Ahoy, squirts! Quint here taking a break from posting Toronto reviews to throw in MiraJeff's review of PROOF. Boy, he didn't like this one! Read on to find out why!
Greetings AICN, MiraJeff here, back from my brief Massachusetts sabbatical with a review of Proof. Things have been pretty busy lately, as Sheldrake and I have been hobnobbing with all the models here at Fashion Week in NYC. We’re also preparing to embark on the New York Film Festival, as well as my own senior year of school.
I’d like to start this review by pointing out that I have never seen David Auburn’s stage play, which I’ve heard was fantastic. The stage is certainly where Auburn’s words were meant to be recited, and unfortunately his big-screen adaptation, co-written by Rebecca Miller, does not translate well. Math has always been a difficult subject to dramatize on film. Movies can rarely pull it off, but when they do, they’re always incredible to watch (Good Will Hunting, A Beautiful Mind, and to a lesser extent, Primer). John Madden’s Proof tries very hard to rise to the level of those films, but fails miserably along the way.
The film opens in a blur of pointless TV clips and commercials as Catherine (Gwyneth Paltrow) sits mesmerized at the flashing screen, lost in her own head. Eyes blank, mouth open, she’s transfixed by the images like a potless pothead. Her gaze is interrupted by her father, Robert (Anthony Hopkins), a brilliant mathematician cursed with an inescapable bout of mental illness. Not sure if this deserves a spoiler warning, but we quickly realize that Catherine is pulling a Haley Joel and talking to a ghost, as her dad explains that he died several days ago of a brain aneurysm. It’s a nifty little twist to open the film, for those of us unfamiliar with the play. The rest of the film jumps around chronologically, jumping between present day and flashbacks where we see Robert’s amazing mind begin to deteriorate.
Having had to care for her father throughout her illness, Catherine has become a bit of a loner. With a sister (Hope Davis) living in New York, Catherine is forced to drop out of school in Chicago to live with dad, an experience that changes her personality, as she takes on the role of parent, and begins to fear that she may have inherited some of her father’s tendencies. It is clear that Catherine’s entire demeanor has been affected by the burden of caring for her father and watching his mind slowly unravel. The experience takes its toll on her emotionally and mentally, something that Paltrow communicates quite well.
To be honest it’s refreshing to see Paltrow back on screen after taking some time off to start a family with Mr. Coldplay. Her performance in Proof is incredibly calculated. Every stare and nervous tic, every change in the tone of her voice seems carefully planned and rehearsed. Catherine is a peculiar character in that she swings back and forth between acting like an obnoxious child, and a responsible adult, albeit one prone to irrational and unexplainable fits of infantile behavior. Paltrow’s performance is at once gifted, and uncomfortably annoying. Trust me, you’ll see. It was beyond frustrating to sit in the theater and watch one of the world’s finest actresses be reduced to sniveling and screaming to be dramatic. She plays Catherine very wide-eyed and innocent, like an adolescent adapting to the responsibilities of the real world. She’s so busy taking care of her Dad that she’s lost when it comes to taking care of herself. She has no friends to celebrate her birthday with, and is hesitant to even date. I noticed a lot of physical nuances in her performance, as Catherine always seemed to be fidgeting with something, or uncomfortable in her own skin. But the worst of her suffering looks had to be when we flashback and see the Paltrow face as Catherine feels math brilliance course through her veins, the greatness funneling through from her mind to her hand, to the page. The scene is meant to be so deep and introspective, but I couldn’t refrain from laughing to myself and sighing aloud at what a wasted opportunity this movie was. I’m sure it was a difficult, unenviable job to play a character so emotionally unstable and wildly uneven, but Paltrow never finds the perfect balance to her character. For example: I’m a crier. I cry at movies all the time. I cried several times during Crash, Murderball, hell I cried laughing at The Aristocrats, but never, not once, did I come close to crying during Proof. It has all the right moments to illicit a tear from me, but it never pulled it off.
We’re forced to endure tired examples of Catherine questioning her sanity, as well as reality. Things aren’t made any better by her sister, Claire. Hope Davis’ dialogue is probably the best thing about the movie. She says exactly what any rational person would say when dealing with a grown sister having a temper tantrum, but the way she delivers her lines seems to penetrate Catherine and provoke her, inciting more of that unwatchable behavior. Davis does a good job of picking at a scab like only an older sibling can.
