FINDING NEVERLAND

Hmm, wasn’t J.M. Barrie a miserable pasty-faced Scot with paedophiliac leanings? Not in Finding Neverland he’s not. Here, Johnny Depp essays the Peter Pan creator in such a meltingly sweet manner he makes Niall Quinn look like Dick Cheney in a dreadful mood. It was to be expected, I suppose, that this delightful weepy from Marc (Monster’s Ball) Forster would gloss over the creepier side of Neverland, but indubitably, the film is all the better for it.
A rather more heartbreaking affair than Barrie’s fairy populated whimsy might suggest, Finding Neverland opens in 1903 with the Scottish writer receiving lukewarm reviews for his latest play and equally tepid affections from his wife (Mitchell). Wandering through the park one day, dog at heel, Barrie stumbles upon Sylvia Llewelyn Davies (Winslet), a financially compromised society widow, and her four tremendously adorable young sons. Barrie and the bereaved family immediately strike up the most tender of friendships, and even Peter (Highmore), he being the most sullen of the brood, is won over by the playwright’s vast imagination. More significantly for the purposes of the film, the family become a sort of collective muse, with Barrie drawing inspiration from their fantastical role-playing adventures together to fashion his famous eternal boy.
Naturally, eyebrows are raised. Mrs. Barrie darkens. The downstairs maids start to whisper. People at cricket matches cast disapproving looks. The real impediment to the happiness of all, however, is Sylvia’s mommy dearest, an imperious gorgon in a frock played with wicked aplomb by Julie Christie.
One can certainly find things to criticise in Mr. Forster’s film, and I suppose professional etiquette demands I must do so, for that is, if you can believe it, what I’m paid for. But the film is too frail, too lovely a thing not to cherish.
The theatrical setting allows for beautifully arc-welded flights of fancy in the mode of Heavenly Creatures without an astronomical budget. The performances, even discounting the ones I’ve already mentioned, are really something. Dustin Hoffman’s indulgent yet sardonic theatre owner, for example, is simply the best thing he’s done in ages. Heavens, the whole thing is just so damn lovely, so pretty and sad, that you feel all Christmassy on the way out. Now where did I put that festive Phil Spector album? Oh do be quiet. It’s already October.