The Remains of the Day (1993)

I have to reach pretty far back these days for an Academy Best Picture nominee that I haven't seen yet and might want to see, apart from some of the most recent. In truth, I didn't know much more than that about TRotD going in -- only that it was a rather esteemed drama starring Anthony Hopkins two years after his first turn as Hannibal Lecter. And Emma Thompson, accidentally in back-to-back reviews on this blog.

Had I noticed in advance that they play a butler and a maid in a mid-20th-century lord's manor, I would have thought hard before adding the DVD to my Netflix queue. Stories of old-time aristocrats, perhaps especially in Britain, threaten to bore me. A focus on their staff doesn't help much. Yeah, count me among the few non-fans of Downton Abbey. At least its predecessor Gosford Park has amusing moments, which I cannot say for TRotD.

The overarching theme is how Hopkins's James Stevens aims to be the ultimate servant by never putting his own feelings first. When Lord Darlington, out of loyalty to a departed German friend, makes many concessions to Nazis, Stevens passes no judgment, expressing full confidence in Darlington's goodness when asked. (He later lies to outsiders about whom he's served.) When his own servile father falters, ails, and eventually dies, he puts on a brave face and sees to the guests' entertainment. And when Thompson's Miss Kenton tries to get him to show a little passion for something besides his position, he refuses.

Miss Kenton admits to being something of a coward, not always putting her money where her mouth is, for fear of unemployment. Nevertheless, she provides the most constant voice of reason under their roof. In the end, she makes a life-altering decision that Stevens wouldn't approve but probably works for the better.

This may be Hugh Grant's favorite of his own movies (he gets a very minor role), but I did something I rarely do while watching: I turned on the computer and divided my attention. From what I can tell, I missed very little. When a film prefers talk over action, I expect more interesting dialog and/or a more involved plot. Credibility as a virtue goes only so far with me.

Looking at director James Ivory's record, I doubt I'll take another chance on him. Nor on writer Kazuo Ishiguro, not that he's written much else for the screen.