Tom Hanks is homeward bound in 'Here,' where his love lies waiting
"Here"
At the Cinemark
Grade: B+
"Here" is a movie for those of us who have lived long, loved long and cried along the way.
It's a film that dares to be odd, to borrow from Flannery O'Connor.
The star of the movie is the living room of a colonial house, located on the Atlantic coast, perhaps Pennsylvania or New Jersey.
The camera sits in one corner faithfully chronicling those who lived there over the past century.
The first occupants, we learn, were an Indigenous couple who lived on the land that would one day become a small town.
But before we meet the dwellers, we are treated to the birth of the Earth and the geologic rumblings that give rise to the continents.
Our Earth science lesson ends around 1900 with the digging of a hole where the foundation is laid for an 1,800-square-foot home.
The people who live in this home are mostly underdeveloped caricatures – an inventor, an aviator, a showgirl, a salesman.
Only one couple truly comes alive. Tom Hanks (Richard) and Robin Wright (Margaret) give the script its heart and soul – their courtship is touching, their love is sweet, and the onset of Margaret's Alzheimer's is so very sad.
Gray-haired, and arms around each other, Richard and Margaret come back to the home years after they've moved away.
"We lived here," he says. "This was our home."
We're not sure how much she remembers, but we suspect the home and the land beneath, both speak quietly to her, welcoming her back.
"Here" is a very quiet film, in so many ways. It's neither noisy nor busy, choosing instead to be thoughtful and slow.
We're asked to take our pleasure from a tired old family couch in the living room and tall trees in the backyard, planted decades ago.
"Here" is a concept film, a meta movie, that asks us to ponder the lives we've lived and the places we loved along the way.
Clearly, "Here" is not a journey for everyone. It's a film that's been skewered by many reviewers, but loved by me.
I was happy to accept an invitation to relive the blessings of my life.
I thought back to my childhood home at 718 S. Oak in Port Angeles, where we planted a pear tree to honor the birth of my sister, Wendy.
I remembered our little yellow home on Ballinger Way in north Seattle – and the hillside swing where I pushed 2-year-old Kat as she kicked her legs in the air.
And, of course, I replayed the 35 years in our home in South Hills in Helena, where Sue's gardens still bloom.
I remembered her students who played their violin in the living room near the piano while Dizzy, our golden, snored on their feet.
And as I write, I see Sue's favorite high-backed blue chair, where she would sit happily knitting.
"Here" is unapologetically sentimental, and more than a touch corny.
The screen continually divides into quadrants, each a window into an era. When we enter a new window, we travel to another time, and find another couple sitting together on the couch.
Does this odd visual device work? Not really. It's distracting as often as it is pleasing. The one-room theatrical setting is, at times, a bit claustrophobic.
But I didn't care.
I welcomed this ode to long relationships, both with the people we've loved, and with the land and places we've embraced along the way.
"Here" has a Native American spirit, reminding us that we don't own the land, but that we are simply invited guests.
The script honors a place, more than the people who lived there.
Passion projects like "Here" are sometimes paybacks to directors who have paid their dues, brought wealth to their studios. Now they set out to make a film just for themselves. No one will say no.
Robert Zemeckis once cast Tom Hanks and Robin Wright in "Forrest Gump" to bring money and awards to Paramount.
The three reunite in "Here," a labor of love.
On the day I went, I was alone in the auditorium. But I applauded at the end, and stayed through the credits to enjoy a few more measures from the sentimental soundtrack.
I celebrated the best, and ignored the rest – and welcomed a good cry while I remembered the places I've lived and the lady I loved along the way.
Brent Northup has been reviewing movies for 48 years in Helena, Seattle and Houston. He is a professor of communication and journalism at Carroll College.
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