Skip to main content

THEN SHE FOUND ME. Dir Helen Hunt. 2008

Image result for movie images then she found me


Generally implausible. Unlikely marriage followed by unlikely affair. April (Helen Hunt) marries Ben (Matthew Broderick), a Jewish boy with arrested development. She is almost 40 and desperate for a baby, and their odd relationship indicates lust for each other although they are unable to communicate, despite supposedly being best friends.

Ben leaves her and goes back to mother. That same day she meets Frank (Colin Firth) and within a few days is in love with him but she still wants to have sex with her estranged husband. Already neurotic and fragile, her adoptive mother dies, leaving April with a lot of emotional baggage to deal with. But this is not all. Her birth mother, Bernice (Bette Midler), has tracked her down and wants a reunion.

This set up is perfect for a farce and there are light moments. April initially doesn’t believe Bernice is her mother and gets pretty stressed about the near-stalking. Understandably attracted to Frank as the only stable character in this scenario, April says she is in love with him with in a few days of meeting him. Now, this can happen, but not with these two. This story would have been so much more powerful if their relationship had been based on simple, trusting friendship.

Hunt's directing debut is fine but miscasting disappoints. Sadly, despite being obliged to fake sex for the benefit of the sated voyeur, there is no on screen chemistry between them. Both actors are individually impressive but they don’t gel. Firth is always good but there is a feeling of weariness here, as though he knows these two characters would never get together and he’s slightly embarrassed about the charade.

Direction focuses mostly on the realistic – scenes in school, in the road, with Frank and his sleeping children, all well done and plausible. However, expecting an audience to believe that Bette Midler could be Helen Hunt’s mother is bizarre. Even though Bernice was supposed to be 15 when she gave birth to April this is stretching credulity beyond its limits.

As far as the story goes, Elinor Lipman’s tale of abandoned child and reunited birth mother is reasonable. April is suspicious of her mother’s motives, and angry at being given up for adoption. Oblique dialogue employed to create tension is overused so straight answers to straight questions would be welcomed.

The penultimate scene in which April reappears in front of Frank’s house, ostensibly to apologise for treating him so badly, would have been better omitted. Frank has been thoroughly decent throughout, scarred and sensitive, always kind to her – and yet she stands before him, not apologizing, but delivering a lecture on how she will hurt him again and again. Instead of legging it, he says lamely, ‘Oh shit,’ or something equally banal to demonstrate that they are so hopelessly in love with each other that they’re stuck with this unhealthy situation.

Hunt is likeable as April, and Frank is kind, but the eccentric Bernice is too brash for their sensitivities. Offered as light relief from the ‘desperate-for-a-baby’ neurosis, it grates. April is raw and needy, Frank is tired and muddled, and doing his best to cope with two small children. The last thing he needs is an angry, hormonally disturbed older woman. Everything is unlikely.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Running ‘till your nipples bleed

An email from a friend of mine arrives; she complains that, at work, she is routinely subjected to gruesome accounts of female colleagues’ intimate medical procedures and gynaecological problems. I am all commiseration because I, too, have had years of listening to workplace chats about periods, childbirth and sex lives. Oh please. Later, I wander off for a walk in the early evening sunshine and it is so silent and so beautiful that I flop down on the grass and lay awhile gazing out over the rolling fields, and the mouth of the river, and fall into a reverie. Two men pass by. A few minutes later sounds of women’s talk float nearer and, by the time the two females of the species draw level with me, I have risen up from my deliciously recumbent position in the meadow, alert and tense, something like a meerkat. “I do feel for her. Going down that IVF route is such an emotional roller coaster. I was never prepared for how terrible it was going to be.” I remain frozen in my meerkat position...

Ian McEwan. Amsterdam. London: QPD, 1998

McEwan’s novel about ambition, personal betrayal and revenge features Clive, a modern composer trying to complete a major orchestral work, his friend Vernon, an editor trying to save his ailing newspaper, and Garmony, an unscrupulous right-wing politician on the rise. In common, all three have, in previous years, been lovers of recently dead Molly. They meet at her funeral and the story follows the next few weeks of the men’s lives. Vernon and Clive act as one another’s conscience, each infuriating the other. Which is more important, honesty, friendship and trust or Vernon’s newspaper and Clive’s symphony? The novel presents the difficulties of balancing personal and public morality, the importance of private shame and public reputation, the conflict between taking a moral decision for the greater good, or putting first ones own desires. Not just a simple exposé of a politician with a vulnerable side, Amsterdam is full of double standards and surprises, and takes a long, cynical look a...

OLD JOY. Dir Kelly Reichardt. 2005

Dropout Kurt arrives in town and calls up his old friend, earnest father-to-be Mark to suggest a camping trip out in the forest, away from the city. They haven’t seen each other for some time and the film suggests a desire for intimacy as well as a quest for peace. Something of a lost soul, Kurt is emotional and, at times, to be pitied. He lives outside society, in a world of new age type retreats and travels, which seem to have left him out on the margins. In contrast, Mark has a home and a pregnant partner, and tunes his car radio in to phone-ins with much loud chat about the state of society in America but he seems only half alive. They drive out of town, with the camera as passenger, which gazes out of the car window while a gorgeous soundtrack by Yo La Tengo sets a mellow mood. The use of extended silence makes me a little uneasy; it’s hard to get away from memories of Deliverance, and a sense of apprehension. In the city, the glass of the car windows insulates us...