Then She Found Me (2007)

Stephen Holden in the NY Times is positive: “Then She Found Me,” a serious comedy, is more impressive for what it refuses to do than for its modest accomplishment. The directorial debut of Helen Hunt, who plays April Epner, an anxious 39-year-old kindergarten teacher in New York City, it has all the ingredients of a slick, commercial farce, which it emphatically is not. 

Better than most of the crap that has been made in the last decade.

Mother and Child

How three women are affected by adoption. 51 year old Karen (Benning) has never stopped thinking about the child she gave up for adoption, 37 years earlier, when she was 14 years old. That child (Watts), now a successful attorney, lives an empty life, centered around achievement in law, careless sex based on conquest, extreme cynicism about life and people. A black woman (Washington), unable to conceive her own child, desperately hopes that adopting will fill the void in her soul.

Benning allows herself to be seen by the camera as she is, a 53 year old woman who is not trying to hide her age. She need not hide anything; no one should. She is stellar as a woman haunted by her past, caring for her aging mother, unable to connect with people. Into her life enters a fellow physical therapist (Smits), whom she pushes away, afraid of connecting, of feeling emotion. He persists, and they become friends, and, eventually, marry. That marriage is a little forced, and a weak spot of the film. One of few.

Watts is an unsympathetic character, despite what might be a most sympathetic circumstance: she misses not having a mother, not knowing whom her birth mother was, and that haunts her. Yet she turns that hurt and anger into a manipulative cynicism of undue proportions. During a sexual encounter with her new boss (Jackson), she not only controls the entire act, but calls him old man, deliberately wanting to put him in his place (she is already on top, literally).

You may not quite trust “Mother and Child”— its soft spots and fuzzy edges give it away — but you can believe just about everyone in it. A.O. Scott's NYT review.

Washington's character, Lucy, is a layered woman who desperately wants to be a mother. When she and her husband interview with a nun who will arrange the adoption, and then with the mother who is going to give up her baby, Lucy talks incessantly, then upbraids her husband for not stopping her. When the birth mother decides not to give up her baby, Washington launches into a tour de force, an amazingly emotional and hysterical outburst of anger and pain. It is acting at its best.

In the end, all three stories meld into one. Elizabeth, pregnant, abandons her law firm, goes to work with a public interest firm, and insists on giving birth naturally despite a dangerous condition. She sees her brown baby (her boss was indeed the father; she got pregnant despite having tied her tubes at 17 {this scene is weak, and a missed opportunity, though perhaps Elizabeth would not have reflected on it} and decided to have the child), but dies. That baby is given to Lucy, and Lucy agrees to let Karen visit.

Last wish

Lewis, J. Patrick. (2005). Please bury me in the library. Orlando: Harcourt.

Saw this in a display case.

It all starts today

Directed by Bertrand Tavernier ('Round Midnight). A teacher struggles to make a difference in the lives of his students. Very typically French, in some respects: the characters talk ceaselessly, there is a lot of cheek kissing. In telling the story of a pre-school director, the film shows a slice of French life which is not shown by all the cooking shows that extoll Gallic life. Many of the students in the school are from poor families; one, a cute girl whom the etacher engages and tries to help, suddenly dies at her mother's hand, overdosed on thorazine when the nopther despairs of their economic challenges.

One reviewer has it this way: Director/co-writer Bertrand Tavernier, known for the realism in his films, takes the same matter-of-fact approach here, immersing the viewer in the very bleak everyday living conditions of the children and their families. While this sets a decidedly somber tone, it doesn't bludgeon; as tragedies take place, providing a tonic is the quiet heroism of Daniel and his efforts to challenge the system. True to the overall realism, Daniel is no perfect paragon of virtue; he has his share of character flaws (foremost, ego), and all facets of his personality are vividly conveyed by Torreton. But his--and the film's--the unwavering sense of cautious hope keeps the experience from being a draining downer and makes it a profound study of an all-too-common human condition.

Gone, baby, gone

Amanda McCready is a 4-year-old who has disappeared from her Boston home. The police make little headway in solving the case, so the girl's aunt hires Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro, private detectives. They freely admit that they have little experience with this type of case, but the family wants them for two reasons: they're not cops and they know the tough neighborhood in which they all live. As the case progresses, Patrick and Angie must face area drug dealers, gangs and pedophiles. When they finally solve the case, they are faced with a moral dilemma that tears them apart.

That's the blurb from the studio. And as far as it goes, it's accurate. But it misses much: profanity-laced, the film is based on a book by Dennis Lehane, and it misses being a good movie, for me, because it concentrates on violence and cursing.

Morgan Freeman makes a cameo appearance as a police captain riven by a guilty conscience, and airmails it. Perhaps this is one of those roles he takes simply because it is offered and will add to his resume; there is a rumor that he is trying to become the actor with the greatest number of entries in his filmography. If that is so, this is an entry hardly worth the effort, and one made with hardly an effort.

Ed Harris does a credible job as a detective, but his character isn't up to the challenge. The New York Times reviewer liked the movie, but I didn't like quite as much.