There are movies made to challenge you, and then there are
movies like “The Bookshop.” Sweet, sad, and oh-so-British, the film tells the
story of Florence Green (Emily Mortimer), who after the death of her husband
decides she’s going to open a bookshop in her small seaside fishing village of Hardborough, England. Reading was of great importance to the
couple, and she wishes the store to be a tribute to their relationship.
Florence
faces some resistance, but eventually purchases an abandoned house within the
town limits and sets up shop. But her actions put her in the path of wealthy
busybody Violet Gamart (Patricia Clarkson), who’s had
her eye on the same property with the intention of turning it into an arts
center. A woman clearly used to getting her way, Violet’s played by Clarkson
with an abundance of tight-lipped smiles and a way of gazing out windows with a
look that tells you she’s currently scheming.
The people
of the town aren’t much for book reading and thus not much help, but Florence
finds an ally in the form of curmudgeonly widower Mr. Brundish
(Bill Nighy). He’s a reclusive man who the residents
love to gossip about, but he and Florence strike up a friendly correspondence
as she selects books she thinks he might enjoy, and has them parceled up and
brought to his home. Gradually the free-spirited Florence shakes up the
provincial minds of the town, exposing them to a bit of culture by way of Ray
Bradbury and Vladimir Nabokov.
Based on a
1978 novel by Penelope Fitzgerald, “The Bookshop” is by all accounts a faithful
adaptation by writer-director Isabel Coixet
(“Learning to Drive”), though the film can feel
understated to a fault. Taking its story’s stiff upper lip British repression
to heart, it takes forever for its central conflict to come to a head. This
gives us time to question Florence’s decision-making when it comes to running
her business: for example, ordering 250 copies of “Lolita,” which is quite a
lot considering there don’t appear to be nearly 250 people in the entire
village, or any surrounding areas for that matter.
Coixet relies on excessive narration to move the
predictable story forward, creating the sense that she doesn’t entirely know
how to dramatize Florence’s predicament through visual storytelling. But at
least the voiceover is delivered in the soothing, dulcet tones of Julie
Christie, so that’s something. Lead by a sensitive performance from Mortimer,
the talented, appealing cast do their best playing characters that cry out for
more depth.
I’m all for
messages about how reading is good, and the importance of thinking for oneself,
but while “The Bookshop” is well-made and acted, it’s also safe and sort of
boring. It’s the type of movie that feels made for watching on a rainy day,
with a hot cup of tea in hand, and a tattered afghan over your lap so you can
doze off in the middle and wake up without having lost the thread of the plot.
But the ultimate experience is vaguely dissatisfying, like if that comfy
blanket was also the one that smells faintly musty no matter how many times you
wash it. Go see it if you’re in the mood for something cozy, or better yet,
save it for a rainy day.
This article appears in Sep 5-11, 2018.
