For a film about Mary Poppins author P.L. Travers, her relationship with her troubled father, and the rocky road to bringing her cherished novel to the big screen, it’s only right that Disney took the words of her fictional patriarch Mr. Banks to heart: “Kindly do not attempt to cloud the issue with facts”.
A fact-bending and charming, if somewhat straight-laced, exercise in retro Disney sentimentality, John Lee Hancock’s two-strand narrative stars Emma Thompson as the bristly and often vicious author, who has a tigress-like protective instinct when it comes to her writing. Flown to L.A. by a charismatic but canny Walt Disney (played with shrewd, smooth-talking showmanship by Tom Hanks), a wonderfully witty backstage story unfolds, as Travers’ stiff upper lip and deep personal conflict clashes with the warm, pun-loving energy of Disney’s songwriters Richard and Robert Sherman (Jason Schwartzman and B.J. Novak, both delightful).
Thompson proves wonderful, as her abject hatred of animated penguins and frivolous words reveals a deep vulnerability. The film subtly plays with complex themes, such as the nature of ‘ownership’ in writing, and the control and catharsis to be gained by reconstructing trauma through storytelling.
But while Travers’ lengthy childhood flashbacks include a beautifully nuanced performance from Colin Farrell as her magically playful but alcoholic father, they ultimately prove overwrought and overlong. Awkwardly interrupting the engaging main story, the film’s emotional intelligence becomes undermined by sluggish solemnity.
Though Hancock often gracelessly yanks rather than tugs at heartstrings, there’s enough sharp humour and sour life lessons to help all that sugar go down.