Evening

Strangely satisfying despite its myriad flaws, Oscar-nominated DP turned director Lajos Koltai’s Evening makes for a fascinating examination of WASPy leading ladies, trapped, regardless of class, with unfeeling or under-equipped men. Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours, has an executive producer credit in this adaptation of Susan Minot's multi-strand, multi-generational novel that stars Glenn Close, Vanessa Redgrave, her daughter Natasha Richardson, and minor leaguer Mamie Gummer (Meryl’s Jr.), who holds her own even if she’s given one too many opportunities to cry.

The narrative’s heavy lifting is left to Claire Danes and Toni Collette, who play sisters, one a noncommittal wanderer heading toward an uncertain middle age, the other an accomplished if unsatisfied housewife and mother, who, along with their sage-like Irish nurse (Eileen Atkins), are caring for their dying mother (Redgrave), an ex-bohemian who settled into the stifling comfort and entitlement of married life to a New England brahmin instead following her desire for jazz- singer stardom, as the flashbacks to an all-too-eventful wedding weekend in the mid-fifties make clear. Not her wedding, of course: that of her childhood friend Lila Wittenborn (Gummer), unsure of her essentially arranged marriage to Carl Ross (Timothy Kiefer) and still in love with family servant's   son Harris (Patrick Wilson, born to play roles like this), too far below her social station to be taken seriously by her patrician parents (Close and Barry Bostwick). They, in turn, ignore the obvious homosexuality of their alcoholic, underachiever younger son Buddy (Hugh Dancy), who hopes to be a novelist.

Danes bridges the gap, playing the younger version of the Redgrave character and stepping on eggshells in just about every conversation she has – she’s the narrative’s manifestation of countercultural revolt among these troubled Newport resort homes full of stuffy white people. She sings jazz tunes with a knowing, paternal black pianist and wears clothing straight from Greenwich Village that the Newport biddies circa '54 find “unique.” It’s all a bit much after awhile, and as we wait for Dancy’s closeted character to melt down, polite smiles are exchanged (That’s Meryl Streep's daughter! Wow.) among an audience being coaxed toward an emotionally tone-deaf ending by a film on autopilot.

The technical credits are quite impressive, yet Koltai keeps the pace so lethargic that we can’t help but notice his studied compositions. Still, with actresses this good, some things have to go right. Collette gets the big scenes, sniffling about the mother she never knew as well as she would have liked, questioning the viability of the relationship to the boyfriend who looks a little old to be pursuing rock stardom, but we never quite comprehend the forces weighing on her. The narrative of these four women in the present is so contained, the mystery of their lives together reduced to clichéd filial reckoning, that the pain a failed artist can inflict upon her children is only hinted at, never really explored. The denouement features Ms. Streep’s cameo, and she is in fine form as always, even if all she has to do is to show up and explain to the daughters what the obvious 1950's sequences are telegraphing to us from the first few minutes of the film. Still, if I were to pick anyone to elucidate the cloudy themes of my pretentious literary adaptation, I’d take the queen of accents every time.

                                                       Brandon Harris