The Savages, written and directed by Tamara Jenkins, stars Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney as a pair of child-less siblings who are forced by circumstance to provide a semblance of parental care to their father who, through ageing, has traded delinquency for dementia.
It is clearly an autobiographical work from Jenkins and it is to her considerable credit that she managed to acquire funding for a project that does not feature washboard stomachs or sculptured cheekbones. Indeed, some of the most sharply observed scenes are the depictions of elderly living, from the garish colours of Sun City, Arizona to the frost bitten Valley View, a care home in Buffalo. Although the visuals contrast, the locations provide a piercing reminder of the west’s denial of death. The film also arrives at a time when every county in the developed world has an aging population but seems confused as to how to make the transition to an older society.
Daddy Savage begins the story struggling to enjoy his breakfast. When his girlfriend abruptly croaks (seemingly knocked out by the whiff of nail polish) her surviving descendents produce a blanket of legal documents to justify offloading him onto his offspring.
Having coped with the swings and roundabouts of childhood without a stabilising pair of fatherly hands to usher them into adulthood, Linney and Hoffman contend with a mix-bag of emotions as they adjust to the new presence in their lives. The narrative asks if the younger characters can heal their emotional wounds by providing care for the man that helped cause them. As Linney puts it, ‘Maybe dad didn't abandon us. Maybe he just forgot who we were.’
Both are excellent throughout and Linney deserves her Oscar nomination, building on a strong CV, which includes her role in Jindabyne. Hoffman probably would have snagged one too were he not also nominated for Charlie Wilson’s War.
The script occasionally has patchy moments and doesn’t quite provide the necessary exposition to explain the absence of the mother but it’s highly refreshing to see a deeply honest narrative that continually pushes the theme of responsibility. It is complex and unflinching, as a scene in which a tennis injury forces Hoffman to wear a contraption that looks like it was lifted from 18th century dentistry depicts: sometimes we look ridiculous when we need support but we usually feel better afterwards.
The journey to the inevitable climax is poignant and humourous but it doesn’t pull its emotional punches. Like the mentally enfeebled father, it may catch a few members of the audience off guard.
It is clearly an autobiographical work from Jenkins and it is to her considerable credit that she managed to acquire funding for a project that does not feature washboard stomachs or sculptured cheekbones. Indeed, some of the most sharply observed scenes are the depictions of elderly living, from the garish colours of Sun City, Arizona to the frost bitten Valley View, a care home in Buffalo. Although the visuals contrast, the locations provide a piercing reminder of the west’s denial of death. The film also arrives at a time when every county in the developed world has an aging population but seems confused as to how to make the transition to an older society.
Daddy Savage begins the story struggling to enjoy his breakfast. When his girlfriend abruptly croaks (seemingly knocked out by the whiff of nail polish) her surviving descendents produce a blanket of legal documents to justify offloading him onto his offspring.
Having coped with the swings and roundabouts of childhood without a stabilising pair of fatherly hands to usher them into adulthood, Linney and Hoffman contend with a mix-bag of emotions as they adjust to the new presence in their lives. The narrative asks if the younger characters can heal their emotional wounds by providing care for the man that helped cause them. As Linney puts it, ‘Maybe dad didn't abandon us. Maybe he just forgot who we were.’
Both are excellent throughout and Linney deserves her Oscar nomination, building on a strong CV, which includes her role in Jindabyne. Hoffman probably would have snagged one too were he not also nominated for Charlie Wilson’s War.
The script occasionally has patchy moments and doesn’t quite provide the necessary exposition to explain the absence of the mother but it’s highly refreshing to see a deeply honest narrative that continually pushes the theme of responsibility. It is complex and unflinching, as a scene in which a tennis injury forces Hoffman to wear a contraption that looks like it was lifted from 18th century dentistry depicts: sometimes we look ridiculous when we need support but we usually feel better afterwards.
The journey to the inevitable climax is poignant and humourous but it doesn’t pull its emotional punches. Like the mentally enfeebled father, it may catch a few members of the audience off guard.
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