It’s been two years since Róise (Bríd Ní Neachtain), one of the title characters in this new Irish import, lost her longtime husband Frank, and she’s still having a rough go of it. In their coastal, provincial village where everyone knows everyone, it’s the first question every patient asks Róise’s son Alan, the town’s general practitioner: “How’s your mom doing?”
Not well. Mostly she keeps to herself, hermetically sealed in her now-oversized house, watching Frank’s old hurling games on video (apparently, he was quite the athlete in the popular Gaelic sport) and calling his cellphone just to hear his voicemail message: “I’ll definitely get back to you.” This is what initially healthy grief looks like when it has calcified into depression.
Though perhaps Frank has finally gotten back to her, albeit in a furrier form. Róise can’t seem to shake the brown mutt that has begun to cling to her like a barnacle. The pooch not only overstays its welcome; it makes itself home, on Frank’s sacred recliner no less, a piece of furniture untouched since his passing. And then it leads Róise to their favorite picnic spot together. Then it heads, in a beeline, to Frank’s gravestone. To top it off, the dog seems to have an unusually ardent interest in Frank’s hurling equipment.
Within days, the supposed stray—evidently in fine fettle, un-microchipped, and with no owner searching for it—is sleeping on the pillow beside Róise and eating steak from the dinner table. Is this canine really the reincarnation of her late husband? Or have an aggregation of coincidences led her to anthropomorphize the animal?
Directed by Rachael Moriarty and Peter Murphy, “Róise & Frank” (opening Friday at Movies of Delray and Movies of Lake Worth) has much in its favor: A literal shaggy-dog story, it’s a sweet and ultimately moving study in the architecture of coping. Its perfect 100-percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes attests to its inherent likeability. Its visuals of the mountains and endless green of the sweeping Irish coastline are tailored for the big screen. Shot in the friendly fishing village of Gaeltacht na nDéise, this is one of the few films I’ve seen that is presented in the vanishing Irish Gaelic language.
But if I’m being perfectly honest, as I always am, there’s something a bit twee about “Róise and Frank,” a bit “Chicken Soup for the Soul.” What it proffers in charm it lacks in authenticity. Its supporting characters are archetypes in some BBC sitcom town, each filling a quota: the overly aggressive neighbor interested in pursuing Róise romantically, who congeals into a cartoon villain; the milquetoast, bespectacled neighbor boy who is secretly a great hurler, if only he could build up the confidence to try out for his school’s team.
The latter inspires a series of rote underdog sports clichés, with “Frank” acting as mascot/coach, that constitutes the most tiresome subplot of “Róise & Frank.” In another ridiculous trope, the village’s apparent lone, eagle-eyed policeman seems really passionate about enforcing the town’s harness law for dogs in cars, leading to more than one quirky roadside conversation.
“Róise & Frank” is a sillier movie than it needs to be, and this pandering kid-friendly approach undercuts its more observant themes: on the need to express grief rather than bury it behind a stiff-upper-lip façade (in the case of Alan) and, paradoxically, the necessity to accept it, let it go and live one’s life (in the case of Róise).
But there’s one bit of magical thinking in “Róise & Frank” that I can fully get behind: the idea that dogs are angelic messengers, showing up in life just when we need them to. I’ve been the recipient of such a gift myself, so of all the outlandish contrivances in “Róise and Frank,” this certainly isn’t one of them. Bring a hanky for this one—it’ll be well-used, and well-deserved.
“Róise & Frank” opens Friday at Movies of Delray and Movies of Lake Worth.
For more of Boca magazine’s arts and entertainment coverage, click here.
