‘The Savages’ shows you dementia and tells you to laugh

As Jon Savage in Tamara Jenkins’s The Savages (her first film since Slums of Beverly Hills), Philip Seymour Hoffman is in his full-on frump mode. Every line of dialogue is accompanied by a wheeze, every shirt crumpled and rumpled and untucked. Jon lives in bleak Buffalo, where he claims to be finishing work on a long-gestating tome on Bertolt Brecht. But the book is little more than a front; his research is a shield from life’s complications, and he’s more than happy to disappear into a life of intellectual doddering. In contrast, Jon’s sister, Wendy (Laura Linney), lives off chaos. A would-be playwright, she spends her days temping, her evenings stealing office supplies and hopelessly applying for grants. Perpetually single, Wendy gets what meager romance she needs from a married neighbor—though it’s really the neighbor’s dog that she’s attached to.

What brings these two self-absorbed souls together—and what eventually forces them to get over themselves—is a dose of painful reality. Jon and Wendy’s father, Lenny (Philip Bosco), who for years has been safely tucked away in Sun City, Arizona, is one morning found painting a bathroom with his own shit. Dementia is the diagnosis; monitored care—be it from an institution or one of Lenny’s children—is the prescribed treatment.

Wading into the depressing muck of ailing parents is risky business; attempting to derive comedy from the situation borders on lunacy. The Savages stays afloat because Jenkins and her exceptional cast keep both crushing sentimentality and cheap ugliness at bay. Jon and Wendy may be self-absorbed, but they’re not soulless, and after each character has been twisted and kinked, an undeniable humanity shines through. The humanity of the children is only amplified by Bosco’s pitch-perfect turn as the Savage patriarch. By turns bewildered, exhausted, and furious, Bosco takes what could’ve been a simple awards grab and cooks up one of the best performances of the year. It’s by no means a flashy role, but with the simplest of actions—such as secretly turning down his hearing aide during one of Jon and Wendy’s many fights—he cracks your heart without warning.

While it’s the performances that give The Savages its emotional heft, it’s the absurd, slow-burning panic after Lenny’s diagnosis that provides the comedy. Squabbling over who should bear the brunt of responsibility, shuffling to and from prospective homes, Jon and Wendy’s walled-off lives gradually crumble, exposing them as the narcissistic twits they are. The film’s trick, however, is that even as the two are being mocked, you’re encouraged to feel sympathy for them at the same time. Whether dealing with a disruptive Lenny on a cross-country flight, or swallowing their embarrassment upon the very public discovery that their father’s favorite movie is racist, Jon and Wendy are sent pinballing comically about their newly complicated lives. Jenkins has made a film that deftly walks a tightrope between comedy and mush, and even as the ending feels a little too pat and safe, it’s not enough to undermine everything you’ve seen before it. Flipping parental roles is an ugly business. The Savages shows you the ugly and tells you to laugh.

THE SAVAGES DIR. TAMARA JENKINS | RATED R | AT SELECT THEATERS

Tags: dementia, Film, phillip seymour hoffman, the savages