 The Remains of the Day (1993) So there's something to be said for what preconsidered expectations do for the moviegoing experience. If media hype or my own overeagerness gets in the way, my enjoyment can be completely dashed. Or, if I'm a blank slate, a film might touch me in deep, unexpected places, much like a savvy proctologist or a charming molester. I wandered into The Remains of the Day during a phase of compulsive sneaking into multiple movies per day at the local multiplex—I'd catch one flick, take advantage of the free popcorn and drink refills, and sneak into whatever the next showing was. That day, my double feature began with Addams Family Values, but it was the one I figured would be just another dry British period drama that stuck with me. Like, forever. Based on Kazuo Ishiguro's extremely sad novel, the film depicts a perfect English butler (Anthony Hopkins) in service to a "classic English gentleman of the old school" (James Fox), with an unfulfilled romantic attachment to his Maid of the house (Emma Thompson). Never questioning his employer's moral stature or his own devotion to his job, Hopkins (Mr. Stevens) offers unassailable service while the Lord of the house (Darlington) hosts meetings that help England appease Germany during Hitler's ascent preceding World War II. Setting the soup spoons in just the right place, as his Lordship sends a pair of Jewish maids packing. Tending to a guest's swollen feet, while his own father (also a butler of the house) is dying. Managing few private moments while his love for Thompson (Miss Kensington) goes tragically unspoken. The film cuts between these events and a storyline set years later (early 60s), wherein Stevens ventures out to Miss Kensington's seaside home to try to reclaim his tremendously lost life. If Stevens is less paralyzed in later life, it's only by the tiniest margin. Performances all around are staggering, particularly Hopkins, in what I contend is the single best bit of acting ever caught on film. The man does so much with the smallest of facial gestures—a slight twitch at the corner of the mouth, a darkening of the eyes—that I'm awestruck every time. James Fox is outstanding, especially later in the film when Lord Darlington sinks into a nearly catatonic depression—he embodies the boundless depth of sadness that characterizes the film as a whole. Even people who have become stock clichés in this sort of film (Emma Thompson, Hugh Grant) flesh things out brilliantly. Christopher Reeve is so good here, too, that for once in my life I am not inspired to make a Christopher Reeve joke. Everything about this film—sets, lighting, cinematography, dialogue, music—is executed with elegance and beauty. But I connect to it most through the themes of loss and regret, for in those realms of emotion I can't imagine a film that so perfectly illustrates the brutality of it all. And as I was surprised to discover the film to be so great in the first place, I am continually surprised to find that it still delivers, through my ever-shifting aesthetic and emotional sands. So time and again, I harangue everyone who will listen, endeavoring to convince the world that this is not some shit like Howard's End, to which it is usually compared unfavorably, and which was features almost the same exact cast and crew. To my disappointment, the DVD doesn't seem to think as much of the film as I do; the commentary track, instead of having countless amazing revelations about every single frame, is actually Emma Thompson blathering on with mostly unrelated anecdotes and director James Ivory seeming passive and merely content with his work. The deleted scenes are interesting, though I'd have appreciated a blooper reel. Surely it was a riot on the set.
Review by Paul Pantaloons |
