As my summer internship came to an end, I traveled to my family’s home on Martha’s Vineyard where I planned to spend the last hours of freedom hidden from the real world. Just getting on the ferry felt like a release, and by the time I’d gotten to our small and remote cottage, I was in full-blown vacation mode. Gin and (far too much) tonic was rapidly poured into a pink glass and the quiet wrapped itself around me. Without cell service or wifi there was no way of connecting with the mainland: the racing rats of LA could not follow me. It was nice.
But after 48 hours, the quiet set in. I spent my days herding goats (actually) and my nights stretching out on the sand and enjoying my seclusion. I had some movies saved on my computer, and I finally decided to watch one I’d been avoiding. I’m not sure why it takes me so long to get around to watching certain films, but August: Osage County has been on my computer since it came out, and I hadn’t even tried to start it. Maybe my subconscious had a preemptive allergic reaction to the British actors’ half-hearted Oklahoma accents. In any event, I took my spiritual benadryl and pressed play. Here’s what I thought.
In this film, the incisive, yet drug-addicted matriarch presides deliriously over the collapse of her family, while one of her children tries to unsuccessfully hold the pieces together and limit the mother’s collateral damage. Not really anything new there, except for the scope of the depravity. The plot and structure have all the standard, recycled components of a typical, American realist production, but it attempts to differentiate itself through the size of the disaster. In most ways, it translates as a hick Long Day’s Journey into Night with roid-rage.
I was most immediately struck by the hefty imbalance between its stunning performances and surprisingly thin plotline. It felt like a series of free-flowing character studies, underpinned by a plot barely thick enough to carry its protagonists toward their inevitable emotional crises. Yet I didn’t care about any of the plot’s shortcomings, because I was watching some of the greatest actors of all time share a screen. Sam Shephard (RIP), Chris Cooper, and Margo Martindale brought the house down, along with the film’s unsung hero: Juliane Nicholson. Meryl, as everybody can assume, puts on a masterclass in dynamic play while surrounded by some of her greatest dramatic contemporaries. In fact, the only letdown of the film was Benedict Cumberbatch, whose blind stabs at talkin’ southern lived up to my uncharitable expectations.
Finally watching this film made me question why it had taken me so long to get around to it. I knew everything about the cast years ago. I love these performers, but my personal inertia had conquered my curiosity. I decided to just get around to watching good movies without delay, instead of letting preconceptions about how dark and intense the film would be keep me from its exploration. It was a long overdue resolution, and when I get around to watching 12 Years a Slave in five years I look forward to remaking it.
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