Alcoholic vagabond Francis Phelan, a former ballplayer and family man before the Depression, returns to the haunts of his hometown, yet is besieged by ghosts from the past. William Kennedy's Pulitzer prize-winning novel doesn't necessarily make for gripping movie material--all the drama seems to be in the flashbacks--while the overlay of the bleak economic times coupled with Phelan's ruinous drinking habit diffuses any hope this will be a thoughtful or provocative exercise. Instead, it's just a downer, and a very long one at an overstretched 143 minutes. Jack Nicholson (though Oscar-nominated) hasn't much hope in bringing out the complicated psyche of Phelan (Nicholson tries but he's too modern, his inflections too familiar, to be convincing in this milieu). Better is Meryl Streep as Phelan's ailing bar-friend who used to be a singer. Streep, who also received a nomination, doesn't have nearly enough screen-time to carve out a three-dimensional characterization, but what she leaves us with is memorable and moving nevertheless, particularly in her "He's Me Pal" fantasy song number. Argentine-born director Hector Babenco would seem an odd choice to helm a picture about very American depressions, though he certainly understands squalor, disease and a desire for personal redemption, and parts of the film pack an honest punch. However, "Ironweed" is too lofty to make a genuine connection; the emotional 'signposts' are pretentious while Lauro Escorel's brown and gold-hued cinematography, striking at first, eventually tires the eye. Babenco's handling is careful--too careful and meticulous--mummifying the overall experience instead of drawing audiences in. ** from ****
Review of Ironweed
