Angels in America - ***
Now Playing: (2003, Mike Nichols) [seen on DVD]
Man, I would've loved to see this performed onstage. As a made-for-television film, it's highly effective, but theatre is more of a medium of words and implied spectacle, two things that distinguish the HBO production from more cinematic adaptations. Playwright Tony Kushner, adapting his own Pulitzer-winning works, has written a film that's unapologetically theatrical, and while I have no problem with that, sometimes these theatrical aspects hold it back from being truly transcendent. Cinema (and television, for that matter) has a strange way of literalizing what it portrays, so that the spectacular scenes, particularly the Angel (Emma Thompson) being lowered from the ceiling, don't pack the punch they would if the details were left to the imagination. Also, the tendency of Kushner (like most playwrights) to define his characters and their relationships through dialogue rather than behavior leads to somewhat mixed results- Mary-Louise Parker's Harper is a casualty of this, prattling on and on in not-especially-interesting ways, mainly relating to her loneliness until long after we've gotten the point (try as she may, Parker can't make Harper a compelling character). Kushner is clearly interested less in particular characters or incidents than in over-arching themes- the reality of AIDS, homosexual and religious guilt, and the inevitable downfall of man, to name three- which leads to a tendency to overreach in the dialogue (in particular, the political arguments between Ben Shenkman's Jewish-liberal Louis and Patrick Wilson's Mormon-conservative Joe feels forced in the context of the film). However, this remains a vital work, one in which the drawbacks can almost be forgiven as a by-product of the ambition. The performances are almost uniformly superb, and like the tone of the film they waver from low-key (Streep, as Wilson's nurturing but naive mother) to operatic (Thompson's wonderfully theatrical intonings as the Angel have an unexpected touch of wit, as when she proclaims "I have torn a muscle in my thigh" to absurdly humorous effect). Justin Kirk provides a sturdy anchor for the story as the AIDS victim-turned-prophet, railing against the lousy hand life has dealt him but still reluctant to die. Al Pacino is his usual blustering self, but this time it works in favor of the performance, with his Roy Cohn positively exploding with bile, much of it directed right back at himself. Best of all is the great Jeffrey Wright, in a low-key yet biting turn as Pacino's gay nurse, who refuses to be bullied or intimidated by his formidable charge (the scenes between Wright and Pacino are the film's highlights). Even at six hours, the film held my attention throughout, and that's more than enough for me to recommend it, even if I felt like I was only getting a secondhand experience.