KnotMissPriceless Why so much hype?

Cortechba Overrated

Dynamixor The performances transcend the film's tropes, grounding it in characters that feel more complete than this subgenre often produces.

Tobias Burrows It's easily one of the freshest, sharpest and most enjoyable films of this year.

PimpinAinttEasy To all the bums of the world,this is your film. The ones who cannot be bothered to play all the games and have accepted that the race is unequal. This film is about your mates in the prohibition era.I liked the film's structure - the daily life of a bum and his fellow bums and his recollections about the people he murdered by accident. It is scary how a man could end up as a bum. And while the film does not lay out all the reasons why the protagonist (Nicholson) ended up the way he did, it gives us glimpses of his past which might offer some clues.The film does not glorify the bum life in anyway. Though as a square, their antics which include hard drinking seemed quite charming to me. I mean, it must be terrible if you are a bum and you fall sick on the road. But somehow I do feel like it is better than the relentless boredom of the ordinary life.Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep's performances were more than adequate. Someone like John Cassavetes or Elaine May would have been able to do full justice to this film. Not that there is anything wrong with it. I guess it is sort of a lost classic when you consider the star cast. I would love to watch this film on Blu Ray.Best Regards, Pimpin.(8/10)

moonspinner55 Alcoholic vagabond Francis Phelan, a former ballplayer and family man before the Depression, returns to the haunts of his hometown, yet is besieged by ghosts from the past. William Kennedy's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel doesn't necessarily make for gripping movie material--all the drama seems to be in this character's past--while the overlay of the bleak economic times coupled with Phelan's ruinous drinking habit diffuses any hope this will be a thoughtful or provocative exercise. Instead it's just a downer, and a very long one at an overstretched 143 minutes. Jack Nicholson (though Oscar-nominated) hasn't much hope in bringing out the complicated psyche of Phelan; Nicholson tries, but he's too modern, and his inflections too familiar, to be convincing in this bleak milieu. Better is Meryl Streep as Phelan's ailing bar-friend who used to be a singer. Streep, who also received a nomination, doesn't have nearly enough screen-time to carve out a three-dimensional characterization, but what she leaves us with is memorable and moving nevertheless, particularly in her "He's Me Pal" fantasy song number. Argentine-born director Hector Babenco would seem an odd choice to helm a picture about very American depressions, though he certainly understands squalor, disease, and personal redemption, and parts of the film pack an honest punch. However, "Ironweed" is too lofty or pretentious, and too cluttered with emotional signposts, to make a genuine connection. The brown and gold-hued cinematography by Lauro Escorel is striking at first but eventually tiresome, and Babenco's pacing is so carefully derived that it embalms the proceedings. ** from ****

williamdefalco I saw this movie as a young teenager a few years ago (yeah I know, while everyone my age was watching TRL I was watching this), then managed to find a copy of it, and even to this day I still feel the same wonderful impact each time I watch it.I won't cover what's already been said before about the performances because it'll just be repeating the obvious. Everyone here gives unforgettable performances. What I will give is a small list of some of my favorite moments within the film: 1) The haunting surreal imagery that begins the opening credits. Accompanied by the beautiful hymning music it's a great introduction to this movie.2) The first scene with Tom Wait's character, who forever remained such an innocent and tragic figure.3) Nicholson first meeting at his son's grave. Such a beautifully shot scene, the warm sun and the river in the background framing him.4) That one scene where Nicholson stands outside his long lost home at night, pondering about what to do.5) That unforgettable scene with Meryl Streep's character singing to a crowd 6) Tom Waits staring up at the sky as he reminisces about Isaac Newton and the stars 7) That funny scene between Nicholson and the junk collector 8) And finally that last haunting scene where Nicholson finally decides to throw out his booze while he's on the train, then begins reminiscing about his son's room and how it catches the morning sun. Once again accompanied by that beautiful music that final scene always makes me tear up.There's many more memorable scenes but for time's sake these will do.It makes me wonder why such a beautiful movie hasn't been recognized by more viewers, or why it hasn't been released on DVD here in America, or why a copy of the soundtrack was never made available. Oh well. Still a great movie to catch.

MisterWhiplash Ironweed is the kind of film that pierces right through my senses, to the point where I'm left to no other alternative but to sob at the end of it all. I felt that at the end of such films as Requiem for a Dream, Mystic River, United 93, and a good few Bergman works. Ironweed, as with those films, doesn't cheat the audience with anything that seems dishonest. Even the schizophrenia (if that is what it is definitively) that Francis (Nicholson) has throughout where he sees visions of all the dead that he either caused- in self-defense or otherwise- or saw happen, doesn't have that kitschy sentimental beat to it. This goes without saying it won't be for all moviegoers, and the most recent DVD release is misleading: we see Nicholson's trademark grin, as if this might be a *cheerful* movie about those in even deeper squalor than most in 1938 Albany, New York.Sure, there might be a few lines here or there that bring a chuckle, like a line Francis has about needing turkey since he has no duck. But for the most part this is a drama that is deep into its artistic intentions to be frank with the story at hand. Director Babilco doesn't shy away with his camera from the material in William Kennedy's script, and neither do the cast. A good thing to: there needs to be a formidable handle on the pain and misery that Francis, Helen (Streep), and Rudy (Waits) have to deal with every day and especially at night. They could die any moment- Rudy reveals that he has terminal cancer almost with a strange, ambiguous grin (which, coming from Waits, has a lot of meaning to that)- but there's just enough hope with whatever few bucks can come around.If for no other reason should you see the film it's for the cast, as it's above all else an actor's film. While the director and writer have their immense contributions to the proceedings (the direction is patient, sometimes tense, occasionally even poetic even with the slightly sappy music score, and the writing is not compromised in the adaptation from Pulitzer prize winning source), Nicholson, Streep, and everybody all make this a vital and potent take on those, ultimately, marginalized. Whether Streep or Nicholson take more of the meaty drama for their characters can be debated till dawn's break, but if I did have to really choose I'd say Nicholson was greater, one of the high points in a career chock full of them. Perhaps he does have more though to have a hold of; Streep's Helen has a background of a failed pianist career, odd ties to those still in Albany, and a perpetual self-hatred. It goes without saying she carries her end of the log well as the star-cum-lumberjack, particularly in a perfect scene in the midway through involving a song in a bar.But with Francis Nicholson goes into real "actor" mode (i.e. Passenger, Cuckoo's Nest, Chinatown, Carnal Knowledge), delving into this man who has many past ghosts, from his crimes of passion to his ultimate sin involving his baby's death. Any thoughts that Nicholson can't get into sorrow, regret, and ultimately a form of madness, and yes even tears, can be squashed watching this. But at the same time is he forceful and intense in handling the regret and anger Francis has, there's also great subtlety, underplaying it just enough for what the scenes often require, which is subtext, such as the scenes at her old family's house where what isn't spoken speaks even more than what is. Throw in some extra supporting work that clicks excellently, such as a possible best-yet Tom Waits performance, a singing Ed Gwynn, and Diane Verona among others, and it's assuredly one of the best crops of performances in 80s American film. It deserves, some twenty years or so later, to get rediscovered.