There is an argument around that the Brits don't do melodrama in film very well, preferring to to cram it all into their soaps. The wry humour strain is there from Whisky Galore to Local Hero, bleak urban blight like Ratcatcher and Red Road abounds, even feel good movies like Billy Elliot and The Full Monty have their day. But melodrama? Best left to Almodovar and other foreigners, it seems.
Then along comes Dear Frankie. The film takes a while to win you over. The fag buying scene, the incorrigible granny, the librarian fawning over the boy when she discovers his disability - it all seems a tad indulgent, a bit too forced. But Frankie's charisma grows on you, and the dilemma his Mum has created for herself bubbles with intrigue. Butler's air of menace as the brooding stranger is introduced at just the right time and perfectly counter-balances the rainbow-tinted tone till that point. The plot is only incredulous to anyone who has never been part of a family and knows nothing of how absurd the problems they create for themselves can be.
The soundtrack can be a bit smothering at times, and the dying hospital patient has far too much energy, muscle tone and rage for a dying man, but these are minor quibbles. Dear Frankie is an engaging tale, well-acted and unashamedly melodramatic, in the best sense. I read the logline and rolled my eyes, but in the end gave up a few well-earned tears. There is enough dark, tortured Glaswegian angst on celluloid (and in my family, for that matter) to satisfy aficionados of that strain of film-making. It is too cynical to suggest we don't have room for the likes of a Dear Frankie.
Those of us who are parents, or who are brave enough to remember, will admit that children know a helluva lot more than we give them credit for. That is the message that Dear Frankie ultimately delivers, and triumphantly, too. Selling Glaswegian melodrama could not have been easy. Pullingit off, harder still. Bravo.
Then along comes Dear Frankie. The film takes a while to win you over. The fag buying scene, the incorrigible granny, the librarian fawning over the boy when she discovers his disability - it all seems a tad indulgent, a bit too forced. But Frankie's charisma grows on you, and the dilemma his Mum has created for herself bubbles with intrigue. Butler's air of menace as the brooding stranger is introduced at just the right time and perfectly counter-balances the rainbow-tinted tone till that point. The plot is only incredulous to anyone who has never been part of a family and knows nothing of how absurd the problems they create for themselves can be.
The soundtrack can be a bit smothering at times, and the dying hospital patient has far too much energy, muscle tone and rage for a dying man, but these are minor quibbles. Dear Frankie is an engaging tale, well-acted and unashamedly melodramatic, in the best sense. I read the logline and rolled my eyes, but in the end gave up a few well-earned tears. There is enough dark, tortured Glaswegian angst on celluloid (and in my family, for that matter) to satisfy aficionados of that strain of film-making. It is too cynical to suggest we don't have room for the likes of a Dear Frankie.
Those of us who are parents, or who are brave enough to remember, will admit that children know a helluva lot more than we give them credit for. That is the message that Dear Frankie ultimately delivers, and triumphantly, too. Selling Glaswegian melodrama could not have been easy. Pullingit off, harder still. Bravo.