The real-life story of a homeless man who built a shack on
the edge of London’s Hampstead Heath is scrubbed down, disinfected and
prettified for mass consumption.
Diane Keaton plays beret wearing widow Emily, who is struggling to meet
the service charges on her portered apartment block. Naturally, having
experienced the sharp edge of London’s chronic housing issues, she feels a
kinship with Donald (Brendan Gleeson, gruff but cuddly), a tramp who has
created an immaculately tended smallholding in the grounds of a disused
hospital.
This bond boils over into a relationship, once the film has addressed
the subject of personal hygiene, the slightly niffy elephant in the room. Emily
concedes that Donald is cleaner than she expected. In response, he offers her
his armpit to sniff. It passes muster.
A score that sounds like it was ripped from a feature-length
insurance ad twinkles reassuringly throughout. And the production design pushes
an artfully homespun aesthetic so expensive-looking, it’s as if the film is
unfolding in a Chelsea bric-a-brac emporium.
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