bnorthup
10-01-2001, 11:26 AM
Hearts in Atlantis (PG-13)
Four Stars
Brent Northup
To be a lover of movies is to have the spirit of a gold miner. We enter the theater in hopes that each new movie will be a nugget of gold that will nourish us for weeks, months or years afterwards. Undeterred by clumps of earth or fool’s gold, we keep coming back – pick ax poised, heart expectant.
And glory be, every so often our patience is rewarded, as mine was last Saturday afternoon. As “Hearts in Atlantis” unfolded, I sank deeper into my seat, totally immersed in this glorious tale of childhood, of clairvoyance and of fear. As the final credits rolled, I did what I only do on those special occasions when a movie touches my heart – I applauded, not caring that those who deserved to hear me could not appreciate my heartfelt offering.
“Hearts in Atlantis” is an adaptation of a Stephen King story. This time, however, there are no mad dogs or gory scenes. The horror is distinctly internal – a queasy sensation of impending danger.
The story is about Bobby, an 11-year-old boy who lives with his single Mom. A stranger named Brautigan (Anthony Hopkins) moves in upstairs. When asked where he’s from and what he did for a living, the stranger gives vague answers. Finally, he confides to the boy that men in dark suits are looking for him – and when they come to town, he must flee. He hires the boy to keep watch – promising enough money for a bicycle.
As the friendship between stranger and boy deepens, so does young love. The boy gets his first kiss from Carol on a ferris wheel. To add to the intrigue, Bobby begins to sense psychic powers – and he suspects he’s “inheriting” them from the stranger upstairs.
But soon the black suits arrive in town – and an abusive bully threatens Carol.
Innocence is in jeopardy on all levels – Bobby’s two closest friends are both in peril.
The story would be routine if the writing, cinematography and acting were routine. But everything about this film is exquisite – from the perfect sense of how kids talk to haunting shots of a boy’s silhouette behind a closed glass door.
We learn a lot about love, of fear and of friendship. And, at the same time we experience hate, grief and goodbye. Metaphorically, we get to watch a young boy hear the innocent rock ‘n roll music of his youth fade, a year after Buddy Holly died.
Ask me the best picture I’ve seen this year, and it’s “Hearts in Atlantis,” with “Moulin Rouge” as runner up. Best actor? Anthony Hopkins from “Heart.”
Seeing “Hearts in Atlantis” reminded me why I fell in love with movies, so long ago. Fifty years ago, I saw my first film. My dad, projectionist at the Lincoln Theatre in Port Angeles, Wash., would take me along to “help out” in the booth. Shortly thereafter, I was hooked – although, in all honesty, I did volunteer to go with dad most often when the ads showed a petticoat or a pretty face.
After 50 years of watching films and 25 years of writing about them, the passion has never faded.
And why? It’s simple. Movies are still the single art form that makes me cry -even more than books, and sometimes, I’m reluctant to admit, even more than life. The right movie can send tears of sadness or of joy slipping down my cheeks.
Born in the year that “Best Years of Our Lives” swept the Oscars, I’ll honestly admit that films have provided me with many of the best hours of my life. “Hearts of Atlantis” is but the last strip of celluloid to wind its way into my soul. I’m sure there will be many more.
Four Stars
Brent Northup
To be a lover of movies is to have the spirit of a gold miner. We enter the theater in hopes that each new movie will be a nugget of gold that will nourish us for weeks, months or years afterwards. Undeterred by clumps of earth or fool’s gold, we keep coming back – pick ax poised, heart expectant.
And glory be, every so often our patience is rewarded, as mine was last Saturday afternoon. As “Hearts in Atlantis” unfolded, I sank deeper into my seat, totally immersed in this glorious tale of childhood, of clairvoyance and of fear. As the final credits rolled, I did what I only do on those special occasions when a movie touches my heart – I applauded, not caring that those who deserved to hear me could not appreciate my heartfelt offering.
“Hearts in Atlantis” is an adaptation of a Stephen King story. This time, however, there are no mad dogs or gory scenes. The horror is distinctly internal – a queasy sensation of impending danger.
The story is about Bobby, an 11-year-old boy who lives with his single Mom. A stranger named Brautigan (Anthony Hopkins) moves in upstairs. When asked where he’s from and what he did for a living, the stranger gives vague answers. Finally, he confides to the boy that men in dark suits are looking for him – and when they come to town, he must flee. He hires the boy to keep watch – promising enough money for a bicycle.
As the friendship between stranger and boy deepens, so does young love. The boy gets his first kiss from Carol on a ferris wheel. To add to the intrigue, Bobby begins to sense psychic powers – and he suspects he’s “inheriting” them from the stranger upstairs.
But soon the black suits arrive in town – and an abusive bully threatens Carol.
Innocence is in jeopardy on all levels – Bobby’s two closest friends are both in peril.
The story would be routine if the writing, cinematography and acting were routine. But everything about this film is exquisite – from the perfect sense of how kids talk to haunting shots of a boy’s silhouette behind a closed glass door.
We learn a lot about love, of fear and of friendship. And, at the same time we experience hate, grief and goodbye. Metaphorically, we get to watch a young boy hear the innocent rock ‘n roll music of his youth fade, a year after Buddy Holly died.
Ask me the best picture I’ve seen this year, and it’s “Hearts in Atlantis,” with “Moulin Rouge” as runner up. Best actor? Anthony Hopkins from “Heart.”
Seeing “Hearts in Atlantis” reminded me why I fell in love with movies, so long ago. Fifty years ago, I saw my first film. My dad, projectionist at the Lincoln Theatre in Port Angeles, Wash., would take me along to “help out” in the booth. Shortly thereafter, I was hooked – although, in all honesty, I did volunteer to go with dad most often when the ads showed a petticoat or a pretty face.
After 50 years of watching films and 25 years of writing about them, the passion has never faded.
And why? It’s simple. Movies are still the single art form that makes me cry -even more than books, and sometimes, I’m reluctant to admit, even more than life. The right movie can send tears of sadness or of joy slipping down my cheeks.
Born in the year that “Best Years of Our Lives” swept the Oscars, I’ll honestly admit that films have provided me with many of the best hours of my life. “Hearts of Atlantis” is but the last strip of celluloid to wind its way into my soul. I’m sure there will be many more.