The Savages is sad, but it’s also very, very real. Except for the ending, which feels a bit contrived, Jenkins understands that good filmmaking means shunning clichés and embracing nuance. She understands that people are complex, and that our motivations can’t be sliced and served like flying shrimp at a Japanese chain restaurant. She also resists the urge to sweeten things up while still managing a few laughs. It’s a skill you can’t help wishing every filmmaker possessed.
Equally adept—outstanding, in fact—are Linney and Hoffman, who provide just the right amount of sympathy without erasing that tiny line between comedy and tragedy. The pair ranks among the best actors in Hollywood, and it’s to their credit that they choose their roles so wisely. Here, they’re both kids who never had parents—and who therefore never grew up. Wendy can’t stop lying to get attention, and Jon cries over, well, scrambled eggs. We feel for them, but we don’t know what to do with them.
Bosco has few lines, but deserves accolades for his portrayal of the man who had little to do with his kids in life, but who is now wholly dependent upon them in death. Friedman avoids clichés as the married man who knows he’s wrong, but who isn’t afraid to tell Wendy that she is, too—even though he hopes they can still keep being wrong.
There’s redemption here, but it’s found in the kind of lackluster self-fulfillment which put this brother and sister in purgatory to begin with. They need love. They need hope. They need community. But they find none and unfortunately (brief spoiler), getting published, as any author will tell you, just isn’t even remotely what it’s cracked up to be. So ultimately, what The Savages offers is a portrait of where no one wants to go, yet where so many people are. If ever there was a reason to share the gospel, this is it.
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