Saving Mr. Banks

Metaphor Gone Wrong.

Lee Hancock’s homage to the one of the finest talents of Hollywood and the film of all generations, fails to live by even to its weakest expectations. And mind you, it is not that there isn’t a tale to tell, it is just the lexicon of the makers that makes this intense drama into a tedious family fight is what bites vigorously. Among many tracks, the most delicate one (Farrell’s track), that is to blow the soul into the narration is mutilated by the writers in here. The sensitive and emotionally challenged relationship of the protagonist with her father is left out to be dry and numb. The only way it somehow manages to stand on its self-created rickety surface is the innocence and poignancy of the theme it attempts to portray.

As far as the current timeline is concerned, seesaw-ing from humor to drama, it never attains the balance it aspires. Addition to that, each of these characters with their allotted stereotypical subplots breathes an annoying cliched arc and structure to qualify even as a distraction. The conversations are questionable, the editing chalky, with no whatsoever flow to storytelling. Jumping from one act to another, from introduction to revelation, each of these steps contradicts the ambition of the makers.

Thompson as the creator of the process of this show is the only deserved charm brought out by her bitterness rather than the usual merry tone. From her bickering to constant nagging, Thompson pours her soul out on the screen where she even speaks with her body language. Hanks on a much shorter yet equally challenging role is the bright morning of the film, lightening the mood and comforting you in each frame, he is a wonder to look at. Saving Mr. Banks is a fatal rescue attempt of seeking the art with a pretentious note.

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