Michael, Michelle and I went to see "Broken Flowers" yesterday at the Magnolia. "Flowers" is the new Jim Jarmusch film that received great acclaim at the most recent Cannes Film Festival (winning the Grand Prize award, second only to the Golden Palm). Jarmusch, of course, first attracted worldwide attention when his micro-budgeted "Stranger Than Paradise" won the Golden Camera award (for new film makers) at the
1984 Cannes fest. Hardly anything he's done in the two decades since has made much of a ripple in the mainstream culture (even "Dead Man" with Johnny Depp), but his latest bittersweet offering, could change all that. "Broken Flowers" is not exactly a great movie.  The three of us agreed there were some nagging--easily remedied--glitches, but the good, because it is so good, probably outweighs the bad.  The plot is simplicity itself, and fear not, there are no spoilers to be found in this missive;  better that the story's details unfold right in front of you in a darkened theatre.  Bill Murray stars as an eternal bachelor, improbably named Don Johnston (as in Don Juan) who, just as his current relationship is ending, receives an unsigned letter informing him he has a 19 year old son who may try to look him up all these many years later.  It's likely the letter has been written by the young man's mother; there is no return address and the postmark on the letter is too faint to decipher. (Btw, I hereby apologize for using quote marks instead of italics for these movie titles.)
    Johnston, egged on by a neighbor (the always game Jeffrey Wright) who's a big fan of mysteries, sets out on
a road trip to track down the woman who wrote the letter and, presumably, gave birth to their son.  The most likely candidates are played by, in alphabetical order, Frances Conroy (a distinguished actress perhaps better known by name than face, although she has garnered a following thanks to her role as the family matriarch in the cable series "Six Feet Under"),  Jessica Lange,  Sharon Stone, and Tilda Swinton (virtually unrecognizable as the opaque--talented--beauty from "Orlando" and "The Deep End").  Jarmusch, like Don Johnston, clearly has an eye for the ladies.  Stone has the least interesting role of the quartet, though she has the glow of good health, not to mention good genes, and her vignette is actually funny (but not because of her, necessarily). Jarmusch heightens the tension to an almost unbearable level during the encounter between Murray and Conroy, but for me, the movie is at its most emotionally involving in the scenes featuring first Lange, then Swinton. Of all the women, Lange is actually closer to Murray's age (followed by Conroy), and when the two of them reunite, they're quite
convincing as a couple with a past.  Of course, writer-director Jarmusch is a minimalist, so he hasn't exactly written roles of enormous complexity (and almost all the reunion scenes seem to end prematurely), but, in Lange, Jarmusch has cast an actress of such  skill she can bring a great deal of murky emotional undercurrent to the simplest exchange: soft and silky one minute, cold and cutting the next.  Lange plays her character as a wounded woman  who has found contentment by reinventing herself and, as much as she can, burying her past.  
    Jessica Lange turned 56 in April; this movie was most likely filmed when she was 55.  She's no longer the adorable cuddle-bunny she was in 1982's Tootsie (for which she won her first Oscar), and it shows.  Her face is definitely lined with age--and that's not really a bad thing. It's quite encouraging, actually. Lange has lived a full life, and she wears it well.  Still, even with the obvious signs of age, this woman still has one of the cinema's greatest ever faces.  At one point, during an outdoor scene, she's photographed in three-quarter profile and the camera just loves her  amazing bone structure, the incredible arrangement of planes and angles that plays tricks with light and shadow.  Lange  possesses the kind of extraordinary beauty for which movie stardom was invented (even if she has stubbornly resisted that notion).
    Still,  Bill Murray is the lead here and he gives a performance that feels more genuine than his Oscar nominated turn as a slumming American movie star in 2003's  "Lost in Translation."  That movie got a lot of mileage out of Murray's familiar mannerisms (the cool mocking tone of an overgrown frat boy), but Murray was never completely believable as the kind of action movie hero outlined in the script (the character was reportedly based on Harrison Ford).  In "Broken Flowers," Murray's character is better developed--he acquires depth during the course of his journey--and his  deadpan delivery is a perfect match for Jarmusch's already noted minimalist style. Jarmuch also deserves credit for staging a beautiful, potentially overdone emotional scene-- and then cutting away before it  sinks to "Oscar clip"  mawkishness.  No one need thank the Academy just yet; however, if the movie crosses over into  the mainstream, it would be a good thing for Jarmusch (who was "indie" when
the word practically screamed "underground").  In spite of the movie's few annoying imperfections, I can visualize a Best Original Screenplay nomination for Jarmusch (even if, ultimately, the idea is stronger than the execution--though that's really a matter of taste), and maybe a second bid for Murray.  Oscar talk for Sharon Stone--someone's got a press agent on speed dial--seems premature, but a nomination for Lange (supporting, only, please) would be swell. Swinton's role, as good as she is in it, is probably too limited in scope to warrant serious award consideration (though it's such a startling change of pace, she might just have a shot). At any rate, Jarmusch has paid his dues.  Now, go see for yourself.

Thanks for your consideration,
Mp


"Mysticism doesn't come naturally to an ironist..."
                                           --Pauline Kael