Last Summer in the Hamptons

This film is a real triumph for Henry Jaglom. It's his first really mature film. His previous works have been patchy, to say the least. Though never uninteresting, as works of art they are flawed by Jaglom's personal fascinations which might not necessarily be shared by others. He's come a long way since his first movie "A Safe Place" where he gathered the likes of Jack Nicholson, Orson Welles and Tuesday Weld, but still managed to produce a confused, over indulgent and basically forgettable film.

However all is forgiven. Jaglom finally gets it right. The characters are truly interesting, more so of course, if you have an interest in the theater. While keenly critical of the often insufferable egos on display, there's an underlying affection for them all which is genuinely winning.

Jaglom has assembled a large, varied and extremely colorful cast playing their characters with a level of identification that it's almost like watching a documentary. After these are actors playing actors, or in the case of Jon Robin Baitz, a playwright playing a playwright. And then there's the luminous Viveca Lindfors at the helm. The scene of her watching her past movies on television and commenting on them, has a touching poignancy.

Lindfors is fascinating to watch. It's a role she must have relished and one far more revealing than she may have realized. While she's wise of life and the theater, she's manipulating, demanding and all in all highly egoistic. Lindfors was a beauty and an undoubtedly very capable actress, particular in her later roles. She made some 100 movies and yet not one of them is in any way remarkable or indeed memorable. Yet to watch her in this semi-documentary role, one senses she has a sense of self importance as an actress not at all related to what was by all accounts a mediocre career.

"Last Summer in the Hamptons" has a sense of celebration about it. While the celebration is the production of Chekov in the garden of wonderful house about to be sold, it's a celebration of the theater itself and the dreams, frustrations and passions of those who are captivated by the illusions and delusions of the theatrical ethos.

It's hard to say how to describe this movie. I suppose that's because I don't often see others of its kind, which is too bad. It'd be nice to have a model to cite; though I guess it aspires to Renoir (see below).

Elements: Head games at every turn. Interesting scenario: Latest Hollywood hot property, poised to ascend to iconhood, visits rootsy theatrical community on the skids, hoping to rediscover art. Chekhovian; everybody is an angelic jerk. Serious and fairly effective pilfering of Jean Renoir's "La Regle du jeu," esp. the capturing of that web of head/heart intrigue you can cut with a knife. Are these people really a dying breed? Does their infighting and endless one-upsmanship mindf**king make you long for the warmth and sincerity of Hollywood? A touch of James Joyce. An aging grand dame of Hollywood. A weird, dark family secret. Great, harrowing self-deception, and great drama. At times I was moved, sometimes with a portrait of hope for something great in the human heart, once by the overpowering darkness of one of the family secrets. Some very good writing, some tremendous acting. For example, the scene where Oona goes to see her producer at a sandwich shop; their dialog, and that last moment where he's trying to get a kiss out of her and she's barely resisting--one of the best moments I've seen on film.

If you like good acting, thick psychological stuff, colorful characters, preening never-been jackasses, and deep humanity, see this film.

What I mean by my subject line is that I am watching this on HBO on my TV, but came in late and haven't paid full attention while I am doing some other things. Which is why I scheduled it to record on my DVR the next time it is on in about a week. Maybe I can find it available at our public library and see it sooner.

However from what I have already ready in these reviews and from what I have seen of the movie, I somewhat differ from the negative reviews and am enjoying it and will enjoy it as much or more when I get a chance to see the whole thing.

While it probably won no Oscars, not everything will but that doesn't make it bad.

For my tastes, the large number of familiar cast members, the easy and often funny dialog, and the low-key progression of scenes is just doing it for me right now. It does get weird from time to time.

I don't know the writer but someone mentioned Woody Allen and it definitely has that W.A. tone to it. There is almost nothing from W.A. that I haven't enjoyed.

Henry Jaglom is the Woody Allen light (0 calories, 0 talent) of American film. His films (most of which he writes) are filled with unctuous pseudo intellectuals who do a vast amount of talking and very little listening. Filled with self importance they name drop ferociously and go from dull and tiresome conversation into mawkish rages that border on infantile.

In Last Summer in the Hamptons we are given the same crowd, this time as a theatrical family faced with selling there Long Island estate. Along with friends they all gather at the home for the last performance of the annual summer's end play. Enter your cross section cast of smarmy empty self important characters. The Matriarch, the Hollywood actress, father son playwrights at odds with each other and assorted precocious types age 16 to 60. Jaglom then patches the rest of the film together with mix and match conversations done in mostly two shot with some of the most annoying use of zoom this side of Spike Lee.

The dialogue which sounds like it was mostly improvised is stilted and flat save for some hammy flourishes by Viveca Lindfors. As Oona the LA actress, Victoria Foyt acts as if she's stranded on a raft in the middle of the ocean, clumsily pausing and searching for words, groping the other actors as if drowning. Given co-writer credit you would think she might have a better grasp of the script.

The rest of the cast is equally unremarkable because of Jaglom's sloppy inability as a director to get his actors to raise the heat above tepid. It's clear Jaglom's working on a shoestring budget knows a few people in the business and makes the most of what he has. I usually admire scrappy auteurs like Herzog and Fuller who have to sacrifice for their independence, but with that freedom must come form, content and talent, none of which Jaglom displays in this pompous loser.

Comedy where???? A load of poseurs and wannabe intellectuals strut about and act like morons. And endlessly, monotonously search for 'ze meaning of lieeefe'. They whine on and on, ad nauseam about art and acting and examine their navels until you want to scream. Yawn, it felt about five hours long. Oh and of course we have to have the childish social justice nonsense about everything. It feels as if everyone wasparticipating in a poor improvisation exercise. Tedious, tedious and more so. I'm being ultra generous giving it five stars. There is really no true intellectual interest in even five minutes of this nonsense. Avoid!