★ ★ ★ ★ ☆

Imagine, for a moment, that one of those dreary Nicholas Sparks adaptations was actually interested in its female lead, as opposed to the abs of its leading man as he sands down the hull of a boat/lifts weights/plays with his dog etc. That’s what we get in Brooklyn, John Crowley’s adaptation of the Colm Tóibín novel following young Irish immigrant Eilis (Saoirse Ronan). Eilis lands in 1950s New York as an escape from her claustrophobic life, but soon finds her heart torn between a new land, the country she calls home and the futures offered by both.





The film has a number of wonderful things going for it, but the steadfast element is surely Saoirse Ronan. She’s been a quintessential film star for a number of years but here she is truly mercurial. I know of no other performer capable of communicating such palpable emotions with the minutiae of facial expressions, be it fierce loss or heart-stricken desire. Around her, everyone seems determined to up their game, notably the ever-marvellous Julie Walters as a God-fearing but mischievous house-mistress and Jim Broadbent as tender Father Flood.





While these characters would suggest religious overtones, Eilis is far from a messianic character: she is complex and flawed; an agent of choice, not fate or destiny. The choice in question is not simplified into a single cliché moment, but explored throughout the film by her growing affection for Italian-American Tony (Emory Cohen), devotion to her sister Rose (Fiona Glascott) and over-riding homesickness for her small Irish town.





The latter is beautifully examined in a little scene in which Eilis serves Christmas dinner to the dispossessed Irish men of Brooklyn, who once came across the sea –as she did – in search of something hopeful, but perhaps unattainable. This feeling of displacement is a way of articulating that belonging and nationality are about more than pride or patriotism: Eilis’ and her fellow countrymen’s sense of identity is portrayed not with flag-waving, but the smallest of gestures.





Asides from the plentiful emotional heft (for this is an old-fashioned weepie in the best sense), the viewer has a sumptuous visual treat in store, the period detail exquisitely captured by shining cinematography and backlit by a score which treads the knife-edge between sweet and sickly.





Brooklyn won’t leave any lasting impact once the tears are wiped away, nor inspire a great deal of intelligent discussion, but might signify a possibility that this kind of film can be done right, even brilliantly. But beyond all that, Crowley and co understand that sometimes all you want from cinema is something that looks great, sounds great and is full to the brim with personable charm.