The Dead
For many people, John Huston is perhaps best known for two significant roles: the first as the Lawgiver in the bookend scenes of “Battle for the Planet of the Apes,” the second as a corrupt landbaron in 1930s California in “Chinatown.” His great, gravely voice suited such roles, whether it was as the benevolent, hopeful Lawgiver or a villainous, incestuous father figure at the dark heart of a landmark film noir. Of course, most know him as the significant writer-director he is, as well as most famous figure in a showbiz family unlike any other.
For his final film, Huston chose a story about family, and the secrets some contain, and made it with two members of his own family: his son Tony, who adapted The Dead, James Joyce’s famous short story, into a seemingly effortless screenplay; and his daughter Anjelica, who plays the most important role in the film. With a lesser director at the helm, such collaborations would be the grossest example of nepotism. But when you have the Academy Award-winning director of “The Maltese Falcon,” “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre,” and “Beat the Devil,” a legendary filmmaker in any era, you think more about how such a man birthed such extraordinary talent in their own right.
Despite its morbid title, “The Dead” is one of the warmest films I’ve ever seen in terms of not just tone, but atmosphere. The action takes place mostly at a dinner party hosted by two sisters, and their niece, during the holidays in 1904 Dublin. We follow the party, as people come and go, discussing everything from travel plans to modern performances of opera, dancing and enjoying each other’s company. There’s no real drama or tension, although some conversations get heated. Gradually, the central characters in the piece become Gabriel Conroy (Donal McCann), the nephew of the sisters, and his wife, Gretta (Anjelica Huston). Eventually, the party comes to an end, and the guests leave, and we are left to follow Gabriel and Gretta during a cab ride to their hotel, where they are staying before going home the next day.
It is when they get back to the hotel when the story gets to its core, when Gabriel, who senses something off about his wife, gets Gretta to open up. She tells him the story of a young boy, Michael Furey, from Galway who loved her and died at 17; they spent time together, took walks together, and were dear friends until the time she moved to Dublin and go to school. He died shortly after he left, leading her to say, “I think he died from me.” These memories are brought up in Gretta by a song performed by a tenor at the party; the song is one that Michael used to sing, and the look on her face is one of powerful sorrow and memory of what was, and the emotional outpouring when she recalls the boy to her husband is profoundly moving. But after she has cried herself to sleep, the film continues as Gabriel moves around the room, alone with his thoughts, quietly contemplating life and death as he watches snow fall to the ground through a window.
In his final statement, Huston has chosen a difficult story, but one that will resonate with anyone who has given any amount of thought to their own mortality. For a filmmaker associated largely with tough, gritty stories of crime and greed to make a film that is all about emotions– those we express, those we keep to ourselves, and those that connect us on a deeply personal level with our fellow man –was bold, even more so considering how little, in a narrative sense, really happens in the story. Joyce’s tale is about feelings we can’t understand until we find ourselves confronted by them, and Huston’s film is a beautiful evocation of that idea. When he made the movie in 1987, Huston was tethered to an oxygen tank, sitting in a wheelchair, and dying of emphysema and heart disease; he died before the film hit theatres. I can only hope to be capable of such artistry in my own endeavors, whether I find myself dealing with such personal conditions or not.
