Saving Mr.
Banks
(2013)
The
absolutely true story of how P. L. Travers came to allow Walt Disney to adapt Mary Poppins, after 20 years’ persistent
begging on the latter’s part. Except, of course, it isn’t true at all. Walt has
worked his magic from beyond the grave over a fairly unremarkable tale of
mutual disagreement. Which doesn’t really matter if the result is a decent
movie that does something interesting or though-provoking by changing the
facts… Which I’m not sure it does. But Saving
Mr. Banks at least a half-decent movie, and one considerably buoyed by the
performances of its lead actors.
Actually, Mr. Banks is buoyed by the performances
of its entire cast. It’s the script that frequently lets the side down, laying
it on thick when a lighter touch is needed, repeating its message to the point
of nausea. And bloating it out not so neatly to the two-hour mark when the
story could have been wrapped up quite nicely in a third less time. The title
itself could perhaps be seen as rubbing Walt’s nose in his ignorance of the
point of Travers’ novel, and it should be credited with being much less literal
than the movie itself. Kelly Marcel and Sue Smith wrote Saving Mr. Banks, the former since having gone on to far greater
things with the script for Fifty Shades
of Grey. I can quite see their logic in padding out the screenplay and
instilling emotional resonance/journey for Travers by flashing back to her turn
of the century experiences in Australia with an alcoholic father. The problem
is, the integration of these elements is so unrefined and schematic, and the
imagery and transitions chosen by John Lee Hancock are so banal, it’s only the
fine work of the actors that hold it together.
Colin
Farrell is tremendous as P.L.’s father, an idealised figure whose alcoholism
facilitates his encouragement of his daughter’s escape into fantasy and
imagination (the line “It’s hardly Yeats,
is it?” is heartbreaking; the writers presumably know Travers later met
Yeats). This is very one-note, cause-and-effect storytelling as edited into the
finished film. Any given event segues into PL’s reminiscence of another
instance where her doting dad creates some whacky scenario while sidling a wee
dram when no one but his wife notices (Ruth Wilson is great in everything, but
she has little to work with here outside of disapproving looks).
The writers
nearly have their cake and eat when Walt shows up at Travers’ door late in the
day to philosophise over how much better it would be to have a life that isn’t
dictated by the past. So that’s why
Travers can’t stop thinking about daddy! The problem is, stating this doesn’t
give a free pass to a nuance-free narrative. Some praise is nevertheless due to
approaching and depicting alcoholism in a family film without resort to
exaggeration, distortion or softening; it gets points for its child’s eye view
of the glamour of a father who his high on fumes. Points deducted, though, for
the magical salve that works its effect on Travers when she sees the finished Disney
production. She is transformed from a rigid old maid into a weeping mess, so
affected by Walt’s interpretation of the dear papa she put in her pages (this
is already after she has been induced to dance to “Let’s Go Fly a Kite” because of the emotions it stirs; on-the-nose
doesn’t begin to describe this script or Hancock’s ignorance of subtlety).
Like I say,
I can’t get up in arms over the lack of fidelity to actual events; I love quite
enough movies that hold little relation to their historical counterparts for
that to be a weak argument. But I can
resist the will to schmaltz that Mr. Banks
teeters towards, even while providing some relief in Travers’ caustic edge. It
also requires buying into the notion that the Disney movie is an unadulterated
classic and, well; it’s okay (I’m not having a particular go, and it has a
couple of great songs, but it was never one of my favourites). This state of
affairs does make you wonder who is exerting more afterlife pull right now,
though. Travers is probably pretty pissed she’s been made out as a victim of such
easy homespun psychology. She’s even inspired to write again by her interaction
with Disney Studios, and goes from loathing plush toys to hugging them and
holding hands with a git in a Mickey costume at the film premiere. And how
appropriate that someone so haughty ends up enjoying the simple pleasure of the
company of a gormlessly upbeat chauffeur (Paul Giamatti, effortlessly likeable
even when his character is composed of treacle-backed cardboard).
But Emma
Thompson’s Travers is not her real-life counterpart. That much is abundantly
clear from the not-so-loveable deep down contemporary audio recordings we hear
over the end credits. Thompson makes us believe Travers might be truly affected
by Let’s Go Fly A Kite, that she’s
the sort of person who would actually say “You’re
the only American I’ve ever liked, Ralph”. Conversely her, steely
dismissiveness in the early stages is accompanied by such pithy putdowns at the
gaudiness around her, it’s very easy to be on her side. Her vocal disdain for
Disney’s “silly cartoons” to his face
(in real life she never forgave him for putting animation in the film) is very
funny. Her put down of Robert Sherman (B. J. Novak) on learning he got shot (“Hardly surprising”) is the kind of thing
curt one liner at which Thompson thrives, and we appreciate Travers as something
of a defender of the faith against Hollywood homilies in the form of Disney.
Lending
sterling support are Bradley Whitford, Jason Schwartzman, Rachel Griffiths,
Annie Rose Buckley and Kathy Baker. But it’s Hanks’ rapport with Thompson that
makes this movie work. As a director, Hancock is at his best when he’s letting
the actors just get on with it; it’s when he tries to get all painterly and
creative (notable in the Oz scenes) that the joins start to show. Disney should
be quite as irritating as Travers finds him, but you can’t not like Tom Hanks.
He makes you believe in such a good ol’ boy cornball anti-Semite. And that he
actually can whittle down someone with the impenetrable veneer of Travers.
These scenes are the best in the movie (Farrell, great as he is, deserved a
director who could treat his section as more than a counterpoint), and when it
comes to Walt’s great powers of persuasion during his sermon on the power of
forgiveness, we’ll buy into it for all its cloying gracelessness because its
Tom who tells us so.
So, while I
don’t especially appreciate the shameless manipulation, Saving Mr. Banks goes down quite agreeably. The sugar is sickly
sweet, and the medicine may induce unknown side effects, but there’s a good
solid spoonful of acting talent delivering the mixture. Thomas Newman deserves
a good shake for inflicting perky, jaunty, building, unstoppable music throughout
(we just know this will end well for
all concerned!) and Hancock needs an editor, any editor. But any Disney film
that acknowledges (however indirectly) the horrors redesigning and rebranding
inflicted on Winnie the Pooh
(irreversibly) can’t be completely in thrall to the Mouse House.
***
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