The Bucket List
Directed by Rob Reiner
With sentimental feelers set on high, Rob Reiner’s The Bucket List is the cheeriest movie about death in some time. There’s a misplaced sense of triumph emanating from the emoting of the royal leads, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman—a colorful pairing that justifies itself, but not the story.
The actors—distracting recognizable idiosyncrasies intact—exhibit an unwarranted level of jubilance as terminally afflicted hospital roommates intent on experiencing their unrealized dreams before heading to the grave. Their faux denial translates into nonchalance. Watching Nicholson trade ratty grins with Freeman’s shrewd mannerisms engenders a cheap thrill, working against the bleak nature of the material. There’s a reason why Bob Hope and Bing Crosby never made a movie about getting cancer together.
Considering The Bucket List as a comedic approach to gloom recalls The Savages, another exploration of mortal anxiety released this season. Tamara Jenkins’ slow-burning dramedy probes the mourning process from the perspective of a dying man’s adult offspring, whose first row view of human demise forces them to contemplate their own transience. The siblings’ chemistry evolves in the shadow of their father’s impending death. Note that the despondent familial duo are portrayed by Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney, actors with clout similar to Nicholson and Freeman, if not the same vintage appeal.
Hoffman and Linney settle into the quirks of the fictional Savages, but The Bucket List contains too much ebullience for its protagonists to cultivate subtlety. It has the rhythms and warmth of a tearjerker, but tugging on heartstrings doesn’t yield a good product.
The clumsy plot twist arrives when the Freeman character draws up his titular wish list, triggering a series of goofy slapstick vignettes. The bunkmates quickly bond on an aimless journey involving skydiving, racing, and classy dining in France. This flimsy middle chapter dismisses the underlying solemnity of the premise with a detached giddiness. Of course, that’s the point: Their whimsical mission provides a remedy for despair. But the daydream grows irritating when the characters refuse to recognize the futility of their endeavor.
A better illustration of relying on self-delusion in order to die with dignity forms the centerpiece of The Living Wake, a charmingly surreal low-budget hit on the festival circuit this year (it has yet to land theatrical distribution). In that wondrous comic fantasy, a failed writer (talented newcomer Mike O’Connell) begins the final day of his life by continuously faking himself out. At last overcoming his veiled consternation, he realizes that authentic solace rests only within the confines of the human mind. “If I hadn’t lived this life,” he proclaims (literally, singing the words), “it would never have been lived.”
The Bucket List doesn’t bother exploring the ramifications of such poignant solipsistic complacency. The idea that the stars ameliorate their dread by engaging in riotous behavior conflicts with their apparent intelligence. Freeman supposedly represents an inquisitive desire to reach his full potential, yet he’s still situated as the all-knowing guru; consistent with The Shawshank Redemption and Million Dollar Baby, Freeman provides unnecessary narration, relegating himself to the position of observer. Nicholson dominates in standard loose cannon mode, firing off zingers like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t.
Reiner’s hand in all of this is gentle and unobtrusive, following a fairly straightforward script by Justin Zackham riddled with obvious summations of pop wisdom (“We live, we die. The wheels on the bus go around and around”). The director’s light touch has worked well in several comedies, relying as he does on the strength of his performers to convey encoded frustrations in seemingly plain conversation. Tension bubbles to the surface through the naturalism of the situations.
Unfortunately, the skill of When Harry Met Sally is the disease of The Bucket List. The tale ends on a deeply sad note, although the final shot contains the illusion of a happy ending. We’re left with the implication that cozy acceptance, not perseverance, holds the key to a healthy life. Whoever had that idea doesn’t know jack. Or Jack.
Directed by Rob Reiner
With sentimental feelers set on high, Rob Reiner’s The Bucket List is the cheeriest movie about death in some time. There’s a misplaced sense of triumph emanating from the emoting of the royal leads, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman—a colorful pairing that justifies itself, but not the story.
The actors—distracting recognizable idiosyncrasies intact—exhibit an unwarranted level of jubilance as terminally afflicted hospital roommates intent on experiencing their unrealized dreams before heading to the grave. Their faux denial translates into nonchalance. Watching Nicholson trade ratty grins with Freeman’s shrewd mannerisms engenders a cheap thrill, working against the bleak nature of the material. There’s a reason why Bob Hope and Bing Crosby never made a movie about getting cancer together.
Considering The Bucket List as a comedic approach to gloom recalls The Savages, another exploration of mortal anxiety released this season. Tamara Jenkins’ slow-burning dramedy probes the mourning process from the perspective of a dying man’s adult offspring, whose first row view of human demise forces them to contemplate their own transience. The siblings’ chemistry evolves in the shadow of their father’s impending death. Note that the despondent familial duo are portrayed by Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney, actors with clout similar to Nicholson and Freeman, if not the same vintage appeal.
Hoffman and Linney settle into the quirks of the fictional Savages, but The Bucket List contains too much ebullience for its protagonists to cultivate subtlety. It has the rhythms and warmth of a tearjerker, but tugging on heartstrings doesn’t yield a good product.
The clumsy plot twist arrives when the Freeman character draws up his titular wish list, triggering a series of goofy slapstick vignettes. The bunkmates quickly bond on an aimless journey involving skydiving, racing, and classy dining in France. This flimsy middle chapter dismisses the underlying solemnity of the premise with a detached giddiness. Of course, that’s the point: Their whimsical mission provides a remedy for despair. But the daydream grows irritating when the characters refuse to recognize the futility of their endeavor.
A better illustration of relying on self-delusion in order to die with dignity forms the centerpiece of The Living Wake, a charmingly surreal low-budget hit on the festival circuit this year (it has yet to land theatrical distribution). In that wondrous comic fantasy, a failed writer (talented newcomer Mike O’Connell) begins the final day of his life by continuously faking himself out. At last overcoming his veiled consternation, he realizes that authentic solace rests only within the confines of the human mind. “If I hadn’t lived this life,” he proclaims (literally, singing the words), “it would never have been lived.”
The Bucket List doesn’t bother exploring the ramifications of such poignant solipsistic complacency. The idea that the stars ameliorate their dread by engaging in riotous behavior conflicts with their apparent intelligence. Freeman supposedly represents an inquisitive desire to reach his full potential, yet he’s still situated as the all-knowing guru; consistent with The Shawshank Redemption and Million Dollar Baby, Freeman provides unnecessary narration, relegating himself to the position of observer. Nicholson dominates in standard loose cannon mode, firing off zingers like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t.
Reiner’s hand in all of this is gentle and unobtrusive, following a fairly straightforward script by Justin Zackham riddled with obvious summations of pop wisdom (“We live, we die. The wheels on the bus go around and around”). The director’s light touch has worked well in several comedies, relying as he does on the strength of his performers to convey encoded frustrations in seemingly plain conversation. Tension bubbles to the surface through the naturalism of the situations.
Unfortunately, the skill of When Harry Met Sally is the disease of The Bucket List. The tale ends on a deeply sad note, although the final shot contains the illusion of a happy ending. We’re left with the implication that cozy acceptance, not perseverance, holds the key to a healthy life. Whoever had that idea doesn’t know jack. Or Jack.
