a review by Jeffrey Overstreet
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People often say that a film “moved” them.
That can mean several things. It might mean they cried. It might mean they were sobered. Perhaps the film dealt with emotional issues.
Once in a while, though, they actually mean they were “moved”… from point A to point B. Something in their head or their heart changed. They went in to the theater and then came out standing in a different place, seeing things a very different way. THAT is what art can do. But, alas, movies prefer to tell us what we already know, sell us what we want to buy; they make us emotional to not good effect. Not many people are comfortable with being “moved.” We defend our comfort, like Bilbo Baggins in his hobbit hole. Hopefully, we learn over time, like Bilbo did, that there is value in adventure, in being challenged, in wrestling with uncomfortable monsters until we become wiser and better people.
Hearts in Atlantis, by the look of the previews, convinced me it was going to try and make me emotional. But Director Scott Hicks, screenwriter William Goldman, cinematographer Piotr Sobocinski, and composer Mychael Danna use craftsmanship and restraint to craft Hearts in Atlantis into a memorable film. It probably made most in the audience emotional, but is good enough to even “move” some people, as it did me, from point A to point B.
The film is based on a Stephen King short story. King is not a great writer; his prose is streamlined for easy reading, the farthest thing from poetry. But his *ideas* are often intriguing, even brilliant. His short stories often house environments and characters that can provoke great filmmakers to their best work. Think of Stand By Me or The Shawshank Redemption, two strong films that came from King short stories. Add Hearts in Atlantis to the list.
David Morse plays Robert Garfield, who begins the picture by returning to his old home to discover it besieged by the wild earth, ivy and weeds conquering the front porch. Right away it’s clear – this is going to be a trip down memory lane. Morse, a consummate actor whose greatest gifts are a deeply lined emotive face and a deep voice subtle with emotion, makes Bobby a believable photographer, looking patiently and carefully at everything. When he learns that some people very important to him are gone forever, the blow is devastating, even though we see only the slightest evidence in his expression that the reality has even registered.
The bad news provokes Garfield to think back to his youth. He remembers a a troubling adventure that took place at the edge of adolescence, in the summer of 1960, when he was just beginning to have feelings for a girl, the natural world was a paradise playground, and his biggest dream was as simple as a shiny new bicycle. Newcoer Anton Yelchin gives a winning performance as young Bobby. Looking like a young Frodo Baggins, he gives Bobby a believable innocence and a tough, hardy heart that rises courageously to some rather daunting challenges.
Bobby’s widowed mother Elizabeth, on the other hand, is hard-working and thrifty, at least around Bobby. Hope Davis is, as always, excellent in this role. She makes Elizabeth selfish, but not evil; we can see what has made her hard and neurotic. Elizabeth’s desire for happiness and success leads her to dangerous compromises. Distrusting his mother and lonely, Bobby is likely to look elsewhere for parental nourishment.
And he does, when an elderly gentleman moves into the upper part of the house. Ted Brautigan (Anthony Hopkins), the new neighbor, doesn’t say much about his past. He likes to sit and smoke and read. His eyes aren’t much good, so he asks Bobby to start reading the papers to him. While mother is suspicious of Ted’s motives, Bobby senses something like a father in Ted’s wise and kindly demeanor. The two become fast friends, and Bobby begins to suspect that there is something truly wonderful about Ted… a talent that also has him on the run from some dangerous and powerful men.
There are several Tolkien echoes here, including the dark riders creeping ever closer, and Brautigan’s Gandalf-like presence. Brautigan is being pursued by shady characters he calls “the low men”. We never see their faces, they wear dark clothes and hats, they’re phantoms. Who are they? What has he done? And what are the “spells” that come over him, dropping him abruptly into a trance?
Hopkins gives Brautigan a weighty ponderous presence, very similar (almost too similar) to his work as C.S. Lewis in Shadowlands – another character who lived with one foot in this world and one in another. But his soft affection, his calmness even in the face of danger, effectively prevent what was a real challenge for this film…avoiding any thought of Hannibal Lecter.
