If anyone were to recount all the movies of Steven Spielberg’s career for some trivia challenge or curiosity, inevitably the one they’d forget is Always. A remake of a 1943 Spencer Tracey film called A Guy Named Joe, it’s got an incredibly bland title and the smallest scale plot of a Spielberg movie since The Sugarland Express (even more so really). But the film was something of a passion project for Spielberg and star Richard Dreyfuss, who were both big fans of the earlier movie and had been talking about remaking it since Jaws.
But despite them both liking it for its war themes, they updated the setting to the modern day, exchanging fighter pilot characters for aerial firefighters, which is far less compelling a situation for the story to take place in. And also, Spielberg’s investment doesn’t feel all that strong, making for a movie with a few interesting elements but otherwise understandable for its obscurity.
The story follows Pete Sandich (Dreyfuss), a daredevil aerial firefighter whose often reckless actions are a constant worry to his fellow pilot girlfriend Dorinda (Holly Hunter). On an assignment where he saves the life of his friend Al (John Goodman), he ends up dying, and his spirit is instructed by the mysterious Hap (Audrey Hepburn) to guide and inspire his successor Ted (Brad Johnson) who himself is falling in love with Dorinda.
I haven’t seen A Guy Called Joe, but the strength of Always lies in its concept, leading me to infer the earlier film really is quite good. Its guardian angel/ afterlife aspects recall movies like It’s a Wonderful Life and A Matter of Life and Death, and the morality definitely has something of a Capra flavour. I like too that the story is all about resolution; fulfilling a purpose in death never achieved in life, and most of all letting go of a loved one. Pete’s coming to terms with having to give up Dorinda for her own happiness after his passing is, unsurprisingly given the specificity of this plot, not a character arc you see often in movies. In theory it’s an uplifting statement on empathy and selfless love.
In theory of course. In execution, it’s mostly melodramatic and a bit too schmaltzy -even for Spielberg. And there are a host of reasons for this. The modern setting and aerial firefighter angle really is an odd one for a story like this. I get that Spielberg wanted to differentiate his remake, and maybe it could have worked under someone else, but he doesn’t quite know how to balance this blue collar identity with the fantastical elements, and they don’t mesh together well. As a war film it probably could have, with pilots routinely skirting death, but here the risk feels very manufactured. Pete has to be a daredevil in order for his life to be threatened, and ultimately for him to die. And it makes the character less sympathetic, less innocent than if he were shot down during an enemy fire-fight. When he does die you can’t help but feel he had it coming.
The dialogue, though sometimes nicely delivered or (when from Hap) quite poetic, is in the casual conversations pretty awkward. Some of Pete and Dorinda’s exchanges come off as attempts to be cute as a show of their chemistry, while scenes like Ted’s impressions to her are just quirky for quirkiness’ sake. There’s also the problem that Pete spends a good chunk of this movie unable to directly communicate with other characters, merely being the voice in their heads. This especially impedes the ability for a genuine relationship to be generated between him and Ted. Pete takes Ted on as a kind of protege, but of course, Ted is unaware of Pete’s existence and influence. Ted is the only living character who Pete never met during his life so there’s no basis by which to apply a relationship context. There’s no real give-and-take, Pete doesn’t learn much from Ted -Ted being a character who exists only to be moulded by and provide conflict for Pete. Thus there’s no substantial meaning in the impact Pete does make, nor in the films’ achingly saccharine final line: “that’s my girl …and that’s my boy.”
Brad Johnson doesn’t leave much of an impression because of this, and his performance is stale as befitting his characters’ writing. Still, he’s not quite as devoid of character as the lead kid from 1941 and it’s actually Dreyfuss’ performance that is more fascinatingly disengaging. Dreyfuss certainly isn’t terrible, but he wasn’t the right actor for this part. Maybe in the fourteen years since he first discussed this idea with Spielberg his enthusiasm waned, because a lack of interest shows through in his performance. He has good moments every so often, but perhaps he too can see the problems with the characters’ changed personality, a kind of recklessness Dreyfuss isn’t a good fit for. It’s also his only performance in a Spielberg movie where he isn’t de facto playing Spielberg. Had he produced the film and someone energized and younger played Pete, the character may have come across more genuine. It would definitely clear up the noticeable age disparity between Pete and Dorinda, and the contrast in the “kid” Ted being roughly the same age as his teachers’ girlfriend. Holly Hunter is great though; believable as can be, emotionally involved, and a thoroughly likeable highlight. Her Raising Arizona co-star John Goodman however is largely wasted on a broad character whose relevance is ended with the death of Pete.
Perhaps the biggest crime of this movie is that it doesn’t have nearly enough Audrey Hepburn in it. Not just because it robs the movie of the awe-inspiring presence of, for my money, the greatest star of Hollywood’s Golden Age, or the perfect casting of Hepburn as an angel, but because the afterlife of this film begs further examination. At the very least Hap (why didn’t they call her ‘Hep’?) should have been more the guiding figure Pete needed, perhaps like one of the Spirits from A Christmas Carol –I realize with this movie how good Hepburn would have been as the Ghost of Christmas Past. She’s by far the best part of the movie: wise, endearing, and elegant as ever, and I really think the dynamic between the two characters would have been extraordinarily beneficial. And I wonder if Spielberg thought so too. Part of the reason for the brevity of her role may have been health-related, and indeed Always would be Hepburn’s final movie appearance. It came right in the middle of her UNICEF work as well, and she donated her entire pay for the film to the organization. Regardless of how disappointingly minimal it is, it was a tremendous role to end on: an immortal, transcendent figure embodying grace, love, and wisdom –in other words, Audrey Hepburn.
But it’s a shame to say in spite of this that Always is not a good film. It is an interesting one though, in the greater context of Spielberg’s filmography. Once again, it feels like a conscious rejection of his reputation, especially given how small scale it is and how inessential its stakes are. For a man who’s never been entirely comfortable with his renown as a blockbuster filmmaker, it’s the ultimate departure from that. This movie also speaks to his related interest in experimenting with different genres and different types of films, a predisposition he still holds today. But while he succeeded at his social drama and wartime epic, his romance is only marginally better than his comedy. And the enthusiasm he put into Close Encounters or Empire of the Sun doesn’t show through in Always. It’s really not surprising how little it’s remembered.
I still admire Spielberg however for trying new things, especially something so unlike his other films as Always. Having attained a great degree of notoriety and made a number of box office hits (including two of the then highest grossing movies of all time), he used the freedom it afforded him to branch out, often into smaller films and personal interests. Sometimes just an idea was enough to compel him to explore it cinematically. I mean for instance, haven’t we all as children wondered, what if the boy who never grew up did?
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