August:
Osage County (2013)
Directed by John
Wells
Weinstein Group, 121
minutes, R (language)
*
 |
| Wrestling for the coveted "Greatest Overacting Award." |
What we’ve learned from the
moves lately is that living in flat places like Montana, Nebraska, and Oklahoma
can make you nuts. Apparently Oklahoma also produces horrendous acting, if August: Osage County is any indication.
Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d write: Julia Roberts out-acts Meryl
Streep. Here’s another: That’s because Streep’s latest performance is her
career worst. She’s not alone, though. A “412” is actors’ slang for overacting
and if there were 412 Oscars, the cast of Osage
County would clean out the trophy case.
The film is ostensibly a
twist on the adage: “The sins of the father are visited upon the son.” This
time it’s the sins of the mother. Violet Weston (Streep) is a pill-popping
bitter woman suffering from mouth cancer, and from benign neglect from her
brilliant world-weary poet-husband Beverly (Sam Shepard in a cameo) . He’s had
it with her Wicked Witch of the West act and has hired Johanna Monevata, a
local Cheyenne woman (Misty Upham), to be a housekeeper and wedge between him
and Violet. When Bev dies (accident or suicide?), the extended Weston family
descends upon the homestead to bury Bev and pick up the pieces.
Hank Williams once sang, “A
house without love is not a home,” and this is certainly true of the Westons.
There’s not an ounce of kindness between Violet and her three daughters:
Barbara (Roberts), Ivy (Julianne Nicholson), and Karen (Juliette Lewis). Violet
is equal parts abusive and manipulative toward her younger sister Mattie Fae
(Margo Martindale) and her huband, Charlie (Chris Cooper). She is sharp-minded,
sharp-tongued, and occasionally funny, but Violet is as Machiavellian and
mean-spirited as her own mother had been. Of course, she is powerfully resented
by her daughters, all of whom are convinced they are nothing like her when, in
truth, they’re chips off the old blockhead.
Barbara is a control freak in
the midst of a disintegrating marriage to Bill Fordham (Ewan McGregor), and
estranged from her 14-year-old daughter, Jean (Abigail Breslin). Ivy is the
stay-behind daughter who is dutiful on the outside, but is so filled with
resentment and fury that she’s about to explode; Karen is a trashy floozie
dating the older Porsche-drving huckster Steve (Dermot Mulroney), who is
literally and metaphorically taking her for a ride. Also in the mix is “Little”
Charles (Benedict Cumberbatch), Mattie Fae’s son, whom she abuses and demeans
at every opportunity.
Tracy Letts wrote the
screenplay, which was based on her Broadway play. There’s plenty here for a skilled director to
shape but, alas, Wells isn’t that director. He’s best known for his work on
television and he simply isn’t up to the task of laying down the law to all the
star power and egos involved in this film. Streep plays Violet like Michael
Bolton sings–she starts at 110 decibels and stays there. Her performance isn’t
dramatic, it’s histrionic. Roberts is far superior because at least her anger
smoulders before it ignites, but playing off of Streep’s overwrought tantrums,
even cool Julia bursts into lighter-fluid-fanned flames. The less said about
Juliette Lewis, the better; her performance is inept and embarrassing. Benedict
Cumberbatch doesn’t have much to do, but he does it badly in a performance that
runs the gamut from moping to really
moping. Even the usually delightful Abigail Breslin slips; she plays a
14-year-old living dangerously as if she’s reduxing an old Christina Ricci
role.
There are a few highlights.
Julianne Nicholson is quite good because she plays her cards close to the vest
instead of waving them in front of our faces. McGregor also does a nice job of
repeatedly retightening the lid on the lamp, lest the genie (destructive outbursts)
escape. Misty Upham is quielty present but forceful whilst being a leaf upon a
raging stream, though we do wonder why she doesn’t leave all these Pugnacious
Pale Faces to drown in their own bile. Best of all is Chris Cooper, a mostly
silent man who’d be content just to be a good person, except for all the
bullshit he’s forced to shovel and dodge. His perfomance has something most of
the others lack; I believe they call it sublety.
This film is up for quite a
few Oscars, but don’t be fooled–it’s what you’d get if you took the humor out
of Monty Python’s “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch and mashed it with a high school
production of A Long Day’s Journey Into
Night and shocking revelations รก la Chinatown.
It’s my least favorite type of movie: 412s masquerading as weighty high art. Rob Weir
Some instrumental albums force you to dance; Therese Honey’s
solo harp release makes you want to hunker down with a fleece and a steaming
mug of cocoa. She’s titled it Summer’s
End, but the mood is midwinter. The ambience is enhanced by the glassy tone
of Honey’s harp, the skill with which she plays high scales, her tendency to
let her strings ring rather than stopping them, and her downy touch on those
strings. It begs a positive spin on the adjective ‘icy,’ as in crispness and
stark contrasts. Honey’s repertoire of original, traditional, and covers is
mostly drawn from or inspired by Celtic composers, lands, and legends. There
are the obligatory Turlough O’Carolan pieces, tunes drawn from the O’Neill and
Bunting collections, and a few learned from Grainne Hambly. As this suggests,
Honey’s playing tends toward the formal side of the ledger, even when she’s
plucking out a jig or reel. You’ll find old favorites such as “Hewlett,”
“Moving Clouds,” and “Queen of Yarrow,” and accomplished originals such as the
title track and “Connealy Rose.” There’s also a surprisingly lilting rendition
of “Bonaparte Crossing the Rockies,” a reworked variant of the popular hornpipe
“Bonaparte Crossing the Rhine.” What makes Honey’s rendition unusual is that
the variant is a bluegrass standard generally cranked out with deliberate
homespun raggedness. No rough stuff from Ms. Honey; she’s as inviting as that
cup of cocoa with my name on it.