The director allows just enough menace to darken the corners of the story, keeping his emphasis on the rewards of honesty, innocence, and courage, so that we want to protect these people when doom closes in. His restraint is admirable and rewarding. He works with Sobocinski’s camera to give us as much information through visuals as he can. In one breathtaking turn of the camera, we are able to see into five rooms of the house and get a full, informative picture of Bobby’s daily life. Goldman’s dialogue is lean and productive, giving us just what we need (although sometimes he gives the children lines that sound more grownup than is natural.) On only a couple of occasions does the film stray into sentimentality, and when it does it is mostly the fault of the soundtrack.
Many timeless themes are woven through the dialogue and imagery. The imminence of death, and thus the priceless value of each moment in each other’s company. The value of “seizing the day”…but cautiously…in your youth. The importance of telling the truth. The importance of trusting one’s elders. And the powerful impact that an adult’s kindness can have on a child in a dangerous world.
A friend of mine has said that he believes the world slowly began to darken as children were taught not to talk to strangers. Yes, the world is full of risks, but we have grown up in fear of each other. It is fear that makes Elizabeth hate Brautigan, and courage that forms a strong bond between Brautigan and the boy. That courage, armed with discernment, will help Bobby later in life.
As Brautigan acts as a volunteer mentor to Bobby, he draws him toward all of the right things. Right away, he introduces him to the great writers: “Give a writer an hour to hook you and if he doesn’t, move on and try someone else.” If he were merely preaching at the boy, it wouldn’t stick. But because he has a personal relationship with the kid, discussing sports, adventure, and his own dark secrets, the boy realizes that literature must indeed be valuable if it is such an important resource to this powerful and magical man.
Another excellent decision Hicks makes is to keep us out of Brautigan’s head. While he does have certain powers of perception, there are no jarring special-effects representing his psychic episodes, no portrayals of his visions shown in skewed black-and-white handheld camera. Thank goodness. We are drawn to Brautigan because he remains as mysterious to us as he does to Bobby.
But the most arresting thing of all about Hearts in Atlantis is the cinematography. Sobocinski is a miracle worker. (Or “was”… he died this year.) He catches morning sunlight as it pours through a window, strikes a glass table top, and refracts into the lens in a dazzling supernova explosion, like a tear in the fabric of time and space. A carnival, one of the most overused big screen environments, is portrayed with such beauty and magic that it is as though we’ve never seen one before. Kitchens gleam and sparkle with silver. Living rooms and bedrooms are dark and deep with hard wood and craftsmanship. A railroad becomes an enchanting pathway. And downtown at night becomes a perilous labyrinth lurking with people who are behaving like beasts; but the brave soul who ventures there might find valuable revelation. Sometimes these things are slightly exaggerated, but don’t we all remember some things more vividly with time? These are Garfield’s cherished memories; we can forgive a little gloss.
Another welcome visual miracle: cigarette smoke. How long has it been since a picture celebrated the beauty of smoke? In our righteous desire to communicate to the world the dangers of cigarettes (this film does that too, getting in a few jabs about the deadliness of the habit), we have made it politically incorrect to recognize the beauty of a tendril of smoke curling and dissipating into the air. Brautigan’s smoking habit makes sense, since his abstract, secret anxieties are burdening him and carving lines in his face. When he sits lost in thought, wreathed in wisping clouds, he’s as temporal as the smoke, his wisdom as likely to gather for a moment of clarity and blow away on the wind.
On the surface, Hearts in Atlantis is a simple and sweet story. Look closer, and you’ll find wonders. How many recent films have demonstrated the rewards of respecting our elders? How many have been nostalgic for innocence and virtue, and yet not fallen victim to saccharine sentimentality? And, perhaps most important of all, how many are merely beautiful to look at? If good cinematographers are “panning for gold” with their camera lens, Sobocinski has put his pan in the river and come back with a fortune.