Men of Few Words

Ronan and Daniel Day-Lewis aim for the transcendental in family drama ANEMONE

It isn’t until about an hour and some change into Anemone, Ronan Day-Lewis’ feature film debut co-written with his father Daniel, that we finally find out the meaning behind the film’s elusive title: anemones are the wildflower the father of brothers Jem (Sean Bean) and Ray (Day-Lewis) Stoker used to grow when they were kids. I could go on and on about the mythological origins of the word and what each color symbolizes (you’ll find some of that background here if you are really curious) but suffice it to say that these flowers are blown open by the wind…and there is a lot of wind in Anemone.

The second most-hyped film to open this past Friday, October 3 after The Smashing Machine (both marking a comeback of sorts for their stars: serious acting in the case of Dwayne Johnson and a return to acting overall for Daniel Day-Lewis after an eight-year hiatus), Anemone is a curious film. It is obvious, given his stylistic choices, that Ronan Day-Lewis and his father want this to be much more than another story about a dysfunctional family ravaged by war and abuse. That Ronan is aiming for something transcendental, poetic.

The film opens with a diorama painted by a child: as the camera pans over it in a long take we see drawings of a war torn community, of men, women and children killed by soldiers. It’s not hard to tell, especially since Daniel Day-Lewis starred in the ultimate film about the conflicts in Ireland, In the Name of the Father (1993), that The Troubles will rear its ugly head at some point. We are immediately introduced to Jem, taking a shower, his back to the camera; a phrase is etched into that very same back: “Only God can judge you.” Yes, faith, especially of the Catholic kind, or lack thereof, will also play a role. And yet, these two opening shots don’t feel like you are being hit over the head with the obvious…at least not yet.

Jem has been living with Nessa (Samantha Morton), his brother’s wife, since Ray abandoned her and his son Brian (Samuel Bottomley) to live in self-imposed exile in the woods, near the coast somewhere in northern England. Brian is in trouble; the violence that has long haunted the Stoker men is now manifesting itself in Brian, who’s been involved in one brawl after another in school as evidenced by his blood-encrusted knuckles. It is now up to Jem, letter from Nessa in hand, to hop on his bike, drive into the woods and pull Ray out of his isolation. Easier said than done.

Ray welcomes his brother in silence, his eyes acknowledging the inevitable while at the same time angry at the prospect to have his quiet, solitary, hermit-like lifestyle disrupted by a reality he’s long kept at a distance. His cabin reveals more about this man’s existence than the script itself: shelves full of books and cans of tin food; bottles of whisky safely stored away in drawers and cabinets; rooms awash with this dark, wooden light. The forest outside (crisply shot by Ben Fordesman) acting like a physical manifestation of all the guilt and anger Ray tries to repress.

Jem and Ray are men of few words…with the exception of two monologues delivered by Day-Lewis with the raw intensity that we have long admired in him. The first, a scatological tale of revenge upon a priest who abused him as a child which comes as a slap to the face after so many quiet scenes between the two brothers, and the many elegiac shots of the woods around them. It’s jaw-droppingly outrageous, with Day-Lewis biting into each minute description of the act with a gusto traditionally reserved for gross-out comedies. The second monologue, towards the end, shines a light into what drove Ray into self-imposed exile. And, yes, it involves the Troubles. There is anger, pain, and even a sense of disbelief in Day-Lewis’ performance as his character finally comes to a reckoning with his turbulent past.

But other than those two monologues, these two men spend their entire time together walking, drinking, running down the coast, even dancing and, finally punching each other. Time seems to stand still in these woods; Ronan Day-Lewis uses these silences, these intimate moments for maximum effect, showing how what’s left unspoken finally wears these two men down.

Ronan and Daniel Day-Lewis’ script will frequently cut back to Nessa, as alone and incommunicado now as when Ray was recruited by the British army and went to war. Morton is not given much to do until the end, when she delivers an equally powerful monologue where her character reveals all to Brian.

Anemone has a certain theatrical air to it. One could easily adapt the entire film to the stage. However, we would be deprived of those tight close-ups on Day-Lewis pere and Bean, Fordesman’s camera capturing every wrinkle, every pain mark, every gray hair and that sense of weariness and sadness. It is sobering to see both actors play characters their own age, with the weight of the world on their shoulders, acknowledging the passage of time with every movement, every stare and every word. That Day-Lewis ended his acting hiatus with a role that is so down-to-earth, that is so small-scale and even restrained compared to his Academy Award winning ones feels like a new direction for the actor.

Anemone is visually stunning, even though some of its flights of fancy don’t quite work. There is a major hail storm towards the end that seems to signal a turning point for this family, and even though it’s well executed, especially in its sound design, I couldn’t help but think of a a similar far effective and far more Biblical scene: the rain of frogs at the end of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia. Ronan Day-Lewis even resorts to some mystical imagery that feels totally disconnected from the film. A scene where Nessa’s ghost appears floating above Ray’s bed feels too on the nose. Yet, there is enough here, visually and even sonically (Bobby Kric’s gloomy score is one of my favorites of the year), to make one curious about what Ronan Day-Lewis will do next.