Tender Mercies

 

Palmer, Texas

farmhouse as it is today, just East of Waxahachie

 

Director Bruce Beresford

Duvall winning a Best Actor Academy Award

TENDER MERCIES          A                                                                                                  USA  (92 mi)  1983  d: Bruce Beresford

You see, I don’t trust happiness.   I never did.  I never will.                                                         —Max Sledge (Robert Duvall)

With the recent death of actor Robert Duvall, who died of natural causes in February at the age of 95, it’s worth remembering the one role that won him an Academy Award for Best Actor, as it’s a throwback to gentler times, where his hugely understated presence infuses the film with a quiet simplicity in this organically realized redemption story about the price of fame, the devastating destruction of the bottle, and the will to recover from horrendous mistakes in life.  Completely unpretentious, never offering any easy resolutions, nothing is ever taken for granted, as each day matters in the road to recovery.  Not nearly as well known as it deserves to be, curiously turned down by David Lynch after he made ELEPHANT MAN (1980), thinking he wasn’t right for the film, it’s aptly named, written by Texas native Horton Foote, a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright who won an Academy Award for the lyrical screenplay, having won the same award for his earlier adaptation of Harper Lee’s novel in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), with Foote developing a reputation for evoking everyday American life in beautifully observed minimal stories that allow the actors to shine, as Gregory Peck also won an Academy Award for his role as Atticus Finch in Lee’s legendary novel, one of the most beloved roles in American cinema, and a film where Duvall makes his first screen presence as the reclusive and pathologically shy Boo Radley.  Foote and Duvall were good friends spanning five decades, with Duvall reading a letter honoring their friendship at Foote’s funeral in 2009 (Remembering Robert Duvall and Horton Foote).  Duvall is known for his larger-than-life presence in Francis Ford Coppola’s APOCALYPSE NOW (1978), uttering the infamous line, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” and will always be associated as the level-headed consigliere in Coppola’s THE GODFATHER (1972), where his favorite role, according to interviews, was playing an ex-Texas Ranger in Lonesome Dove — TV mini-series (1989), but it is here that he really carves out a distinctive place in his career, as this is a quieter, more reserved performance, defined by stifled emotions and the decency of the human spirit, listed at #14 of Premiere magazine’s 100 Greatest Movie Performances of All Time.  Described by film critic Pauline Kael as a “bare-bones ‘art’ movie,” intentionally avoiding big grandiose scenes, even the use of close-ups, instead filming from a respectful distance, this is a spare depiction of rural Southern life where not much ever happens, filled with long silences and the dialed-down poetry of spoken words, a reminder of simpler times where honesty prevails, having a neighborly respect for others, and above all, an effortless display of human kindness.  Very few films are able to achieve the authenticity established here, not just in the immensity of the empty landscapes, but in the personal connections, as we’ve lost this ability to connect on such an intensely personal level, where this becomes a beautiful portrait of the human spirit.

Robert Duvall stars as a washed-up country singer Mac Sledge, a star who’s fallen on hard times, almost always seen wearing a Stetson hat, an alcoholic estranged from his family who has hit rock bottom at the beginning of the film, seen as just a shadow through the window, where all we hear are the violent voices and sounds taking place behind closed doors in a remote country gas station motel on an isolated stretch of highway, with Mac eventually sleeping off a two day bender, finding himself completely broke and unable to pay for his lodging, so he asks motel owner Rosa Lee (Tess Harper in her first screen role), if he can work off his debt, which she kindly agrees to, but only with the stipulation that no alcohol is allowed while working.  Widowed at a young age, she lost her high school sweetheart husband during the Vietnam War, which looms in the background like a ghost, leaving her to raise her young son alone, a child who never knew his father.  Surprisingly, Mac ends up sticking around for months, working for his room and board, with a small salary thrown in, literally disappearing off the face of the earth, with no one knowing where he’d gone, where that anonymity seems to help him come to his senses, regain some semblance of stability, and recover from his own largely self-inflicted personal tragedies.  Like a safe port in a storm, they end up getting married (entirely offscreen, even the proposal), but he still struggles with his demons while haunted by his past, as we’re not even aware he was once a major star until well into the picture.  Country music is a thread that runs through this movie, something the studio executives failed to comprehend, eventually losing faith in the film, failing to understand what it was about and how the music connects to what was at that time a massive unidentified audience, providing few resources to promote it, but country star Willie Nelson was impressed by the authenticity of Duvall’s performance and offered to step in to help promote it.  Most importantly, co-producer Robert Duvall wrote some of the songs he sings in the film and does all his own singing, feeling a genuine connection to the character, which is why it works so well.  Authenticity is the key, something movie studios today still have a hard time understanding, producing very few films that fit that criteria.  The film helped define the American independent film movement of the 1980’s by initiating a trend of personal filmmaking that often looks beyond Hollywood conventions.  Emblematic of that is an early scene with Mac playing a song for Rosa Lee’s son Sonny (Allan Hubbard, who never made another film) in the kitchen, which is remarkably minimalistic, yet rooted in something we all universally understand, Tender Mercies Scene YouTube (2:07).   