As far as director John Madden goes, Proof is a play, and Madden’s direction doesn’t help us forget that. Every scene seems to involve two or three characters just talking. Sure the conversations take place in different places, rather than a stage, but it still feels like actors reciting a play. There is little action, and when Madden does indulge himself, his choices are laughable. For instance, as Paltrow drives away, leaving a prized notebook with man-hunk Jake Gyllenhaal, he runs after the car like Will Smith in Bad Boys and tosses the notebook like Frisbee through a barely-opened crack in the car window, in slow motion no less. It’s a ludicrous shot in a droll, boring movie, and a moment that had me literally, laughing out loud. The Weinstein Brothers cannot expect to win awards with this kind of drivel. It might pick up a couple nominations if the Academy sees it fit to throw Paltrow a bone, or Hopkins, who unsurprisingly, is solid as a rock in his supporting role. Perhaps Auburn will catch a nod for adapting his own play, but I guarantee this film doesn’t win one award. It simply does not pack the emotional wallop you would expect. If Gwyneth gets nominated over Joan Allen’s performance in The Upside of Anger, something is seriously wrong with the nomination process in Hollywood.
Speaking of performances, let’s cut the chit-chat and talk about Jakey-boy, or Jilly, as I like to call him. The kid’s proven himself to be a formidable talent ever since October Sky. He was great in The Good Girl. I’ll forget about The Day After Tomorrow (and Bubble Boy). I really liked him in the underappreciated Moonlight Mile. And as Donnie Darko, he gave the most complex portrayal of a superhero ever given, a superhero who was his own super villain, a schizophrenic teenager (aren’t they all?) with they weight of the world not on his shoulders but in his head. [end tangent] The point is, not only is this the guy’s breakthrough year, but he’s been a star for a while. And Proof fails to draw on his considerable talents, leaving him with a thankless role that an actor of his caliber shouldn’t be playing. Maybe he did it because of the award-winning subject matter, or perhaps to prove himself to already attached A-list stars like Paltrow and Hopkins, but Jilly has little to do in this movie beside seduce Gwyneth in a romance devoid of any chemistry. Their love scene isn’t sexy; it’s awkward, ending with Paltrow crying because she’s so embarrassingly crazy. Jilly, I’m just warning you. There is such a thing as overexposure. Don’t let it happen to you. We don’t need another Affleck. We need more movies like Jarhead and Brokeback Mountain, both films with incredible trailers that affected me more than any of the images presented in Proof. (Note #1: Jarhead PR folks, call me! Note #2: He’s in Zodiac too, which will obviously kick ass.) Not to mention, Jake’s character kind of fades into the background in the second half of Proof, as Paltrow’s maelstrom of emotions takes center stage. Jilly starts out promising but besides unrealistic lovemaking, the only thing the script gives him to do is determine the author of the proof in question. Is it batty Bob, or crazy Catherine? By the end, I didn’t really care. The movie just feels like Oscar bait, made to lure in older viewers and sucker them out of a vote.
Although, while Sir Anthony is relegated to playing the nutty relative, he does it pretty well, even if he is looking more and more like Carroll O’Connor these days. As Robert, he steals the show drifting between friendly, wise old man, and senile, cuckoo old man, popping up in Catherine’s imagination like Hamlet’s father. The intensity Hopkins bring to the role is greatly appreciated in such a quiet movie, despite me not buying for a second that he could be Gwyneth Paltrow’s dad. The way he lights up the screen when he raves about his “machinery” working again, scribbling in notebooks like Kevin Spacey in Seven. Though, the scene where he reads his new proof to Catherine is utterly predictable and cheesy.
In summation, Proof is essentially an uninspired character piece that should’ve been left on the stage and out of actually entertaining places, like movie theaters. I also recognized several noticeable language changes to earn the film a PG-13 (just studios probably hoping to cash in on Jilly’s hotness), where characters mouthed the “f-word” and said ‘freaking’ instead. I’m all for cleaning it up for the kiddies, but clean up your film John Madden and cutaway during those dirty dubs. I also didn’t care for Stephen Warbeck’s thriller-ish score, which didn’t fit with the movie’s slow pacing. All in all, Proof is a wasted opportunity. A shameless cry for Oscar’s attention. Miramax might go out without putting up a fight, but honestly, the Weinsteins will turn things around now that they can do as they please. I mean, where did you think the name MiraJeff came from? Mom’s name is Miriam too, plus my three favorite films in junior high were Pulp Fiction, The Crow, and Scream. I’ll be back this week with reviews of Atom Egoyan’s latest headline, the NC-17 rated Where the Truth Lies, as well as the return of Jeff Daniels in The Squid and the Whale. I leave you with this completely false rumor… Christopher Walken banged Jean Claude Van-Damme. That’s all I got, folks. Good night and good luck.
