A familiar Chill ruins this Beach trip
Palm Beach (97 mins, M) Directed by Rachel Ward Reviewed by Graeme Tuckett ★★1⁄2
The whole gang-of-oldfriends-get-back-together30-years-later genre has been a movie staple for as long as I’ve been watching films and no doubt several decades more.
Back in 1980, John Sayles’ thunderously good Return of the Secaucus 7 made such an impression on the people who saw it that Lawrence Kasdan pretty much lifted the film wholesale for his more feel-good smash The Big Chill. Kasdan denied having seen the earlier film, but no-one really believed him.
So when our cousins across the ditch decide to have a crack at their own version, complete with a soundtrack chocka with
repurposed blues and soul classics, a character who has recently become wealthy by selling a clothing company, a disputed parentage, a couple of relationship dramas, and one participant who has chosen the reunion to introduce a new partner to the group, then forgive me if I let out a bit of a sigh and start to compose this review in my head within the first 10 minutes of the opening credits.
Because, when I say about Palm Beach ‘‘you’ve seen it all before’’, trust me, you truly have.
But familiarity is no bad thing. And it’s not as if we don’t know before we walk into the cinema how most of the films we see will end.
So, I guess, maybe just for having a superb cast – most of whom must actually be the old mates they’re playing – a stunningly attractive setting and a couple of genuinely funny moments, then Palm Beach gets a grudging pass from me. (Hey, twoand-half stars is 50 per cent. And that was enough to get me through School Certificate English.)
Plus, I’ve never seen Bryan Brown in a role I haven’t liked him in. Here, as the nettlesome patriarch of a modern Aussie family made good, Brown is as irascible, fearsome and insistent as ever, facing off with best friend Sam Neill over the possible paternity of 20-year-old Dan.
Neill, likewise, is in positively twinkling form as he looks back on a 40-plus year career based on usually giving the exact performance. Neill has handed in nice-enough-guy-with-resolvablemoral-flaw in nearly every film I’ve ever seen him in. And, as always, he’s extremely good at it here in Palm Beach.
Around these two titans of ageing larrikinism, Richard E Grant, Greta Scacchi, Heather Mitchell and a cast of dozens cavort and trade jibes over drinks and yoga.
The central conceit – that Brown, Neill, Grant and few others were once part of a band who, despite calling themselves ‘‘Pacific Sideburn’’, still managed to make one gold record – seems mostly redundant to the plot, but does underpin a couple of scenes.
And, it was the 1980s. You could call yourselves ‘‘Men Without Hats’’ and still get your video on the telly.
Palm Beach is an inoffensive diversion at worst. And with the NZ International Film Festival in full swing, I guess there is a gap in the market for people who just want to see something pleasant, mostly cheerful, relentlessly unmemorable and non-challenging. Is that praise? No. Not really.