The relatively barren locations are perhaps more reflective of West Texas, taking place on a little desolate stretch of flat land, yet the film was mostly shot in and around Waxahachie and Palmer in north central Texas by Australian cinematographer Russell Boyd, who has the distinction of shooting one of the most beautiful films ever made, Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), while the film is directed by fellow Aussie Bruce Beresford, whose groundbreaking war drama BREAKER MORANT (1980) helped usher in an Australian New Wave, so it may come as a surprise to some that an Australian is able to so eloquently capture the poetic nuances of small-town America, yet that is what truly elevates this film over so many others.  Perhaps the only other film that gets the unique distinctiveness of the South right, particularly Texas, is Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show (1971), which was adapted by Larry McMurtry from his own novel, though the Truman Capote autobiographical adaptation of David Perry’s A Christmas Memory - made for TV (1966) captures the subtle nuances of small-town life in rural Alabama.  Tess Harper was raised as rural and working class herself, coming from the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas, providing just the right touch of firmness, grace, and mercy, with an ever-observant eye, always watching over others.  The film has a stripped down, almost raw feel to the narrative, taking its time, only revealing what’s essential, as so much is expressed by what is left unsaid, where every scene feels valued, contributing to the overall build-up of the interior realms of the characters.  With its themes of sin and redemption, forgiveness, hope, and personal transformation through religious faith, some may recognize this as a religious movie, as it also speaks to the power of prayer, which is where the title comes from, with the kind-hearted frontier woman Rosa Lee, a devout Christian, revealing, “Each night when I say my prayers I thank God for his tender mercies,” which is simply a wonderful revelation, whether it has religious intent or not.  The church also figures prominently, as the family attends a Baptist church on a regular basis, accentuating the singing of the hymns and the idea of baptism (the visual expression of baptism by immersion is rare in films), where it eludes to the possibility of being reborn in the spirit of the Lord.  God does not protect us from the inevitable pains and sufferings of life, but he knowingly sends the “tender mercies” that somehow make life worth living, regardless of the circumstances.  Most people do not recognize this as a religious movie, but to those who see it that way, this is a profoundly powerful film, as religious a movie as you could ever find, as it speaks of God in an unusually secular way, yet is also fundamentally human, expressing the stirrings of love in an existential sense.

Initially released in only a handful of theaters, coinciding with the early days of MTV, which is diametrically opposite to what this represents, it was a box office dud until word of mouth spread, as critics who saw it provided enthusiastic reviews.  While it’s rare for movies to portray rural characters as complex human beings, the back story revolves around Mac’s embittered ex-wife, Dixie (Tony Award winning actress/singer Betty Buckley), who became famous singing Mac’s songs, Betty Buckley from "Tender Mercies" singing "Over You YouTube (3:59), the first country single to be nominated for an Oscar, with Wilford Brimley as her over-protective manager Harry, but their contentious divorce-filled allegations of alcohol-fueled violence left their daughter in limbo, with Dixie refusing to allow Mac to see or speak to her as she grew up.  Now that she’s reached the age of 18, Sue Ann (the wonderful Ellen Barkin sparkles in a very early role) can decide for herself, as their worlds intersect briefly when she pays him a visit, a girl he barely knows, where she remembers a song he sang to her at night, but she can’t quite remember it.  Taken by surprise, Mac doesn’t either, but the moment she leaves he’s seen alone at a window with his back to the camera quietly remembering the song in what may be the film’s most poignant moment, with the song carrying the central theme of the movie, “On the wings of a snow white dove, God sends his pure, sweet love,” Tender Mercies (1983) - “A Song You Used To Sing To Me ... YouTube (2:59).  With the encouragement of a band of local kids who idolize him, Mac makes a comeback, of sorts, balancing the sacred and the profane, singing with them in a honky tonk bar, Clip from "Tender Mercies (1983)" YouTube (3:22).  The film deals with a constant refrain of “champagne ladies” and “broken dreams,” the subjects of his old songs, but also paints a picture of how much it hurts to face reality, expressing the pain of mortality, where nothing can explain the sudden loss of life of a loved one, especially a child, as there is so much meaning packed into such a devastating loss, where there are simply no words that can fill the empty hole in one’s heart, but love may be the closest thing we have, in all its forms and permutations, with real emotion literally filling the screen in the haunting final moments when reality comes crashing into our lives in the most unexpected way, Scenes & End Credits from "Tender Mercies (1983)" YouTube (4:31).  The final musical ballad, the Craig Bickhardt song You Are What Love Means to Me YouTube (4:11), which takes the film to the end credits, feels surprisingly commercial and out of place, completely altering the tone of bare essentials and stripped-down authenticity, though the lyrics do fit the story.  Still, it may be the film’s only misfire.  Mac comes to embody a second chance in life, whose redemptive arc is largely a symbol of a possible resolution to the American chaos and disorder inherited from the 60’s and 70’s, yet despite the anguish and grief associated with death, where there’s no clear answer or road map, love prevails, in all its simplicity and grace, as in the end that’s all we really have to fill the void of meaninglessness. 

