REVIEW - PARKLAND

By the time a film falls into the hands of the director, a lot of the work has already been done. The director's job is, from there, to assemble all that work and cohere it into a whole. Their job is, basically, decision-making. The decisions Peter Landesman makes as director of Parkland turn a mediocre film into a laughable one, though the decisions he made as writer were no better. A self-misunderstanding of Landesman's own output is all that prevents Parkland from descending ascending into camp, and, of the cast, only Jacki Weaver has the intelligence to deviate and succumb to theatrics. This is an extremely serious film, its moderate production values and narrow scope indications of its paltry ambitions, the loftiness with which all this is approached an indication of its expectations. Shaky-cam is employed to induce a sense of urgency, which is futile given that the only urgent sequence in the film is its own prologue - the meat of Parkland's story is not the JFK assassination but what occurred immediately after, and that's a deflating, curious story that might be well-treated by farce or even Lynchian abstruseness. With the president dead, most of this film aimlessly limps around, its focus erratic, its style coarse, its one unifying thread a corpse. The sole point of interest is in the study of Lee Harvey Oswald's family, and their experience over those November days; James Badge Dale is the only leading actor herein to retain his dignity by film's close. A comical reverence to its (deceased) subject, a thorough dearth of originality and ugly work from cast and crew alike sink this misguided project.