Acting, cinematography are highlights of imperfect adaptation of Tartt’s famed novel
As a film critic, I try to ignore early buzz on films I’m going to review so I can form my own unbiased opinion when I see the picture. But this month, it was hard to ignore the vitriol that poured on to social media after The Goldfinch premiered at the Toronto Film Festival; hate for the movie was prolific and fierce. So, naturally, going into Monday’s reviewer screening, I was apprehensive: could the picture really be as bad as all that!? I’m here to tell you that, thankfully, it is not. Is it the year’s best film? Far from it, but it’s not nearly as awful as Twitter would have you believe. If you’re a cinema fan — and/or a fan of Donna Tartt’s 2013 Pulitzer Prize winning novel on which the film is based — you will find enough here to keep you interested.
Screenwriter Peter Straughan, who both earned an Oscar nomination for 2011’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy screenplay, and has the dubious distinction of having written The Snowman, one of 2017’s worst movies, obviously doesn’t always hit it out of the park with his adapted screenplays. His adaption here of Tartt’s 700-plus page book probably isn’t going to score another Oscar nom, but he also needn’t be as embarrassed as he should have been with The Snowman. I actually have not read Tartt’s book — so my review here focuses purely on the film as a film itself — but my screening companion had, and reported that the picture was very true to the book’s details and spirit.
But let’s return to the film. Director John Crowley (Brooklyn) has assembled a quality cast to bring Straughan’s screenplay to life. Crowley also had the good fortune to hire legendary cinematographer Roger Deakins (last year’s Oscar winner for Blade Runner 2049) to shoot the film. The result is a picture that, while at times a little too atmospheric and meandering, at least always looks and feels rich and lovely, whether we’re viewing the quiet desert twilight of Las Vegas or a grey and rainy New York afternoon.
Such scenes work well at underscoring the inner life of our protagonist, Theo Decker. The picture moves back in forth in time, following Theo as both a shy but perceptive 13-year-old (Oakes Fegley) and a more enigmatic, searching, pained adult (Ansel Elgort). The story’s main concern is what happens to Theo after his mother is killed in a terrorist bombing at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, a horrendous act of violence that Theo, a boy at the time, survives. The film’s title takes its name from a small 17th century Dutch painting by Carel Fabritius of yes, a goldfinch, which, not so coincidentally, also has survived a previous explosion. Theo’s connection to this painting, which he and his mother view in the museum on the fateful day, and how it factors into his life years after he encounters it (and, it’s no spoiler to say, takes it) is the film’s overriding through line.
To say more would be to deprive potential viewers of the one thing this film does well: keeping the audience completely engaged. Many in the Twitter-verse complained about the film’s two and a half hour running length, but when the film drew to a close, I honestly was surprised. I was fully absorbed the whole time, wondering how, why, and when certain elements of the plot would play out. The ending does feel a tad rushed and abrupt — especially compared to the languid pace that precedes it — but it satisfies, and wraps up some of the film’s questions adeptly, if a bit too neatly.
The film would not succeed as much as it does were it not for its first-rate cast. Young Oakes Fegley (Pete’s Dragon) is a natural screen presence, beautifully conveying complex, changing emotions with merely a look. As the older Theo, Ansel Elgort is much more restrained — his performance at times feels emotionless and somewhat wooden — but, given that he’s portraying a trauma survivor, the shift from more open-hearted child to closed-off adult is accurate, and right for the character.
Jeffrey Wright, as Hobie, an antiques dealer who mentors Theo, unfortunately is tasked with delivering many of the script’s more prosaic lines (“That’s a life,” he says knowingly about an old piece of furniture), but, being Jeffrey Wright, he can pull off such clunkers and still manage to seem like the smartest, kindest character on screen. Nicole Kidman, as the mother of Theo’s classmate who takes in Theo after the explosion, Luke Wilson as Theo’s ne’er-do-well father who shows up unexpectedly to reclaim Theo, and Sarah Paulson, as the father’s Vegas-hardened girlfriend, all get moments to shine. The one quibble I have with the casting is the role of Boris, the Ukrainian friend Theo meets while living with his father in Las Vegas. As played by Finn Wolfhard (Stranger Things), the young Boris has a perceptible accent, but his English is almost impeccable. Yet, the grown-up Boris, now played by Aneurin Barnard, somehow has a thicker accent and English that has become more, not less, broken. Intentional or not (Boris, we learn, has been in and out of the country involved in dubious pursuits), the contrast is distracting, and makes it difficult to consider the two actors as versions of the same character.
So let’s review. We’ve got an intriguing story about a stolen painting, a boy who has survived unbelievable tragedy, and characters who don’t always make the most ethical or wise decisions. We’ve got an A-list cast doing fine work, and an aesthetically pleasing film, thanks to one of the best cinematographers in the business. And, perhaps most importantly, we’ve got a film in which the central plot device — a stolen piece of art with a distinctive history — serves as a metaphor for the ways in which we can process tragedy and grief and still come out the other side. Were the Toronto initial reactions too harsh? I think so. Now it’s your turn – go see it, judge for yourself, and decide if you want to get in a never-ending Twitter argument.
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The Goldfinch opens today at Bay Area theaters.
