My Policeman pushes back queer storytelling by a few decades

Michael Grandage’s  _My Policeman_  – a romantic period drama based on Bethan Roberts’ 2012 novel of the same name – opens with great promise. It’s a typically gloomy day in Brighton. A house overlooks the sea. A man walks his dog. And a middle-aged woman, Marion, looks out her window. She is waiting, with bated breath, for an ambulance. The vehicle soon arrives, bringing with it her new house guest. His name is Patrick; he is crippled from a stroke and confined to a wheelchair. He is grumpy; she is kind. Marion shares some history with him, but it remains deliciously unclear for a bit. Then Marion’s husband, Tom, returns with the dog. Tom is not pleased about this Patrick fellow living with them. He refuses to meet him. The couple argue. He claims that she is “punishing” them. A knife could slice through the tension in the house by the sea. It is soon revealed that all three of them do share a history – but more importantly, a secret. Patrick is neither Marion’s needy brother nor her ex-lover. Patrick is, in fact, retired policeman Tom’s ex-lover. The awkwardness makes sense. But the arrangement doesn’t. Not yet, at least. The rest of the film tells the story of how, and why, these three people are where they are. When Marion finds a bunch of private letters in Patrick’s bag, the film flashes back to the 1950s – back when they were young and dashing, back when closets weren’t just pieces of carved wood, back when homosexuals were treated as perverts and criminals. Unfortunately, this is where the promise ends. By now, we’re about fifteen minutes into the film. What follows is a bland and uninspired tracing of a love triangle that, for better or worse, imitates the Carter Burwell soundtrack of Carol in the hope of replicating the intensity of the lesbian love story. Needless to say, it comes nowhere close: not the chemistry, not the sex, not the forbidden glances and stolen kisses. Grandage attempts to do interesting things with the narrative. For instance, we first see young Marion and Tom get attracted to one another – he teaches her how to swim, she teaches him to consume more literature and art. Even the sun seems to be shining in old Brighton. He introduces her to a museum curator, a friend of his, and the three of them drink and eat and dance and watch paintings together. Marion wonders if Tom will propose; if so, they already have a best man for their wedding. Then Marion begins to read Patrick’s letters, and discovers that by the time she met hunky Tom, the two men were already in a clandestine affair. She sees the same timeline through Patrick’s perspective – their meet-cute on a street, their passionate romps at Patrick’s flat, their unbridled joy, and then her entry into their lives as an unwitting ‘third wheel’ who legitimizes their standing in society. And then her wedding with Tom, followed by the threat she felt from an increasingly aching Patrick. A betrayal emerges, but it has nothing on the one in Atonement. On paper, the structure is a nice little play on the non-linearity of memory – or even on the trauma of remembering. But the way it all pans out feels like it’s made by someone who prefers the aesthetic of vintage heartbreak over the agony of closeted emotions. There are no flesh-and-bone surprises; even the composition of the frames feels curated. The writing pretends to be tender, but it’s derivative and superficial, as if cobbled together from a sensibility-montage of pre-existing films. The premise might have worked in the hands of a director like, say, Ritesh Batra. But Grandage’s stage tone drains the setting of all its soul and artery. Except for a handful of post-wedding moments featuring the stress of an overcrowded marriage, the film potters along with the confidence of a manicured tragedy. I found myself wishing to see more of the older versions of the three characters, stuck in that house by the sea and navigating a future shackled by a past. But the film refuses to grow up, skirting around adult complexity with the deftness of a disqualified figure skater. A large reason, though, is rooted in the film’s most high-profile element: its star-cast. Emma Corin (better known as Princess Diana from The Crown Season 4) is charming but somewhat one-note as Marion, almost as if she’s been reduced to the good-looking silhouettes of memory. The vanilla dialogue and the stilted understanding of a heteronormative couple dynamic don’t help matters one bit. In comparison, her older version, played by Gina McKee (best known as Bella from Notting Hill), is quieter and more sophisticated in her expression of guilt. David Dawson is the only shining light in the film as young Patrick; you can almost touch his longing, and he often transcends the stunted intelligence of the material at hand. But perhaps the weakest – and most definitive – link of My Policeman is popstar (not actor, not yet) Harry Styles’ performances as PC Tom. Styles is all style and no substance (I’m sorry, I had to), perpetually unable to grasp the gravitas of his character. He looks, smiles and vents like a million bucks, but that’s all he is: a million bucks with no perception of the pricelessness of human relationships. Styles hasn’t had a great few months on screen, but his indifference as a cop failing to police his own heart is, well, terminal. He also comes across as a performer too aware of his looks, his eyes, his voice, his appeal. Suffice to say he has a lot of work to do before someone like Christopher Nolan hires him again. Till then, he can reflect on the utter insipidity of My Policeman, a film that is at best a tedious depiction of queer history and at worst a tormented example of self-conscious cinema. A knife can slice through the mediocrity of a film that’s all at sea. Rahul Desai is a film critic and programmer, who spends his spare time travelling to all the places from the movies he writes about. Read all the  Latest News ,  Trending News ,  Cricket News ,  Bollywood News ,  India News  and  Entertainment News  here. Follow us on  Facebook,  Twitter and Instagram