A reclusive novelist summons his estranged ex-wife and sons to his home in the belief that he is on the verge of death.
Review by Benjamin Poole
Directed by: Pablo Trapero
Starring: Bill Nighy, Imelda Staunton, George MacKay, Dominic West, Johnny Flynn, Noah Jupe
From smudged Middle England skies a camera floats towards a handsomely dishevelled Oxfordshire pile, the drone facilitated drift even making it through one of the open sash windows to pick out sleeping septuagenarian Bill Nighy (playing a gone to seed author called Andrew Dyer, although, not to start off too catty, he's sort of enacting an angrier version of the character he usually does: distrait, posh, tousled). The opening shot's bravura use of space is a wry visual flourish, as from then on in Pablo Trapero's & Sons (with a screenplay by actual Sarah Polley, which is in turn based on David Gilbert's novel) tightens its walls to become an enclosed domestic drama.
A once enfant terrible sensation now become beloved literary treasure (I was thinking Ian McEwan, not just because of the physical resemblance but also the trickier moral and familial interplays of & Sons' ensuing plot, which is similar to some of McEwan's oeuvre), Andrew is a drunk shut-in, seemingly destabilised with guilt over the way he has conducted himself and his life. Themes of mortality are bluntly ushered along as Andrew is woken in exasperation by his son ("Andy," played by Noah Jupe), as Andrew is to read the eulogy at the funeral of a friend. A massive portrait of what appears to be the boy, timeworn so he looks about 10 years older, dominates the set, and, for a former literary sensation, Andy is a diminutively unimaginative name... Spoilers abound, as the central twist, which appears at around 40 minutes into this difficult to engage with shouting match is the film's raison d'être and chief discussion point.
Sensing his own mortality, Andrew gathers his other sons who are all grown up thirty-somethings at various stages of estrangement from their father. The men have vaguely creative bents - George MacKay's Jamie is an aspirant documentarian (his camera picking out a miniature version of the aforementioned Oxfordshire pile: symbolism), while Johnny Flynn's Richard (named for the ace film academic?) is in the movie business. None seem particularly inspired by their father's literary legacy; they are their own men, and not quite possessed of the same inspired mercurial energy of Andrew.
It is self-evident that some parents have children as an act of prime narcissism; not so much fill you with the faults they had but in expectation that you will overwrite those self-same flaws in a way which reflects them, the parent, positively. These parents simply want their kids to be like them, except an even better version, so is it such a stretch that [SPOILER] Andrew has actually gone and cloned himself, via Andy, as a way of perpetuating his apparent genius? As stated this ripple comes about half-way through & Sons, and you get the feeling that it's meant to be somehow a jaw dropping left-field topper to the familial histrionics which have preceded it. I dunno, man. I never like drawing distinctions between cultural products but & Sons is a prime example of an apparently high-culture film (Trapero is a festival darling, the cast a recognisable who's who of theatrical thesps) adopting the de rigueur pulp concepts of pop art and aiming to farm kudos poaching premises which were more thoughtfully deployed, for example, in a Spider-Man comic book aimed primarily at children (the late '90s Clone Saga). It is the 'Never Let Me Go' principle, wherein a deeply ordinary book is elevated to masterpiece status by blinkered taste-makers who would never deign to watch something like The 6th Day, and therefore receive standard SciFi staples as brave novelty.
If you are culturally competent, this apparent punctuation of chamber piece drama by genre tropes isn't that much of deal in and of itself. Yet, & Sons doesn’t even do much with the concept: most of the narrative runs through "is it true?"/"it can’t be true"/"he's just drunk"/"ah, but why is he drunk?" meanderings as the characters evaluate the high concept claim. Performance wise the film attempts to fill the lacuna, with each scene seeming like a showreel as (and apologies to the peerless Mackay, and the great Imelda Staunton, as ex Mrs Dyer, who you could just watch all day) a bunch of hams episodically shout at each other in slightly differing contexts. So what if Andy is a clone, so what if he isn't? The moral implications are hardly explored. In fact, it doesn't make much difference to the way in which the narrative continues; featuring expected dynamics of jealousy, recriminations and confrontations, Andy might as well, as the kids have otherwise accepted, be the product of an ill-advised affair after all (although, I did enjoy the icky romanticism of Staunton's character's old coals being turned over by this replicated vision of her first love...).
& Sons is well directed and features a lovely autumnal mise-en-scene of leaves, big coats and scarves, which in turn encloses interior sceneries of whisky, shabby chic and Bauhaus posters (at least that is until Dominic West turns up to hungrily chew upon it all as a Hollywood producer...). It ticks along attractively and there is no doubt of the talent involved, but & Sons just feels (oh yes) like a watered-down copy of what has gone before.
& Sons is in UK/ROI cinemas from August 21st.