The Love That Remains (Ástin sem eftir er)

 

Director Hlynur Pálmason

Pálmason and his three children

The Love That Remains (Ástin sem eftir er)               B+                                                         Iceland  (109 mi)  2025  d: Hlynur Pálmason

Returning to the wilderness of his native East Iceland after years in Denmark, writer/director/cinematographer Hlynur Pálmason lives in a house on the outskirts of Höfn í Hornafirði without a single neighbor (Höfn í Hornafirði | The Majestic Town in South Iceland), just next door to Europe’s biggest glacier, Vatnajökull, barely ever using his phone or going on the Internet.  One of cinema’s most singular contemporary artists, perhaps even Iceland’s greatest filmmaker ever, Pálmason has crafted a stunning family drama shot on 35mm that features his own three kids as the children, entrusting them with extensive scenes on their own, yet what stands out is the immense naturalness of the forboding Icelandic landscape mixed with the weirdness of the imagination, accentuated by an evocative old-school sounding piano that turns out to be a jazzy dulcet piano score by Harry Hunt from his 2015 Playing Piano for Dad album, Journeys YouTube (4:04), sounding effortless, becoming an intimate and at times surreal portrait of a fractured marriage.  In what was once a loving couple, industrial herring trawler Magnús (Sverrir Guðnason, an Icelandic-born Swedish actor in his first Icelandic-language part since childhood) and his wife Anna (Saga Garðarsdóttir) have now split up, though still share family meals and spend time together for the sake of the children, moody older teenage sister Ída and the more carefree twin boys Þorgils and Grímur, always accompanied by their ever-faithful Icelandic sheepdog Panda (Pálmason’s own dog), who provides one of the best dog performances ever captured on celluloid, winning the Palme Dog at Cannes.  Absence is a silent killer, as we never witness the break-up of the relationship, only its aftermath of silent suffocation, though the marriage may have been strained by his long trips at sea, where they have to balance the times he’s home and the time he’s away, with Anna convinced she’s better off without him, as then there is no one challenging her independence, which in Iceland is a special spirit that is unlike anywhere else.  With an immaculate sense of framing and pacing, and a heavy dose of humor, creating a space as strange as it is charming, lurking somewhere between Scandanavian filmmakers Ruben Östlund and Roy Andersson, the massiveness of the land commands our attention, as the family is often seen traipsing around the countryside, going on hikes, or just generally having fun and goofing off, where part of the beauty of the film is capturing the casualness and spontaneity of everyday moments in their lives and how they remain connected to the land and sea around them.  Offering a most vivid photograph of the emotions and dynamics that fluctuate under the monotony of the ordinary, inspired by impressionist artists like Sally Mann or Claude Monet, people who return again and again to what’s nearby, the film fully evokes the mantra “Work with what’s around me.”  She is a struggling artist who prefers to work outdoors, an abstract visual artist who works with time and deterioration, allowing her coarse rust prints to be exposed to the elements, whose vast and impressive works that take months to create are not appreciated, yet viewers can decide for themselves what they think, as her working methods blend into the harshness of the surrounding terrain, creating these huge canvases that are a reflection of the ever-shifting Icelandic landscape, time consuming and not easy to make, yet at the core they also reflect her inner spirit, vibrant and rebellious, standing out from the rest as an ode to a free spirit.

