This movie wasn't just written by Julius Epstein - as executive producer, and with another Epstein co-producing, he clearly midwifed it as well. So this would be a fairly unmediated labour of love from the man who penned Casablanca 40 years earlier, and damn if I don't like it better than Casablanca - if there's one thing I wanted to see it's a portrait of the lapsed poet as an old womanizing souse. Making him a Scot run amuck in New England is another great touch, gives the milieu a specificity you don't see every day. And that's not mentioning Tom Conti's very specific, and brilliant, performance - no wonder he never did anything comparable, he LIVES inside this thing. His hilarious portrayal of the sad-eyed loser Epstein has written him is the opposite of maudlin. As his doomed infatuation with young 'un Kelly McGillis approaches its inevitable demise, you wonder how on earth they are going to wrap things up - redemption would be corny, but despair would be hopeless and wrong. The answer he comes up with is a head-spinner, but it's also a perfect answer to this dilemma, and answers your lingering questions about the movie's name.
Review of Reuben, Reuben
