Barry Levinson's semi-autobiographical tale of a family of Russian immigrants in Baltimore spans something like fifty years -- sufficient in some people's minds to qualify any movie as an "epic" or "saga" -- but for the most part it spans only about five of them, from post-Second World War to early-Eisenhower Era: years when little Michael, who would seem to be the nearest autobiographical reference point for the filmmaker himself, does not seem to age at the normal and healthy rate. The narrative events, far from epical or sagalike, resemble animated snapshots from a family photo album, documenting the onward march of the American Dream from urban sardine tin to a house in the suburbs with a television set and TV trays. None of the events could not be recollected for universal enjoyment at a family picnic. Or family funeral. It is precisely the universality of that enjoyment which limits the emotional range of the movie -- and the level of the enjoyment -- so severely. This is, above all, a make-nice movie, pressing on no sore points and applying soothing, cooling Ben-Gay to the few it can't altogether avoid. With Armin Mueller-Stahl, Joan Plowright, Aidan Quinn, and Elizabeth Perkins. (1990) — Duncan Shepherd
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