MR. NORTH (1988) ** Providence, R.I. in the 1920s and not a black person to be seen. Can that be right? I guess so, some kind of understated rich folk prejudice about only wanting British people serving them... It has the feel (that brings many comfort, and others nausea) of all of the popular art of the period, that very white bread sense that even sourdough would be out of place. That Norman Rockwell, all of those writers (many of whom I enjoy)...that sense that the only artistic purpose could be to create Our Town. Man were those people setting us up for Jack Kerouac and the beatniks, but any psychological solace in the war years. I'm there, I feel you needing it, I would too. Of course Thornton Wilder knew something about writing art in the direction of Our Town, and it's in plenty of effect here, but there's that sense of the times that the audience is only willing to follow the artist a short way beyond the center of safety and respectability, and no artist in sight interested in going much further than to announce the impending border. Anjelica makes regular and dramatic enough appearances to ensure that you remember that it's a Huston family project, and so dismissiveness or comfort can only be assumed at your own risk. I spent much of the film wondering if Anthony Edwards lacked the charisma to carry the film, or whether he was just great at being a Wisconsin guy who went to Yale: I settled more than concluded that the former is certainly true, and I don't think the latter but I'm not sure. Robert Mitchum embodies an elegance and gravitas that's never quite right, and Lauren Bacall something similar that's more than enough...there are fine actors abounding...Harry Dean Stanton is great and Virginia Madsen lends it all that kind of charm that Anjelica would consider beneath her; a kind of silly, giggly, happy thing. There's plenty to like about it, but my sense isn't that it was ever out to say anything important, so much as calm things down a bit. Which has its place.
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