I’ve generally been a defender of the films of Stephen Daldry, but seeing “The Reader” made me understand why some people hated his previous movie, “The Hours.” That film, they said, was fussy and airless, tamping down truth and humanity in favor of the brand of dry “culture” that lures certain segments of the moviegoing public with the promise of a tastefully prim Sunday matinee.
That’s certainly how “The Reader” played for me; watching Daldry try to tuck the horrors of Nazi Germany into neat little hospital corners made for a singularly unsatisfying (however tidy) experience.
If there are any compelling moments to the film, they’re all in the first third, which could be called “Summer of My German Cougar” or “So I Schtupped a Nazi War Criminal.” Fifteen-year-old Michael (David Kross) and thirtyish streetcar conductor Hanna (Kate Winslet) have the opposite of a meet-cute: He’s sick with scarlet fever and barfing in the street, so she rinses the sidewalk and helps him home.
After he recovers, Michael goes to visit his Good Samaritan, and in no time they’re having a steamy affair. (Points to Daldry for being so frank about the nudity in these scenes; it’s rare for an American movie not to try to hide everything behind the sconces.) Michael soon discovers that Hanna loves it when he reads to her, and so he does, everything from Homer and Goethe to Tintin and “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Eventually, he rebels against the hold she has on him, so she winds up ending the affair on his 16th birthday.
Cut to about 10 years later, when Michael is attending law school and goes with his classmates to the trial of several women who were concentration camp guards. Much to his surprise, Hanna is one of the defendants. The trial winds up hinging on whether or not Hanna wrote a particular report regarding the deaths of various prisoners, and although Michael realizes he is in a position to help her, he chooses not to.
Decades later, the divorced Michael (now played by Ralph Fiennes) comes across a book that he once read to Hanna, and he begins sending her tapes of him reading, thus kicking off a correspondence that will change both of their lives.
But by this point, “The Reader” has shown itself to be so emotionally constipated — not to mention unable to seriously address the Holocaust — that there’s nothing compelling about these two characters or their stories. As one character points out toward the end, “If you want catharsis, look in literature; don’t look in the camps.” It’s advice that Daldry should have followed, since his movie certainly adds nothing to seemingly boundless explorations of this subject.
Most of the cast comes off as twitchy and cantankerous, although Kross makes for a compelling teenager in love (he’s less convincing as a young adult law student) and the great Bruno Ganz livens up his few scenes as Michael’s law professor.
While much of the acting is unremarkable, it bears noting that several performers are forced to wear some truly awful old-age makeup; Lena Olin, in particular, gives a monologue in the trial scene that I confess I mostly missed because I was fixated on the waxy mess that had been deposited upon her gorgeous face. It’s a rare moment of too much in a movie of not enough.