In this John Wells adaptation of Tracy Letts’ Pulitzer-prize winning play, The Weston family, long-marinated in misery and malevolence, let it all out at a post-funeral meal. The verbal fireworks are ugly enough to make the most dysfunctional family seem rather normal by comparison. A testimony to the bounty of Meryl Streep’s extraordinary talent and strong buttressing performances by Julia Roberts and a fine supporting cast, August: Osage County scorches. Were you to believe some of the prevalent critical opinion, it has all the cachet of numerous other misguided adaptations of acclaimed stage productions. I heartily disagree.
With all the charm of a rattlesnake, Violet Weston is pretty much losing her grip. She’s a cancer patient/pill addict/truth-telling scourge who’s not even above screwing her own daughters out of their inheritances. Just when it seems she’s out of it, she comes to life with an extra clarity that pierces through the comfort zones of her three daughters, her sister, and their families. If you don’t mind feeling more than a little uncomfortable, there are great rewards here. Roberts is better than she’s ever been and Streep continues to amaze. Their mother/daughter dynamic rollicks with tension on the surface–then hints at underlying subtleties underneath. Has Roberts run away because she sees in her mom a frightening reminder of herself?
Roberts has moved out of the Pawhuska, Oklahoma locale of her hometown to get away from Streep, only to find herself returning for the funeral of her poet father (Sam Shepard). Her siblings Juliette Lewis (zanily affected) and Julianne Nicholson (boringly earnest) bring their own entirely different dramas to the table, as does Streep’s sister, Margo Martindale. Martindale’s husband Chris Cooper seems to be the only calm and sane presence. He’s a joy to watch as he does his best to quietly harness the worst of the vituperative pyrotechnics. Then, in a truly mesmerizing scene, he steps up when you least expect it.
Mostly, though, it’s just plain fun watching Streep have such a good time trashing everyone else to smithereens. Whether she’s wearing a ludicrous wig or sporting her chemo-strewn natural ‘do, there lurks a streak of charming vitality throughout her roaring and shrieking spitefulness. Her despairing rants are those of a sad yet proud survivor. She clings to what’s left of her life one insult at a time.