Lowenstein, Lowenstein

Continuing my look back at the films of 1991, today I consider The Prince of Tides. When the nominations for the Academy Awards were announced, The Prince of Tides had a passel of them, including Best Picture, but director Barbra Streisand was not nominated for Best Diretor. Cries of sexism abounded, or perhaps, some said, it was professional jealousy. I like to think that the director's branch showed good sense, recognizing this film as a gold-plated turd. Oh, it looks good. The photography makes it look like a Hallmark Card commercial, but for its two-hour plus running time it strikes one false note after another.

Adapted from the novel by Pat Conroy, it tells the story of a family from South Carolina. One of the children grows up to be Nick Nolte. When his twin sister, who lives in New York City, attempts suicide, he goes up there to consult with her psychiatrist, played by Streisand. Eventually, and ludicrously, they fall in love, and Nolte reveals the deep dark secret from his family's past and this sets him free.

Nolte is a good actor, take a look at The Good Thief. But he's completely lost in this film, hitting only two notes--gregarious good ol' boy, or quick-boiling anger. He seems to have no sense of a character. As for Streisand, she must have instructed her DP to light her as if she were ten years younger, but she's completely unbelievable as well (only once do I get we get a genuine moment--when Nolte tosses her a football and she cries out, "Oh, my nails!") In a nice bit of nepotism, she casts her real-life son as her movie son.

The only effective part of the film is when Nolte is allowed to tap into his talent during the scene in which he recalls the secret. He shows restraint and genuine emotion. Too bad that couldn't be maintained through the film. The last scene is unintentionally funny. Nolte, his life healed, drives across a bridge, and he narrates how much he owes Lowenstein (Barbra Streisand's character). He says something to the effect that he is compelled to utter, "Lowenstein, Lowenstein." Well, it's not like calling the wind Mariah, but it's close.