Movie review: Danny Collins

They had to try, so hard. And sound like it, so hard.

For when the John Lennon (the emphasis theirs) is the fulcrum — or more precisely an actual letter written by him — you can’t be flippant about anything while still making a film about an ageing rock star who has lived flippantly.

That’s what ails this film written and directed by Fogelman (an old screenwriting hand, this is his directorial debut). In Pacino he has a star who has let himself go in quite the way of his main character, and the actor — all dyed hair, fake tanned, unbuttoned shirt, and colourful jackets — gives it his best shot in some time. However, Danny Collins doesn’t have the faith Pacino displays, making a safe and sound film where the aforesaid rock star neglects his son, does drugs, drinks at length, prances with teens, ignores his music, drops out of a tour, and is never very far from redemption.

Plummer plays Frank, Danny’s manager, best friend and, of course, harshest and kindest critic. It’s Frank who digs out this letter Lennon wrote to Danny back in 1971 when Danny was a rising star worried about fame destroying his music. Danny is a fictional character, though Lennon actually did send such a letter to a British singer in similar doubts.

Dumbfounded that Lennon had noticed him, Danny — who has not written a new song in 30 years and is still celebrated for the old hits he keeps playing — decides to turn his life around. And so he comes to Hilton in New Jersey, where he immediately begins flirting with the manager, Mary (Bening). For some reason — please tell me not the most obvious one — Hilton gets plenty of conversation space in Danny Collins, and Bening is the unfortunate party to the exercise.

New Jersey is where the son Danny had with a fan groupie and never met lives. So Danny tracks Tom (Canavale) down and comes to meet him, to find he has a pregnant lovely wife (Garner) and a talkative daughter. You know what follows, but perhaps not that both the son and the granddaughter turn out to have “conditions”. All the more better for Danny to help them with.

Tom doth protest too much, and then not at all as Danny showers money and privileges. And this film, already reeling under a predictable script, just sinks. Lennon’s songs, and one original, can keep you going, but only so far.

Apologies are due to Plummer and Bening (horribly, horribly misused), and particularly to Pacino (he couldn’t have done more).