Deep absorption, at the start, in the enclosed world of a dour Connecticut college professor, the classroom, the private office, the school cafeteria, the empty hours at home where, to fill the void left by his late wife, a concert pianist, he tries desultorily to master the instrument himself, late in life. Then a reluctant change of scene, when he is forced out of his orbit, under departmental orders, to attend a Developing Nations Conference in New York City, where he finds his unused apartment occupied by two squatters, a musician from Syria and a jewelry designer from Senegal, husband and wife, Muslims both. The initial shock gives way to starchy hospitality (he never shows as much curiosity as the viewer might wish about the identity of the mysterious “Ivan” who rented out the apartment), and the walls of his world expand little by little, exposing the touching and amusing spectacle of an introverted man opening up, taking a stab at warmth, attempting something new, discovering that the African drum (which gets his head moving like a bobblehead doll) is more his instrument than the classical piano. The film takes a dire turn before the halfway point with an illustration of Racial Profiling and the incarceration of the happy-go-lucky street musician in a detention center for illegals: a bit of hot topicality to give the story Relevance, Significance, Importance. That notwithstanding, it presents just one, small, personal story of the post-9/11 world, not a Big Sweeping Statement. For all its liberal sentimentality, it indulges in no outsized emoting. And it offers a meaty role to Richard Jenkins, an able character actor, never the lead, who nibbles at the meat with proper restraint, hiding his avidness and gratitude. (With an eye on the most modest box-office, and with but a minor cost to integrity, the role could have been offered to more of a household name, a Richard Gere, a Kevin Kline.) Haaz Sleiman as the blissfully unguarded drummer, Danai Gurira as his fearfully guarded mate, and Hiam Abbass as his dignified and elegant mother, in from Michigan to stand vigil outside the austere United Correctional Corporation, complete the ensemble, a dissonant quartet, resolving into sweetness. All four of them in their separate ways are painfully affecting. The outcome, although far from happy, could more plausibly have been a lot farther from it. A statement is made after all, if only a quiet one. Written and directed by Tom McCarthy. (2008) — Duncan Shepherd
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