Sarah reviewed for the Sunday Star Times until 2019. After a career change to secondary school teaching, she now she works in alternative education with our most disadvantaged rangatahi.
Subscribe to listen
Access to Herald Premium articles require a Premium subscription. Subscribe now to listen.
The Great Lillian Hall, directed by Michael Cristofer, is in cinemas now.
The onset of dementia in loved ones or oneself can be a frightening and heartrending journey of learning, compassion and grief. Films such as The Father and Still Alice have portrayed the condition to soul-shattering effect.
Here, for Jessica Lange’s Lillian Hall, a Broadway theatre legend, the experience is even more distressing: she’s slowly losing her grasp not just of her personal life, but her ability and identity as an actress, her raison d’etre.
Lillian is in rehearsal for Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, and the producers are concerned about their leading lady dropping her lines. They need bums on seats but it’s Lillian’s name on the bill that draws audiences. She’s accused of lazy, diva-like behaviour.
“She was the First Lady of American Theatre!” bellows an angry producer when the play’s director (a terrific Jesse Williams) tries to defend his lead from replacement by an understudy. No one realises that Lillian is actually suffering in ways that are confusing even to her.
The Great Lillian Hall tackles this devastating subject with nuance and flair. There are superb performances from Lange as the wonderfully self-centred thespian, Kathy Bates as her loyal and formidable assistant Edith, and an excellent Lily Rabe as Hall’s long-neglected daughter, Margaret.
There are several tear-inducing moments in Lillian’s own path to self-realisation that will tear at the heart of viewers.
Elisabeth Seldes Annacone’s screenplay is based loosely on her own aunt, American stage actress Marian Seldes, and its dialogue shines under the direction of stage and screen veteran Michael Cristofer.
The gorgeous New York City setting and Lillian’s sumptuous apartment are almost characters in their own right. Only Pierce Brosnan’s aging lothario-next-door is a clunky addition to an otherwise touching, brilliantly performed portrait of loss.
