By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
People in show-biz do very weird things to prove their credibility. Starlets pose for skin mags, actors start rock bands, rockers become sit-coms, rappers become tombstones, and now, in a heartwarming feature called Evelyn, James Bond wants us to believe he's an Everyman. The lovely thing is, it works. As Desmond Doyle, a real-life Irishman upon whose emotionally tumultuous true story this project is based, the fellah we know as "Brosnan...Pierce Brosnan" may be a mite glammy--it'd be a Tom Hanks role, if Tom Hanks could do accents--but the well-coiffed actor's commitment to the material prevails. Doyle's struggle for his family becomes universally relatable, with the added benefit of being subtle, engaging entertainment.
Under the confident and extremely economical direction of Bruce Beresford (Driving Miss Daisy), this polished first script by Paul Pender plunks us down into Christmastime Dublin, circa 1953. Unemployed handyman Doyle strives to scrape up some holiday cheer for his three children, including the eponymous Evelyn (a glowing Sophie Vavasseur) and younger lads Dermot (Niall Beagan) and Maurice (Hugh MacDonagh), but times are tight at Fatima Mansion, the spartan tenement they call home. In fact, even though Doyle is clearly the most handsome man the world has ever known, his hard times are proving too much for his wife, Charlotte (Mairead Devlin). She bails on her family and drives off into oblivion with a mystery man, leaving Doyle heartbroken and overburdened. And then the real trouble starts.
What makes Evelyn click when it could have clucked is that Beresford and Pender instill each moment with as much character as will fit on the screen. The movie's formula--call it Celtic Capra--is obvious from start to finish, but the delivery is splendid. Before Doyle can say, "You don't know sweet F.A. about it," he finds himself--thanks to a manipulative mother-in-law--under the inspection of the Society for Protection against Cruelty to Children. The poor fellow has already wept by the fire, cutting and burning photographs of his former "beloved," but now he's forced to bear the indignity of having his children taken away, the boys to one stern religious school, the girl to another. Although the boys are only handled peripherally (no priest jokes, please), the struggle of Doyle to reclaim Evelyn reveals that even fully grown adults can have coming-of-age experiences.
With a project like Evelyn, there's a risk of descending into maudlin murk--the plaintive fiddles, the gasping uilleann pipes--but the movie mainly opts to be lively, often funny, without undermining the seriousness of Doyle's plight. While he battles for his kin, he proves himself quite the social scientist ("I like Yanks! Most of 'em was Irish to begin with!") and singer (Brosnan gets real, delivering an authentic recital of "On the Banks of the Roses"). It gets a bit sickly-sweet when Evelyn's Grandda (Frank Kelly) tells her about celestial "angel rays" and they keep showing up, but heck, one can't bicker when a movie sets out to become a family classic and succeeds.
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