Reviews

Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

One blistery cold winter morning in Queens, New York, a middle-aged man, Oliver (David), dressed in a rumpled brown suit, who was cut by IBM as they downsized, leaves a homeless shelter to spend the day walking around that part of town, knowing that he has to return before 7 p.m. or he gets locked out of the shelter. Suddenly, a woman, probably in her early fifties, Madeleine (Lisa), with a British accent, shouts out at him, as he is staring at her, "Aren't you Matthew Delacorta, the director? I tried out for a part in your film in London." Oliver goes along with the mistaken identity and goes with this has-been actress, who can't get respectable parts in films anymore because of her age, to a Greek diner. They spend the day together, becoming lovers out of a sheer desire to overcome their loneliness and the dissatisfaction and fear that life has brought them. This is a one-day fling. After the deception becomes unravelled and her anger subsides, she goes on with her conventional and unhappy life. They, at least, had found one day of gentleness by being together through believing their little lie.

This could have been a great picture, it had everything in place to be great, such as a great idea for a story, two of the finest acting performances you can ever want, and a very moving and compassionate story that is without any need for contrivances, that could touch the heart of a mature audience. But... it wasn't a great film.

So what went wrong and what was right with the film ?

What is right about this film, is that the story of the lovers, if we can really call them that, is meaningful; therefore, it stays with you, its power goes beyond the time you spend watching it unfold on screen. I thought about them for days afterwards, wondering how easy it is to lose track of things and find out that all your desires and dreams fell through and that you are left in a hopeless state, unable to relate to anyone what is wrong with you. And, getting older in a society that is youth oriented, finding yourself tossed aside as unwanted scrap heap, is a very difficult psychological thing for one to reconcile; and obviously, some do it better than others. Oliver had no outside support, which might be the reason he hit the bottom financially, winding up in a spot he will have a great deal of trouble adjusting to, as he tries to find himself, hoping for a way out... And Madeleine, is also stuck, separated from a husband (Larry Pine) she does not love. He is always snooping around, trying to win her back with his obsessively manic behavior, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. Her self-esteem is at a very low level when we see her: as she can't find a way to support her need to be truly wanted, to find love and happiness, and to ply her trade as an actress with viable parts. The problem of getting older and not being appealing anymore gnaws at her, as she blames everything around her for her troubles; such as, hating herself for being stuck in a God forsaken place like Queens, living in this culturally desolate vacuum, where she can't escape from, not satisfied that she lives with her sweet adopted Korean daughter in a private house and seems to be materially well-provided for. This part of the film is very emotionally moving and very well-presented.

What starts to go wrong with the film, is that the direction of the film tries to do too many things, and even though, those things it attempts might work on their own terms, they don't fit into the theme of this film, thereby ruining its rhythm. For instance, it offers us a vibrant look at a homeless shelter, those who are in it, their routines, their psychological make-up, and it even brings one of the homeless men to life, Ray (Jared), giving his character a certain appeal that an entire film could be based on. But to make the homelessness issue as a subplot, that is so much a part to this film, does not do justice to the more essential romantic story line. Its pace of story is different than David's odyssey; and, it therefore fills the screen with too many useless images that do not enhance this beautifully shot work with the impact it needs.

The main focus of the film should have been on Oliver and Madeleine's relationship, at all times. This would have added more insight into the reasons for their demise, and give us more of a hint of how they will act when the picture concludes. It would have served the film better if it didn't become so arty and give us so many unimportant shots of lobsters and Queens. This is a very human and emotional story, a story that is very well-conceived, and almost completely overshadowed by the director's bad instincts that almost completely surplant so much of the good instincts he incorporated in the film. But, surprisingly enough, even if the film had an air of phoniness about it, the two characters' exquisite performance cannot be denied. Their relationship was genuine despite the circumstances of their differing situations.

Ultimately, what the film offers, is contrasting perceptions of what is real and what is illusionary, as it bolsters the sense of what ills misfortune can bring to one's perception of oneself. But, ah ! If only... what a film this could have been!

Sunday

Sunday (winner of the Grand Jury Prize for drama at the Sundance Film Festival last January) is a sleeper that invades your dreams. It's about a man and a woman who do their best to avoid the ennuie that suffuses Sunday in a down and out section of town, surrounded by panhandlers, garbage, sleazy diners and the noisy trains and menacing shadow of the elevated railway.

Middle-aged Oliver (David Suchet, star of PBS Mystery!'s Hercule Poirot) lost his job at IBM. Now he just can't seem to get it together and lives in a homeless shelter in Queen's, alienated from the other denizens.