Strange and a little offbeat, where its infectious rhythm and narrative disruption creates an off-the-beaten-track playfulness, lending a whimsical air that certainly lightens an otherwise heavy subject matter, standing in stark contrast to the gut-wrenching despair of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman’s Scenes from a Marriage (Scener ur ett äktenskap) (1973).  Initially screening in the Cannes Premiere section, this is a departure from the epic scope of his earlier film GODLAND (2022), which won the Best Feature Film at the Chicago Film Festival that year, as this is a smaller, more contained film, more immersed in nature, accentuating what unites us and divides us, revealing the minor and major mistakes, and the confusions of an Icelandic family, including heartbrteak, miscommunication, and conflicting feelings about what constitutes family.  Exploring the times we live in, the director seems more fascinated in the small and tender moments we share, creating a film that is built from an observational perspective, capturing each nuance of the daily life of the characters, yet he’s not afraid to veer into dreamy surrealistic aspects that are absurdly funny, offering an impressionistic editing style, with a few extra-inconspicuous jumpcuts, feeling intimate and autobiographical, yet it’s an imaginary narrative.  A dark existential heaviness that might otherwise envelop some scenes is bypassed in a very playful way, which might also be related to the remoteness of the coastal town, where time is conceivably decelerated and life here follows a different rhythm.  One thing that stands out is how the kids and the dog run free, with as little supervision as possible, leaving awkward moments with their father who attempts to assert his authority to no avail, as they pretty much ignore him and do what they want, where the vast outdoors is their playground, making this feel like an extremely personal film, much like his earlier short film NEST (Hreiður) (2022), Гнездо / Nest / Hreiður (2022) dir. Hlynur Pálmason [1080p ... YouTube (22:23), where the entire film is a fixed shot from a single location, as these films feature his own kids.  While the short film shows them constructing a treehouse mostly out of sight of any adult presence, where their parents are referred to, but remain mostly offscreen, this film shows them constructing the figure of a knight hanging on a post, which resembles a scarecrow flapping in the wind, with the kids playfully shooting arrows at it, but the image changes over time and during the changing seasons, suggesting the passage of time.  However the relationship between the separated parents feels authentic, with the husband off at sea where he has to contend with vulgar, profanity-laden conversations of other men continually prying into his business, describing his relationship as “I know her and I don’t know her,” while the wife attempts to get recognition for her artwork, but the Swedish gallery owner (Anders Mossling) she meets isn’t really interested and seems more concerned with consuming local food and wine, whose offhanded remark “You’re finally single” does not go unnoticed (nor does his hilarious exit), yet it’s important to note that the interiority of her work is a product and consequence of the outside world, and cannot be fully understood if not seen in that contextual relationship.  Nonetheless, she strives to make sense of the world through her art and in raising her family, where the daily struggles of life become her personal challenge.  This revolving scenario between the lead characters constitutes the film, offering an existential internalized view of their lives, where it’s easy to get distanced and alienated from a shared journey they never expected. 

Ambitious and ambiguous at the same time, what stands out in the adult husband and wife relationship is the fragility of the experience, as both are impacted by the separation, though in different ways.  Each has their own life to lead, pursuing different careers, which entails something completely different from their partner’s experience, yet they share three kids, who still view their absent father as their Dad, and expect to see him regularly, with frequent absences, but they can live with that.  Their mother is a much less hands-on parent, allowing them plenty of freedom, where it’s hard to find anything that constitutes out of bounds, so they show a surprising resiliency, where it all feels normal after a while.  The life of an artist revolves around her work (actually the director’s own art that has been exhibited internationally), which in her case is extremely physical, requiring great dedication and effort, yet she appears driven by her own conceptionary approach, where each project is extremely well thought out, becoming a metaphor for what happens to corroding love over time.  The filmmaker takes no sides, and allows each their own complexities, which is matched by the unique intensity of the free-flowing imagery which is simply not like anything else we’ve seen, as it can be abstract, but also in-your-face, as the idiosyncratic endeavors never detract from the central emotional authenticity.  Without providing any easy answers, it’s important to understand that each has their own distinct personality, as does the nation of Iceland, which holds individuality in high esteem.  The on-again and off-again relationship of the parents feels genuine, as there are moments of tenderness and love, while also their partner can send them into a rage of anger and disgust, where the last thing they need is a sudden, unexpected visit to alter the ordinary rhythms of their lives.  This is typified in an early scene where Magnús shows up unexpectedly at her door, where she initially feels perturbed, but they share a long-held connection to what was once a family, and still is, just not the same, a little broken, leaving them each wounded and internally devastated, left adrift, but they share an unconditional love for their kids, The Love That Remains new clip official from Cannes Film ... YouTube (2:05). While there's a familiarity of a long-held love, there’s also a faint chance of reconciliation, where in one truly extraordinary scene, one of Magnús’s shipmates tells him he should be willing to do anything to save his family, likening it to a greenhouse, where you often have to repair and install new windows to keep the plants inside safe, constantly tending to them and removing the weeds.  But easily the best thing this film offers is the harmonious blend into that massive landscape, with beautiful sequences of Icelandic horses, perfectly accompanied by that pensive music, where the family romps into the great outdoors offer a supreme source of pleasure, where what’s especially impressive is the way the filmmaker weaves it all together, The Love That Remains new clip official from Cannes Film ... YouTube (1:22), delivering a poignant look at the essence of faded love and shared memories amidst the changing seasons, accentuated by that lovely piano score, raw and simple, like the Bo Harwood piano music heard as the parents tenderly tuck their children to bed at the end of John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence (1974), which feels like a summation of everything that came before.