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I AM not
about to pick a fight but here are some words from
critics about the film The Bucket List. Roger
Ebert of Chicago Sun-Times called it a “laff riot
followed by dime-store epiphany.” Stephen Holden of the
New York Times blames the film for failing its stars in
the most fundamental ways. Even USA Today, through
Claudia Puig, finds the opportunity to rise up from its
easy writing with modifiers for the movie like
“superficial,” “manipulative” and “schmaltzy.”
After
its premiere last year, words were sent out classifying
the film as one that is moving. A kiss of death for the
film, apparently insofar as groups of critics were
concerned, was when the film was given the Most Truly
Moving Picture of the Year by this group called the
Heartland Truly Moving Pictures, a nonprofit
organization that “recognizes and honors filmmakers
whose work explores the human journey by expressing hope
and respect for the positive values of life.” You better
call a film dark and edgy, and never ever link it with
words like respect and values.
You see,
the problem with the film is not really the film but
how, for some reason, news about it, perceptions about
its theme as interpreted through its title, and many
other intertextual elements played against it. The
heaping of critical scorn has been such that audiences
all over the world seemingly have been left with no
other option but to be curious, perhaps—and curious
enough to watch the film. And like the film.
My
problem with The Bucket List, if you can call
this a problem, is that I like it, too.
The film
is about two patients diagnosed and dying of cancer. The
two individuals are the opposite of each other. They
find themselves sharing a room in a hospital noted for
the policy of not having a room singly for a patient.
The result is a system that has given the hospital
business much profit. The other patient, Edward Cole,
should know, because he owns the hospital complex.
Carter,
the other patient, is a self-made African-American who
has seen all his children through the university by
working as a mechanic. While not poor, Carter beside
Cole, a filthy rich businessman who has had four wives,
is an ordinary person.
Cole is
attended by an assistant, Thomas, who takes care of his
luxurious taste that runs from gourmet food and rare
Sumatran coffee. The two get to know each other more,
each taking turn witnessing their respective descent
into the pit the disease can take them. This goes on for
a while. It must be said that if ever one will develop a
distaste for the film, the roots should be the film’s
first 30 minutes or so. Make that one hour—imaginary
perhaps—for the lack of concern to introduce us to the
characters before they are debilitated.
The
writers take a lot of risk of starting the film with our
two characters terminal for good, displayed to us in
their most unattractive way. The introductory scenes
take place in the hospital, and there is no attempt at
all to soften the scenes by bringing us outside. But
then again, had this route been taken, critics would
have been even more up in arms railing against the film
being too much of a touchy-feely, feel-good enterprise.
One can almost agree with the Boston Globe critic who
calls the film a “deathsploitation.”
Jack
Nicholson, when he so desires, can work up a megawatt
rakish charm. When he plots, however, to look mean and
abrasive, he is able to fill the screen with the baddest
behavior that one is brought to revulsion no less.
Nicholson as Edward Cole does that in the first
important minutes of the film. It is only through the
divine grace of casting that at the other side of the
room—the other end of the screen really—lies Morgan
Freeman as Carter Chambers, grace under pressure, the
perfect calm before their own personal storms. When he
looks at Edward displaying his attitude, he is “us”
shocked at the strange behavior of this impatient
patient.
Carter,
knowing his limited time, is starting to write a bucket
list, things a person should do before he “kicks the
bucket.” Edward does not like the idea, he scoffs at it.
When he does this, we are Edward judging the direction
that the film is about to take.
It is
then in the self-consciousness that we find the
redemption of this film just when it is about to keel
over the precipice of good taste into the doldrums of
hackneyed sentiment. That one cannot be sentimental
about death is not an original principle but the film
tells us that, and states it in an elegant, if not
adventurous, way. The film is lucky to have very adept
messengers to deliver this message: Edward Cole, who is
given enough grit by Nicholson so that when he starts to
follow the request of his new friend to find his joy, we
are an accomplice already and not just an observer in
the journey of these two men.
All
throughout the film, the two exchange barbs, trade
witticisms, and even insult each other—all words brittle
and poignant because we are not just listening to two
tourists but travelers who are literally in the last leg
of their imagined race.
The two
men attempt to fulfill the many things that otherwise
shall have remained as a fool’s list: parachuting,
safari hunting in Africa, standing atop a pyramid,
debating facts about Taj Majal, critiquing burial
procedures. Entertainment Weekly’s Owen Glieberman
shoots its director Rob Reiner (A Few Good Men,
Misery) and describes him as that “rare director who
can take all the wonder out of one of the seven wonders
of the world.” I do not understand this, for when Edward
and Carter sit there atop the pyramid, we see wit and
mystery combined in the use of sites: the two are
visiting artifacts of death and monument to love and
memory.
If only
for Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, do watch The Bucket
List. The two actors are credited for saving the
film but credit should be given to the story which
provides them scenes that live long after their
characters have been given a biological death sentence. |
