The first thing one asks when approaching any Al Pacino project is whether the director has managed to sit upon the great man. Al still has it in him, but, far too often, he lets us down by waving his arms and bellowing like a drunk seeking to attract attention while drowning.
We have excellent news. This might be the best Pacino performance in close to 20 years. It’s such a touching turn that – assisted by strong support from Annette Bening and Bobby Cannavale – it saves a sentimental project from terminal mawkishness.
We begin in Almost Famous territory with a journalist (Nick Offerman) interviewing a young singer-songwriter in the early 1970s. The up-and-coming star, a declared fan of John Lennon, wonders if any future success may hamper his creativity.
We zoom forward to the present day and learn the answer. Now played by a spray-tanned Pacino, Danny Collins has turned into a crowd-pleasing MOR monster. Movies invariably have difficulties inventing rock stars and Dan Fogelman’s directorial debut is no exception. What sort of performer is Danny Collins? There is certainly something of Neil Diamond about him (a comparison pressed home when he sets out on a low-key comeback LP), but that singer was never anything less than a songwriter of genius.
Anyway, Danny sees the light when his manager (another fine turn from Christopher Plummer) locates a long-lost letter from Lennon offering characteristically blunt advice.
That part of the script springs from a true story concerning English folk singer Steve Tilston. The body of the piece is, however, pure Hollywood wish fulfilment. In accidental homage to I'm Alan Partridge, Collins ditches his twentysomething fiancée and – to the accompaniment of more than sufficient Lennon tunes -- checks into an ordinary New Jersey hotel not far from the ordinary home of his ordinary estranged son Tom (Cannavale). In the evenings, he attempts to seduce the hotel manager, who, played by Bening, a mere 18 years Pacino's junior, counts as more suitable romantic material in the movie world.
Tom is furious: does Collins really expect to just swan in here, cure their problems and trigger the closing violins? Well, pretty much.
Pacino makes it work. His voice cracked and breaking, his skin creased beneath the paint, the veteran still swaggers, but, in more vulnerable moments, there is a quiet sadness to him that suggests Charlie Chaplin's decayed clown in Limelight. Yes, we used the word "quiet". We sense an actor rediscovering the less frenzied energies that complemented his relatively rare furies when a young man.
Rather poignantly, something similar is also happening to Danny. The audiences seem sceptical when he unveils his new, less bombastic material. In contrast, Pacino’s true fans will savour the actor’s own dialling down. A very pleasant surprise.
