THE SEA C+
Great Britain
Ireland (86 mi) 2013
d: Stephen Brown
An Irish film with a literary feel, using flashbacks,
memories, and frequently recurring dreams intermixed with real life, often
indistinguishable, creating a stream-of-conscious feel throughout, largely
exploring the interior world of one specific character, art historian Max
Morden (Ciarán Hinds), as he struggles to find some semblance of normalcy from
the reverberations of haunting memories.
Adapted by Irish writer John Banville, the author of the novel upon
which the film is based, winner of the Booker Prize in 2005 for his 14th novel,
not to mention the writer of several plays and a book of short stories, this is
clearly a better book than a movie. Coming
from a nation that rewards and supports its artists, it’s an inherently
interesting story, given a terrific cast, but an insipid, dirge-like feel
throughout offers few rewards, as outside of the outstanding performances, this
novice director doesn’t seem to have a feel for the material. Intricately connected, and deeply complex,
the film largely takes place in one man’s imagination as he ruefully recalls
incidents earlier in life that leave him filled with grief and regrets, yet the
film has a painting-by-numbers feel, clumsily moving from recollection to
recollection, where the look of the screen remains fixed, with little
distinction between time periods, failing to capture the swirling groundswell
of emotions in each segment, and never fully utilizing the capabilities of
cinema. Morden couldn’t be more
uncomfortable in the opening segments, as his openly bitter wife (Sinéad Cusack),
a well-regarded professional photographer, has been diagnosed with a terminal
illness, where he can’t find the words to express his sorrow, leaving the
couple in an icy cool during her final days, which literally wracks his soul
afterwards, haunted by his own personal shortcomings. Hinds is particularly good in expressing
anguish, even suicidal thoughts, but the lackluster attempt to elevate the
material into something more meaningful just never develops, remaining a
particularly gloomy experience. Shot on
location in Wexford County, Ireland, the author’s birthplace, it features
Ballinesker Beach, an uninterrupted stretch of about 20 miles of unspoiled
beaches where Spielberg filmed SAVING PRIVATE RYAN (1998) while also used to gorgeous
effect by John Crowley in Brooklyn
(2015).
After the brief opener, Morden is seen being dropped off at
a lavish seaside estate by his lovely daughter Clare, Ruth Bradley, last seen
in Grabbers
(2012), who protests his decision, thinking this is not the time for him to be
alone, nonetheless he stubbornly persists.
The mistress of the manor answering the door is none other than
Charlotte Rampling as Miss Vavasour, who doesn’t in the least look surprised,
though they haven’t seen one another in fifty years. Welcoming him to the boarding house inside,
there is an instant flashback, where if you blink you’ll miss it, suggesting he
is returning to the place of some unmentioned trauma. As he wanders alone along the beach, through
flashbacks we discover this is a place his family came to visit in the summer
when he was just ten years old, though his family never ventured into the
pricey estates, remaining in the “huts,” as they were called, small chalets with
no indoor plumbing. Young Max (Matthew
Dillon) remains transfixed by a wealthy family he meets on the beach with two twins
his age, Chloe (Missy Keating), initially seen behind dark glasses in a
Lolita-like image, and her mute brother Myles (Padhraig Parkinson), yet
strangely he’s initially fascinated by the sensuous, overly affectionate manner
of their mother (Natascha McElhone), where male fantasies start to resemble the
roving eyes of a Rohmer film, especially where it all lies upon the
surface. Even more mysterious is the
adolescent nature of her husband, Rufus Sewell, a clownish, overly privileged
character who always seems to be performing for laughs, where the two are never
without a glass of wine in their hands.
What strikes our interest, however, is the disaffected behavior of the
impassive nanny named Rose (Bonnie Wright), always with her nose in a book,
allowing the kids to run free, yet she unmistakably bears an uncanny
resemblance to Rampling. Indeed she is
one and the same, just a half century earlier.
As sexual curiosities play out on full display, Young Max is hooked,
remaining inexplicably linked to the twins throughout the days of summer,
though it’s never really clear whether Chloe even likes him or is just toying
with him, as with her it’s probably the same thing, as she seems to enjoy
controlling them both. Myles, on the
other hand, has a devilish side, prone to striking people for no reason, often
remaining off to the side brooding.
So much of life was stillness then,
when we were young, or so it seems now; a biding stillness; a vigilance. We were waiting in our as yet unfashioned
world, scanning the future as the boy and I had scanned each other, like
soldiers in a field, watching for what was to come.
While his childhood resurrects before his eyes, it’s also
clear Morden is a sullen and distraught man, plainly unhappy, filled with grief
and remorse, so perhaps it’s only natural that he plies his tormented soul with
drink. While this seems customarily and
stereotypically Irish, Max is the man for the job, as he foolishly drinks
himself into a cantankerous stupor, beyond the point where he has a care in the
world, yet remains subject to impulsive actions, like throwing himself into the
sea. Despite the immensity in size,
inside the boarding house is just one other guest, Colonel Blunden (Karl
Johnson), a retired army colonel and an insufferable bore, while Miss Vavasour
silently dresses herself in exotic Asian scarves, often seen stylishly smoking
a cigarette from a long holder, all adding to a mysterious portrait of an aloof
woman who’s either been around the world or read about it, where remarkably her
personal life is a closely guarded secret.
This disconnect between characters, both present and past, is a sticking
point, as we don’t learn much about any of them except Max, who dominates the
narration, is in nearly every shot of the film, and is a bit of a diva, as he
likes to be the center of attention, even if for all the wrong reasons, yet his
own critical assessment of himself is a scathing indictment of a coward. Rationalizing his sabbatical as an
opportunity to write a book on French painter Pierre Bonnard, he instead
commiserates in his own misery, often keeping company with the ghost of his
deceased wife, reliving particularly testy conversations they had, where his
behavior was anything but exemplary. Nonetheless
these offer insights into his own gloomy disposition, yet throughout the entire
ordeal the film spends more time unlocking precious secrets from his childhood,
as if to explain his own peculiar morbidity, as his innocence was soiled that
summer, though not in the way one might imagine, as there’s a strange twist at
the end that might seem wickedly surprising, but it fails to generate any
profound illumination, much of it diluted by the flatness of the direction that
just feels overly uninspired. Somewhat
reminiscent of Visconti’s voyeuristic and much more flamboyant DEATH IN VENICE
(1971), where the surging musical score by Gustav Mahler elevated the visual
impressionism onscreen, where time passing and the everpresent signs of death drown
out any haunting illusions of beauty or desire, which are associated with the
innocence of youth, yet the film was a failed attempt to capture the magic of
Thomas Mann’s influential novel. In much
the same way, this is a missed opportunity, remaining so overly cautious in
style and convention that all potential drama has been drastically washed away.
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