Revolutionary Road

REVIEW
Revolutionary Road is, above all else, an exquisite example of that tired old adage: great books make bad films. Actually, a more accurate twist of the phrase, in this case, would be: great books make disappointing films. Not that they lacked effort but Sam Mendes and Kate Winslet have reduced a beautifully written, psychologically revealing tale of the two-headed dragon of lost romantic youth and the hopeless spiral into conformity into a histrionic and ultimately shallow acting exercise.

One is often remimded, when viewing this adaptation, of a one act play put on by Method-trained high school students who yell all their lines in a vain attempt to project the psychological complexities of their characters. Winslet, the driving force behind this adaptation, acquits herself the most. She has moments when April Wheeler's damaged psyche actually bubbles to the surface and punches the audience in the gut. But, too often, her scenes with co-star Leonardo Dicaprio feel like a toe-to-toe acting bout, one in which Dicaprio is getting bounced all over the ring. Aside from the film's inability to even scratch the novel's depths of character insight, Dicaprio's performance is the most disappointing thing about the film. Having re-established his acting chops with exceptional performances in The Departed and Blood Diamond, he thoroughly regresses, making his Frank Wheeler into a callous mook who never demonstrates just what it was that made everyone think he was so special. He screams nearly all of his lines and affects an accent more suitable to a suporting player on "The Sopranos" than the once-Byronesque, disaffected salaryman that Yates detailed so beautifully.

Not everything about Revolutionary Road is a disaster. Roger Deakins' cinematography is lushly lit and perfectly composed (and exactly what one would expect from award-bait) and Tariq Anwar's editing occasionally takes a stab at quietly making points... at least, that is, when the actors stop shouting at each other for long enough for a subtle, poignant cut to register. Thomas Newman's music, however, is an embarrassment to film composers everywhere. It's as if he and Mendes got together to discuss whether the score should emphasize the action on-screen or run in counterpoint to it, but never came to a decision. Frankly, the score could've been lifted from any pathetic attempt by an indie arm of a major studio to grab a few golden trophies made in the last ten years.

Perhaps, the saddest effect of this production will be that those who haven't read the novel will be left with the work as a shallow, melodramatic and, above all else, cliched tale of an unhappy couple in the midst of a tragic spiral. Those who see this film and leave the novel on the shelf, or worse, try to read the novel but can't escape the visions of Dicaprio and Winslet desperately screaming at each other will be cheated out of the experience of enjoying one of the twentieth century's greatest novels.