Review

Review Date: 17-April-05
Spoiler Rating: High
Juju Judgment: Just OK

Dear Frankie (2004)

At first blush, "Dear Frankie" looks like a cautiously feel-good movie rooted in industrial Glasgow and the contemporary hardships of single parenthood, domestic violence, and postmodern alienation. But as the protagonist himself discovers, such appearances can be deceiving. If you lifted the story out of context, it could be transplanted wholesale into a gothic melodrama, the sort of adult fairy tale that's set on the moors and features a bare-chested he-man and big-bosomed heroine. While there's nothing wrong with old-fashioned and nothing in "Dear Frankie" that hasn't worked before, the underlying theme of deception pervades the whole film. It pretends to be more hip and weighty than it is, so it's ultimately too manipulative for its own good.

The central falsehood of the picture belongs to Lizzie Morrison (Emily Mortimer), a world-weary, working-class mother who moves around a lot to escape an unhappy past. Wherever they go, she tries to provide a decent life for her son (Jack McElhone) with the help of her own mother (Mary Riggans), which includes faking letters from an imaginary father who sails on a ship named the Accra. For years young Frankie has cherished this correspondence with his absent but devoted dad, so that when a ship called the Accra actually docks in their new home town, Lizzie has no choice but to tell him the truth ... or hire a stranger to make Frankie's dreams come true.

About the time Lizzie decides to carry her fraud to the next level, "Dear Frankie" assumes the manipulative quality that prevents it from hitting the mark. First, it becomes apparent why the screenwriter, Andrea Gibb, chose to make Frankie not only the victim of a broken home, but also deaf. Flush with the innocence of childhood and ensconced in his own silent world, Frankie is apparently incapable of expressing confusion or rage. Sadly (since McElhone is winning), he develops into the type of absurdly pure savant that many people wish the young and the handicapped would be, and his placid acceptance of fate seems contrived to exonerate the adults around him. (Personally, I find both his parents' actions unconscionable and would rather see him engage in some serious 9-year-old rebellion.)

Second, when Gerard Butler arrives on the scene as the stand-in father, what begins as an illustration of bad judgment becomes a ludicrous example of deus ex machina. "Dear Frankie" never morphs into a full-blown romance, but it probably should have. Why else should Butler's character be so perfect? Gorgeous, sensitive, paternal, and able to understand Lizzie at first glance ("you'll have to trust somebody sometime"), this is not your average sailor on shore leave. He's the miraculous answer to everyone's prayers, though of course the lady is slow to realize it. (Like a proper Old World damsel, she still wears her wedding ring, treasures her bridal gown, and needs her bastard husband to release her before she can move on.)

The action in "Dear Frankie" is driven by lies, but it's suggested that everything works out in the end thanks to the goodness of a child and a knight in shining armor. If the movie had embraced its inner Fabio and reveled in an implausibly happy ending, it might have been more satisfying. As is, its mixture of modern angst and traditional fantasy doesn't feel true to itself — or to its audience.

Copyright © 2005 The Jujube (M. I. Kim). All rights reserved.