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Ordinary People (1980)

A review by Damian Cannon.
Copyright © Movie Reviews UK 1999
It really is just so refreshing to discover an intelligent film that treats us, the audience, like adults. Instead of assuming that we're unable, or unwilling, to deal with emotional complexity, Ordinary People trusts us to think and to care. Adapted from Judith Guest's novel with a gentle understanding, the script serves to lay its main characters bare before us; on the floor lie scattered the intangible garments of self-justification, responsibility and guilt. In step with the cast we approach judgements and conclusions, we come to appreciate the situation and what must naturally emerge; the ending agrees perfectly with the story told, it's no cop-out.

The seat of the film is the Jarretts, an upper-middle-class family inhabiting an over-large house with drive, and within that the second-son Conrad (Timothy Hutton). Without wishing to reveal too much, for Ordinary People takes its time doing just this, it's safe to say that Conrad is disturbed. At nights he dreams furiously, jerking awake bathed in sweat. During the day Conrad's distracted and unreachable, barely convinced by the virtue of study, a different person to those who used to be friends. His parents, Calvin (Donald Sutherland) and Beth (Mary Tyler Moore), can't connect or identify with this misery; they worry but that's an emotional rut to nowhere. What Conrad desperately needs is a fresh ear, someone like psychiatrist Berger (Judd Hirsch).

It's through this pivotal relationship that the story opens up, exploring the tragedy that consumes Conrad from the inside out, starkly highlighting the emotional ulcers that are destroying his family. Berger's informal office baths in autumnal colours, soothing greens and browns, sympathetic to Berger himself. Despite initial resistance, it becomes a haven for Conrad. It's here that Hutton's remarkable talent for characterisation stands obvious, forcing us to emotionally bind with him. As Conrad's tale emerges, Hutton makes him grow and evolve, drawing each and every viewer into this struggle. A painful and moving battle, you can't help but react to his reaching out for support. Hirsch is just great as Conrad's therapist, the sort of doctor that anybody could trust, a rock of compassion. The scenes of Conrad and Berger together are fabulous.

This is, however, only one aspect of Ordinary People. The family triangle is just as important, the unit that should at all costs remain unbroken. Sadly there's a pretence that all have recovered from the crisis, when in reality wounds fester unhealed. While everyone pretends for the sake of those they care about, the supportive structure erodes. Instead of talking and facing up to the facts, they live in an atmosphere of unvoiced blame. Robert Redford's restrained direction really triumphs here, nurturing a trio of understated, yet tender, performances. Moore is wonderful as the unable-to-express, glassy mother figure; her palpable distance and cold resentment chills horribly. It's not a role that gives much to the audience, which Moore clearly realises. Sutherland proves reliably confused and hurt, stuck in the middle, bereft of answer yet tortured by assumed responsibility. This truly is a dysfunctional, and extremely believable, family.

Beyond the central characters, yet related to them, it's striking to note the supreme perception of Sargent's script (and presumably Guest's book). In numerous scenes it quietly captures suburban horror, the actions that most can recognise when prompted. For instance, there's the way in which some women, as housewives, try and solve every outburst with the offer of food and drink, their emotion substitute. Or how about when Beth glides to Calvin's side, to prevent him from revealing more of what she considers private, and suppresses her anger until the car journey home. These notes ring true, elevating Ordinary People beyond the level of any TV-movie. Through such details Redford builds on a faint swell, eventually overwhelming us with scenes of enormous impact, a subtle technique.

Yet it seems that Redford, in his debut no less, is much more than a director using acting experience to provoke a decent cast. His technical acuity positively ensures that Ordinary People traces a great arc of change, that its constructed mood is never shattered by carelessness. So in times of tumult, Marvin Hamlisch's music surprises by its absence; clearly Redford feels no need to underscore. Similarly, John Bailey's photography reinforces the story without assaulting it; the Jarrett home, Beth's creation, reflects her inner self through clean and harsh bright whites (contrast with Berger's domain). Finally, Redford even manages to make sensible use of flashbacks. Rather than tossing them in as a visual narration, he fractures and distorts, integrating them into Conrad's tortured sessions with Berger. Unlike the characters, Ordinary People's merit is plain to see.

This film was nominated for review by Daron Faught.

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