Return to Montauk
Director: Volker Schlöndorff
Talent: Nina Hoss, Stellan Skarsgård
Released: 6 October
A cinematic manifestation of regret, Volker Schlöndorff’s Return to Montauk (written by Colm Tóibín in his first foray into screenwriting) is weighed down by its reticence, its unwillingness to give, and spends too much time on its morose protagonist rather than more colourful characters (such as those played by Isi Laborde-Edozien or Bronagh Gallagher). While admiration can be accredited to its bullseye depiction of how the past imprisons those who fret over the what-ifs, the film loses us somewhere between frown no. 20 and its bogus philosophical insights. Expect moments of banality stretched and dulled, and a whole lot of contemplative walking on the beach.
Lovers once, strangers now, Max (Stellan Skarsgård) and Rebecca (Nina Hoss) are brought together by a mutual friend, Walter. Their connection doesn’t sizzle so much as twitch, like the nerves of some corpse being jolted with unwanted wattage. Max is married, seemingly happy, and is a successful author of novels that revolve around women: Max himself is surrounded by women, from his publicist to his wife, with whom he shares some tender moments of intimacy and joy – precious jewels in this coal mine of despondency. Just how long should we be expected to watch one man mope about his mistakes?
The film is not all stolid stares: one scene towards the end condenses the fury and pain of grief into a heartbreaking moment of collapse; where the film excels is in its interrogation of grief and its drastic nuance. How do you mourn someone who is still alive, yet who is agonisingly out of reach? It’s not a question the film answers, and part of my discomfort arose from those questions being stirred into ghostly presence, with no promise of their dissipation. The film stalls, stutters, and does not look beyond its own two feet which step in slow, repetitive circles, ultimately deserting its audience, leaving us beached in our own past.
Words: John Vaughan
