★ ★ ★ ★ ☆
Imagine, for a moment, that one of those dreary Nicholas
Sparks adaptations was actually interested in its female lead, as opposed to
the abs of its leading man as he sands down the hull of a boat/lifts
weights/plays with his dog etc. That’s what we get in Brooklyn, John Crowley’s adaptation of the Colm Tóibín novel
following young Irish immigrant Eilis (Saoirse Ronan). Eilis lands in 1950s New
York as an escape from her claustrophobic life, but soon finds her heart torn
between a new land, the country she calls home and the futures offered by both.
The film has a number of wonderful things going for it, but
the steadfast element is surely Saoirse Ronan. She’s been a quintessential film
star for a number of years but here she is truly mercurial. I know of no other
performer capable of communicating such palpable emotions with the minutiae of
facial expressions, be it fierce loss or heart-stricken desire. Around her,
everyone seems determined to up their game, notably the ever-marvellous Julie
Walters as a God-fearing but mischievous house-mistress and Jim Broadbent as tender
Father Flood.
While these characters would suggest religious overtones,
Eilis is far from a messianic character: she is complex and flawed; an agent of
choice, not fate or destiny. The choice in question is not simplified into a
single cliché moment, but explored throughout the film by her growing affection
for Italian-American Tony (Emory Cohen), devotion to her sister Rose (Fiona
Glascott) and over-riding homesickness for her small Irish town.
The latter is beautifully examined in a little scene in
which Eilis serves Christmas dinner to the dispossessed Irish men of
Brooklyn, who once came across the sea –as she did – in search of something
hopeful, but perhaps unattainable. This feeling of displacement is a way of
articulating that belonging and nationality are about more than pride or
patriotism: Eilis’ and her fellow countrymen’s sense of identity is portrayed
not with flag-waving, but the smallest of gestures.
Asides from the plentiful emotional heft (for this is an
old-fashioned weepie in the best sense), the viewer has a sumptuous visual
treat in store, the period detail exquisitely captured by shining
cinematography and backlit by a score which treads the knife-edge between sweet
and sickly.
Brooklyn won’t
leave any lasting impact once the tears are wiped away, nor inspire a great
deal of intelligent discussion, but might signify a possibility that this kind
of film can be done right, even brilliantly. But beyond all that, Crowley and
co understand that sometimes all you want from cinema is something that looks
great, sounds great and is full to the brim with personable charm.
