MANY actors have a go at film directing but, as it requires a different skill-set, few repeat the experience. Brian Cox, almost 80, has made his debut with Glenrothan (Cert. 12A), which has opened to mixed reviews. Criticised as maudlin and packed with just about every conceivable Scottish stereotype (bagpipes excepted), it has also been praised for its warmth and compassion. Dig deeper, and we are being treated to a fascinating interpretation of the parable of the Prodigal Son. The film, like St Luke’s account, never mentions God, but, in questioning what constitutes unconditional love, Glenrothan implicitly points to where in our humanity God chooses to abide.
An ageing Sandy (Cox himself) invites his estranged younger brother Donal (Alan Cummings) to visit their family Highland home. Forty years ago, Donal dramatically took flight, ending up running his own blues bar in Chicago. His daughter, Amy (Alexandra Shipp), assists him. They seem happy enough singing and muddling along together, but it is clear that this is only the face presented to the world. We learn that it broke Donal’s heart to leave his community and his work at the Glen Nairn Distillery.
His elder brother, on the other hand, would have loved to roam free. Sandy has, in Jungian terms, been operating (and very effectively) on the shadow side of his personality. This is a significant deviation from the parable’s elder brother; for here there isn’t any noticeable resentment. Indeed, it is Sandy, not his tyrannical father, now deceased, who prepares a veritable feast for “Mr Prodigal”, as someone calls Donal on returning with Amy and his granddaughter. There is little evidence of repentance: more of desperation, the reason being blatantly signalled.
Sandy shares the parable’s loving-parent characteristics with Jess (Shirley Henderson), Donal’s erstwhile girlfriend whom he abruptly deserted on the death of his mother. Jess has become something of a matriarch, supervising much of the distillery’s output.
The film’s basic premise is that you can change your sky but not your soul. Donal has never really left Glenrothan. He epitomises nostalgia, the true meaning of which is painful homecoming. It is not a smooth passage for any of them, and Donal’s abrasive demeanour doesn’t make the transition easy. He still remains far off. The only times when he feels truly at home are while making music. Songs in this context are like hymns of praise, appreciation for not being a complete failure and recognising qualities in which he rejoices.
The film isn’t as expansive in regard to the other major players’ stages in their journey, whereas the parable offers intriguingly open-ended questions, which help us to decide how far we still have to travel before reaching home. Did the elder brother enter the feast or continue to harbour a grudge? Was the prodigal’s intended contrition genuine? Was he prepared to be loved, or was he just opportunist? How much is the father a representation of God, and what does it say about the nature of forgiveness?
Cox as director gets a considerable way, if somewhat heavy-handedly, in exploring the costliness of reconciliation. He could well rank among those equipped to take on the Herculean task of directing again.
Glenrothan is in cinemas now