racist killer, Byron De La Beckwith, is played by James Woods mostly as an old man, and his Latex jowls jiggle menacingly whenever he drawls. Meanwhile, Whoopi Goldberg as Evers' widow, Myrlie Evers-Williams, is such a mount of rectitude she makes Joan of Arc look like a slacker. Goldberg reads her lines as if she were etching stone with them.
We're put through the usual paces: Bobby's marriage, to the unfeeling daughter of a legendary racist judge, founders; he finds new love with a nurse who realizes his true worth; his son is beaten up by bullies; the threats pour in; his house is targeted by bombers; he flinches momentarily before renewing the fight. It is the peculiar achievement of Ghosts of Mississippi that it turns a great and inspiring true story into a John Grisham-y thing. Why is Hollywood spending so much time and money these days whipping the South? Maybe it's because, in these post-cold war PC times, a good villain is hard to find. Murderous racist crackers have become the new commies.
Diane Keaton, Meryl Streep, Hume Cronyn, Leonardo DiCaprio, Gwen Verdon, Robert De Niro. Written by Scott McPherson. Directed by Jerry Zaks.Opens Friday, January 10.
Ghosts of Mississippi.
Alec Baldwin, Whoopi Goldberg, James Woods, Craig T. Nelson. Written by Lewis Colick. Directed by Rob Reiner. Now showing.
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