The depth and complexity of Barry Levinson's tribute to America's Golden Age can be summed up by granddad Armin Mueller-Stahl's words of wisdom to the younger generation: "if you stop remembering, you forget". The writer director himself seems to have forgotten how memory is always prone to sentimental distortion, and his long, loving portrait of a family in transition (ostensibly Levinson's own extended family) plays like a lazy daydream of paradise lost. It's a far richer film than the first two chapters of his Baltimore trilogy, with a screenplay spanning three generations and most of the 20th century, but the dramatic scope comes at the expense of detail, and Levinson's explanation for the post-war decline of the American family is thus never able to reach beyond the most obvious culprits: television and suburban malaise. With help from an excellent ensemble cast the film is finally able to achieve the bittersweet mood it strives for, but only after burying some genuine emotion underneath too many visual flourishes and a lot of distracting big budget gloss.
