Human beings love
each other," says
renowned author
Dame Iris Murdoch,
played in the
biographical "Iris" by
Dame Judi Dench.
"And they cherish
other things ... even
stones."
"Iris" is a film about loving stones, both physical and metaphorical. In a way, the brilliant Dame Iris becomes a stone to her husband, John Bayley (Jim Broadbent), through the ravages of Alzheimer's disease. The only thing that's living within her by the end of the film is Bayley's -- and the film's -- memory of how she used to be, preserved within Dame Judi's penetrating gaze.
It's almost too good a look; we half expect Iris to snap her fingers and say, "Well, I've done that." Even in near-silence, Dame Judi can dominate scenes; it's up to the Oscar-nominated Broadbent to keep things level. Their profoundly affecting performances, in addition to those of Kate Winslet and Hugh Bonneville as their younger selves, help "Iris" to overcome a disjointed story and some clumsy segues between the past and present.
Much is missed. We hear much of Iris' novels, but not of their subject matter; we never get a clear sense of what Bayley does for a living; most importantly, we don't see much of the two firmly in love, going about their business. We're afforded glimpses of the two of them swimming together in their youth, and shopping together when aged, but both of these vignettes are used to torture Iris later on, as she feels her facilities dimming.
Iris' disintegration, as played by Dame Judi, is as heartbreaking a thing as you're ever likely to see on film. She begins repeating herself and forgetting small details; as the disease worsens, she loses the ability to read. Later, she sits on a beach placing pieces of paper under stones; she remembers the discipline of writing, if not the act itself. She knows she's supposed to be doing something.
"I feel like I'm sailing into darkness," she says, adding, "We all worry about going mad. How would we know, those of us that live in our minds anyway?"
Bayley has no answers. "This won't win," he assures her, though he knows otherwise. Broadbent journeys from good-naturedly eccentric to miserable and resigned, and finally angry. A scene in which he yells at her for her youthful infidelities and closed-book personality pretty much dominates the film. His rage, followed by Iris' mute forgiveness, is unforgettable.
The performances are pretty much the only reason to see "Iris." You learn nothing of Iris Murdoch or John Bayley, and less still of the bonds between couples; about all you learn is that someone can love a rock, and anyone who's ever lost anyone, or anything, knows that all too well. Who needs to be reminded of it, when there's a life as grand as Iris Murdoch's waiting to be explored in full?
Thanks to Mike Kennedy for sending this article, which appeared in the Las Vegas Sun on March 1, 2002.