Pieces of April is a neat little indie film from the early 2000s about a dysfunctional family brought together by the occurrence of Thanksgiving and a spot of life-ending cancer. April Burns is the estranged daughter who sends out the invitations for what could be their final holiday dinner together, and to throw an extra spice into the mix, it's also the first meeting with her mysterious boyfriend (he's black, but a slight upgrade on her previous drug-dealing partner. Go figure.). But director Peter Hedges arranges the structure of the movie so that these stories are all separate strands, and when they converge in the end, all past grievances have been aired and resolved. It is the journey there that tells the story; the reunion is just a formality.
A young Katie Holmes plays the titular role, and looks the part (although she would be a complete anachronism today): heavy gothic eyeliner, dyed pigtails, a choker and an abundance of irreverence. But beneath that surface brews anxiety, and Holmes frets frequently and appropriately. Just look at her fall to pieces when stumbling across a pair of salt and pepper shakers along with the childhood trauma that accompanies them. She enables the grief to be visible. Her mother by comparison gets the meatier, Oscar-worthy opportunities, able to undercut her nastiness with biting humour. It's Patricia Clarkson's sheer dismissiveness of the situation that makes her such a potent personality; it's her last Thanksgiving, and she's getting as many late shots in as she can. The natural rhythms of the overlapping dialogue in and out of the car assist this aura of toxicity, riffing off each other, then cutting in during the middle of a sentence, bouncing punchlines off egos. Their timing is impeccable, like a comedy troupe in perfect sync. See how Alison Pill splutters a protest when her big-headed brother tries to snap a candid photo of her picking at her teeth, and then as Clarkson cuts in with a sarcasm comment. You can't buy that type of authenticity.
Stylistically, Hedges makes the best of his shoestring budget, replacing conventional lighting and camera setups with a handheld grittiness, as if the viewer was a distant cousin awkwardly observing this family reunion like a fly on the wall. It's no Cassavetes, but it works well in stripping away the glamour of their fragmented lives, peering up and around the dinghy corners of April's apartment block. Livolsi cuts with scrappy relish, in one particular occasion overlaying April and Bobby's sweet pillow talk (about the lavish meal they are preparing) with the bickering and chaos of the rest of the Burns family making their way into the city. It's all grainy and the outdoor shots are overexposed, but those have never got in the way of a good story.
April's quest to cook her damn turkey doubles as an expansion of her mindset and tolerance, sharing stories and cooking tips with black neighbours and overflowing with gratitude at the Chinese family who lend her the use of their oven, although they don't speak a lick of English. This is all pretty conventional stuff, and although it may be eye-opening for April, it's not exactly groundbreaking or transgressive. Even when Bobby is fretting over making a good impression on his white girlfriend's family, the subtext is mostly text. When he bumps into April's drug-dealing ex, instead of highlighting the irony of how race still is the overpowering stigma, it just becomes a bad comedy sketch. It all ends in a wordless montage set to gentle music and touching snippets of the reconciliation dinner, which is perhaps more than the Burns deserve. See Jonathan Demme's Rachel Getting Married for a similar story that doesn't pull its punches.
A young Katie Holmes plays the titular role, and looks the part (although she would be a complete anachronism today): heavy gothic eyeliner, dyed pigtails, a choker and an abundance of irreverence. But beneath that surface brews anxiety, and Holmes frets frequently and appropriately. Just look at her fall to pieces when stumbling across a pair of salt and pepper shakers along with the childhood trauma that accompanies them. She enables the grief to be visible. Her mother by comparison gets the meatier, Oscar-worthy opportunities, able to undercut her nastiness with biting humour. It's Patricia Clarkson's sheer dismissiveness of the situation that makes her such a potent personality; it's her last Thanksgiving, and she's getting as many late shots in as she can. The natural rhythms of the overlapping dialogue in and out of the car assist this aura of toxicity, riffing off each other, then cutting in during the middle of a sentence, bouncing punchlines off egos. Their timing is impeccable, like a comedy troupe in perfect sync. See how Alison Pill splutters a protest when her big-headed brother tries to snap a candid photo of her picking at her teeth, and then as Clarkson cuts in with a sarcasm comment. You can't buy that type of authenticity.
Stylistically, Hedges makes the best of his shoestring budget, replacing conventional lighting and camera setups with a handheld grittiness, as if the viewer was a distant cousin awkwardly observing this family reunion like a fly on the wall. It's no Cassavetes, but it works well in stripping away the glamour of their fragmented lives, peering up and around the dinghy corners of April's apartment block. Livolsi cuts with scrappy relish, in one particular occasion overlaying April and Bobby's sweet pillow talk (about the lavish meal they are preparing) with the bickering and chaos of the rest of the Burns family making their way into the city. It's all grainy and the outdoor shots are overexposed, but those have never got in the way of a good story.
April's quest to cook her damn turkey doubles as an expansion of her mindset and tolerance, sharing stories and cooking tips with black neighbours and overflowing with gratitude at the Chinese family who lend her the use of their oven, although they don't speak a lick of English. This is all pretty conventional stuff, and although it may be eye-opening for April, it's not exactly groundbreaking or transgressive. Even when Bobby is fretting over making a good impression on his white girlfriend's family, the subtext is mostly text. When he bumps into April's drug-dealing ex, instead of highlighting the irony of how race still is the overpowering stigma, it just becomes a bad comedy sketch. It all ends in a wordless montage set to gentle music and touching snippets of the reconciliation dinner, which is perhaps more than the Burns deserve. See Jonathan Demme's Rachel Getting Married for a similar story that doesn't pull its punches.