On a Sunday morning, Oliver wanders the sad streets. A monstrous potted plant approaches and Madeleine Vesey (Lisa Harrow), the woman carrying the plant, mistakes him for Matthew Delacorta, a movie director in London where she has more or less failed as an actress.

In their loneliness, Madeleine and Oliver drift into a near wordless companionship. She allows him to come home with her, where she lives in continual apprehension of too-attentive ex-husband Ben (Larry Pine).

Madeleine plies Oliver with wine and, pursuing her acting career by flattering him, asks for a story. Oliver imaginatively spins a yarn of his meeting with her and she tells another fable that involves their encounter.

Finally, on the floor at the top of the stairs, Madeleine takes what's left of Oliver's emotional virginity in a scene fraught with lust and disbelief.

Oliver leaves, plying his trade of getting through the day. He returns to Madeleine's place to get his coat, left earlier, and whatever else he can find. He takes her to a bland lunch at a sorry diner.

Eventually the sun sets and the two return to Madeleine's home, where she leads him up the stairs and undresses. Oliver looks passively at Madeleine stretched out naked on the bed. As in a reverie, she stares at him. The only thing they can both be sure of is that after another empty Sunday, Monday rolls around.

The two key performances in Sunday are superb, particularly that of Lisa Harrow, whose warm yearning eroticism is irresistable. David Suchet invests the uncontrolled life of Oliver with a quiet relentless panic.

A tour de force for Director, co-Producer and co-Writer Jonathan Nossiter, who also picked up the Waldo Salt screenwriting award at Sundance. '

Sunday Best

An understated film with hard-to-fathom characters, Sunday bucks indie trends to create a moving work of silent desperation

BY KIM MORGAN

Raves at Sundance are not to be trusted. Sundance's "darkly comic," "sardonic" or dreaded "Tarantinoesqe" offerings, as well as its drippy Brothers McMullens and Spitfire Grills, pummel us with the painfully hip and obnoxiously normal. The indie reliance on irony and violence is really just as lazy as the Hollywood reliance on breasts and car chases, and often less creative. In short, Sundance hype means nothing. But thank God there are exceptions. Sunday, which won best dramatic film at Sundance, is a refreshing change from the frequent triteness of indie films. Devoid of hip fatuousness, comedic violence or gorgeous people doing heroin, the film is an anomaly of the market. Clever, wonderfully acted and superbly written, Sunday has a style and pace all its own, and is derivative of nothing except the quagmire of human alienation. It is impervious to imitation. With neither sympathy nor overt harshness, the film opens in a New York City men's shelter, where residents begin their Sunday morning gabbing and wisecracking over breakfast. The film sets up its environment so specifically that we are, at first, unaware of our shy protagonist, Oliver (David Suchet)--a bespectacled, chubby man separated from the others. When Oliver scuttles out of the seedy abode and wanders the streets of Queens, the movie unfolds into a story of mistaken identity. Walking the same route as Oliver is an aging British actress named Madeleine (Lisa Harrow), who, though lovely and accomplished, has been delegated to "living-dead mutant roles." When she mistakes Oliver for acclaimed film director Matthew Delacorta, she anxiously flags him down and invites him to lunch. Oliver, nervously going along with her error, agrees to go. He ends up in her apartment, where she serves him wine and begs for a story. Telling the tale of a destitute man who once had a marriage, a family and a middle-manageme job, Oliver reveals his actual life (perhaps) to the woman. Madeleine first appears suspicious, then comes to believe that Oliver's story is admirable method research for a future film. But then she tells her story and reveals her reality (or so we think), a much more sinister admission than Oliver's, but equally duplicitous. Disturbed by Madeleine but not afraid to be seduced by her, Oliver flees when Madeleine's strange husband and adopted daughter pop in unannounced. Oliver is confused but drawn to Madeliene, and vica versa, leading to an intertwining of stories that we are never sure are true. From shabby destitution to unique elegance to repulsion to sympathy, Sunday is mysterious without being overly precious and meaningful without being pretentious. Instead of shocking the viewer with violence or specific harsh realities like incest or drug abuse, Sunday titillates with structure. Director Jonathan Nossiter quietly builds his material to both reveal and conceal the darker connotations of his characters' surreptitious behavior. In addition, he contrasts an unsparing picture of dirty toilets and ugly, deserted streets with an elegant, engrossing script that is unforced and unafraid of being truly thoughtful and lyrical. The nuances are so potent that the film begs a second viewing for closer explication. But with such a bleak, unromanticized picture, will anyone want to see it even once? Those anticipating a film with Cameron Diaz, Eric Stoltz or old hipsters like Burt Reynolds will be disappointed. Sunday does not contain people whom we can joyfully watch enacting perversions. As the excellent actors in Sunday are, for the most part, unrecognizable, they are perfectly elusive in their personas. Suchet is dignified yet shabby and squirelly--someone we genuinely feel uncomfortable about. Harrow is at first flighty and charming, then beautiful, then somewhat salacious. When the two have sex, it is strangely shocking in its animalistic need, particularly when we see Suchet's pants around his knees. We're not sure what to make of their tryst, other than that it's a well-needed release, because we don't know how we feel about them. We don't fall in love with these characters regardless of their actions. We don't delight in their antics--they are almost insufferable--yet we are enrapt. The actors are so poignant and raw we can't help but see something of ourselves in them, which leaves us not moist-eyed, but bemused and personally disturbed. Sunday feels more like a fascinating short story you stumble upon than a Sundance film. It is more Dostoevsky than Scorsese or, thankfully, Tarantino. Though Sundance is about as trustworthy as the Blockbuster Video awards (Blockbuster at least recognizes the merits of Kingpin and Jim Carrey), this winner should be seen.

