Quartet

Here’s a cheering thought – life begins at 75. Well, for Dustin Hoffman, at least, life as a film director does because this adaptation of Ronald Harwood’s play marks his debut in that role.

A somewhat unexpected choice for Hoffman it is, too. For this is a very British tale set in what must be the world’s most luxurious old folks’ home – Beecham House, a majestic place about the size of Windsor Castle.

This is the penultimate resting place of a bunch of retired musicians headed, when first we meet them, by Tom Courtenay, randy old Billy Connolly and Pauline Collins, who appears to be in the early stages of senility. They are members of an erstwhile operatic quartet and, overseen by stern Michael Gambon, they’re preparing for a concert to celebrate Verdi’s birthday.

It’s kind of important this concert, because depending on its success or otherwise, Beecham House will or will not keep going for another year. Unfortunately, as you will have observed, right now the quartet is only a trio, lacking its rather vital fourth member.

Enter now, reluctantly but fortuitously, the very person they need – that formidable old diva Maggie Smith, who doesn’t actually want to be there and doesn’t want to mix with the others. And when he hears of her arrival, Courtenay doesn’t want to be there either because he and Smith have previous; they were once married to each other and it didn’t end well.

So what with this potentially explosive set-up along with Collins’s convenient amnesia, which comes and goes according to the needs of the plot, we have the prospect of high drama and apparently precious little chance of the quartet ever reforming.

But at this point the film takes another, gentler course. Initially Smith doesn’t want anything to do with the concert and anyway Courtenay remains unforgiving of the aggro she’d caused him. But now, having been built up as rather terrifying, Smith turns out to be a bit of a pussycat, anxious to apologise to her embittered ex and the anticipated verbal punchups never really take place.

It’s a thinnish yarn then but, as you’d expect, beautifully played with a good script by Harwood and some terrific music. As an unapologetically feel-good movie for the elderly, it will inevitably stand comparison, not necessarily to its advantage, with The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, which had a good deal more going for it in the way of storylines.

But it’s highly enjoyable and nicely put together by Hoffman, who retains the essential Britishness of it all with only one concession to American audiences. The name of Gambon’s character is Cedric but everyone calls him Ceedric. I submit that nobody in Britain, saddled with the name Cedric, would ever permit anyone to call him Ceedric. That apart, it’s an encouraging start for the tyro director, although with this cast of consummate professionals he could hardly go wrong. I reckon I could have directed that lot from my sitting room.

Dustin Hoffman will be interviewed in next week’s issue.