Sunday

A chance encounter on a Sunday afternoon in Queens unexpectedly evolves into a compelling psychological mystery and unconventional love story, in Sunday. Winner of the Grand Jury Prize for Best Film and the Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award at the 1997 Sundance Film Festival, the film was also an official selection at this year's Cannes Film Festival.

On a typical winter Sunday, Madeleine, a struggling, middle-aged actress wakes to her life in Queens like an exile, already pushed across the river from Manhattan and even further from her native London. Her career is at an impasse, her marriage is ending, and she is locked in a struggle with her American husband over their adopted daughter.

Meanwhile, Oliver, an IBM technician recently laid off, has also awoken to an ongoing nightmare: to his continuing disbelief and horror, he is living in a homeless shelter. This same Sunday morning like all the others, he ventures out of the shelter, aimlessly.

While waiting at an intersection, Madeleine spies a man who she believes to be Matthew Delacorta, a famous film director. Gathering up her courage, she approaches the man and states, "You're Matthew Delacorta." This simple phrase, innocent or not, sweeps these two strangers into a labyrinth of mystery, deception, romance and desire.

"James [co-writer James Lasdun] and I really liked the idea that both Oliver and Madeleine are outsiders. They feel like aliens in their own lives, yet the wonderful and mysterious thing is that even so, they find a way to connect," says writer/director Jonathan Nossiter.

Nossiter shot Sunday in a visceral style. Fractured editing, densely layered sound and sudden shifts in light and scenery add to both the sense of urban realism and urban dreamscape where anything can happen.

He felt unrestrained by some of the conventions of continuity. The singular Sunday of the film is sometimes an overcast day, sometimes a sunny day, sometimes a day dusted with snow.

For Nossiter the ultimate goal of this visual and aural sense of subjectivity is to invite audiences into the mysterious journey of Oliver and Madeleine. "I always saw Sunday as a love story that goes into some dark and frightening places, but it is really about two people who are fighting for their lives, who find a way to make something magical and exhilarating out of just another Sunday."

Sunday

The tag line most overused by sales companies attending Cannes is "Sundance hit!" It is ironic, therefore, that the film that not only won the Grand Jury Prize at this year's festival but also picked up the prestigous Waldo Salt screenwriting award is the most backward in coming forward. The movie is Jonathan Nossiter's feature film debut, Sunday.

In mid-March, the producers finally announced that the independent distributor Cinepix Film Properties (CFP) had the North American rights. Now, thanks to a deal closed with Curb in April, buyers in Cannes can go shopping for the genuine success story of this year's Sundance Film Festival.

"We wanted a distributor who showed passion and who would sell the film in the way and spirit it was made," Nossiter told Moving Pictures before leaving New York for Cannes.

Arguably, the reason Sunday won the prizes was that it chose to swim against the conformity in Sundance this year, where most films seemed to deal with the subject of teenage angst. Put simply, Sunday is part psychological whodunit, part modern Brief Encounter, based around an apparent case of mistaken identity. It is a romantic mystery, set in the improbably lyrical urbanscape of Nossiter's own backyard, Queens.

Madeleine, a middle-aged English actress, played by the Royal Shakespeare Company's Lisa Harrow, out of work but not out of hope, accosts Oliver, played by David Suchet (a man best known to the world as Poirot), a downsized IBM executive, with the words, "You're Matthew Delacorta, the film director." The fateful phrase, innocent or not, turns a typical winter Sunday in New York into a day of romantic intrigue, deceit and emotional hijinks that leaves both sides, and hopefully the audience, reeling.

Woven into the main story are a series of seemingly random and unconnected tales of Oliver's fellow homeless at the small shelter he frequents. These provide a subtle dramatic counterpoint to the central action.