DEAR FRANKIE

RATING:

Starring: Emily Mortimer, Gerard Butler, Sharon Small, Jack McElhone, Mary Riggans, Sean Brown, Jayd Johnson, John Kazek, Katy Murphy, Anna Hepburn, Cal Macaninch, Sophie Main, Anne Marie Timoney. Written by Andrea Gibb. Directed by Shona Auerbach.

Rated PG-13 for language.

The phrase “heartwarming story” is usually a red flag for corniness, but “Dear Frankie” actually delivers the goods. Set in the gloomy gray of Scotland, “Frankie” is the story of a hearing-impaired little kid, Frankie, who misses his long-departed father. Thanks to a deft touch by director Shona Auerbach, however improbably, the story never once slips into sentimentality.

Frankie (Jack McElhone) lives with his mother and grandmother, trapped in a quiet household with little laughter or excitement. The grandmother is a crusty old chain-smoker and the mother (Emily Mortimer), while loving, isn’t a perfect substitute for his father or his friends.

He writes letters to his father, whom he believes to be away at sea, in the hopes that someday dad will come visit. These letters give us a real sense of Frankie. Normally, his deafness prevents him from speaking, but as Frankie narrates his letters we hear his voice—for the only time—and it’s a surprisingly powerful effect. McElhone’s tone is lonely and achingly optimistic, telling his long-lost father about how he likes to learn about sea-creatures, his troubles at school, and how he hopes that his dad can make it to an upcoming football match.

Unbeknownst to Frankie, these letters are actually sent to his mother, who concocts an elaborate ruse—dad’s a sailor, away on a long voyage—to spare Frankie the truth, that his father left for reasons much uglier. She even forges Frankie many letters in return, making up stories about the latest ports and water depths. Frankie, bless his heart, charts these fictitious voyages on a nautical map that he hangs on his bedroom wall, using red thumbtacks to indicate where Dad’s ship has been. Since there’s not really any ship, of course, the red thumbtacks are hopelessly scattered around the map, and it’s a fine example of showing, not telling, that Frankie misses his father.

The mother’s lies catch up with her. At school, Frankie’s bratty classmates taunt him, claiming that his dad has left him for good. Frankie, through a mixture of sign language and lip-reading, argues back the best he can. The boys make a bet, and Frankie can only save face if his father somehow meets him in person.

Desperate, and still unwilling to tell Frankie the truth, the mother pays a complete stranger to impersonate his father for a day. This nameless stranger (Gerard Butler) is thrillingly mysterious, built with jagged edges and expressionless eyes. When the mother first meets him for coffee, he gruffly orders, “Americana. Strong,” startling her (and us) with his directness. By now we care enough about Frankie to be leery of this stranger; has he served time? Will he abduct the kid? And we begin to suspect the mother of negligence (although we can partially understand her decision), creating unexpected tension in our loyalties.

The stranger and Frankie hit it off, and the joy on Frankie’s face, pent up for years, is tough for even the most heartless cynic (like myself) to resist. They eat ice-cream together, skip stones, race along the beach; it’s like the dating montage from “Naked Gun.” The mother is concerned by their sudden friendship—partly out of fear for Frankie, partly (and more interestingly) jealous of the affection—and when Frankie’s real father reappears, she faces a larger dilemma.

The film’s success is a minor miracle. On paper, very little distinguishes the plot from your typical cheesefest. Boy misses.father. Boy bonds with stranger. When father comes back into the picture, mother is at crossroads. Credit Director Auerbach, though, for plumbing subtle truths about the characters’ relationships, for evoking true pathos with the subtlest gestures. When the stranger instructs Frankie how to skip a stone, spotting a perfect, flat one that should “really fly,” Frankie pockets the stone and saves it for the future. Quiet moments like this speak louder, and more truthfully, than the melodramatic fireworks of most such tearjerkers.

Auerbach captures the feeling of loneliness, tinting every frame with just the hint of gray. The mother is lonely, sitting alone on a park bench, quietly stares at the sea. The grandmother smokes her cigarettes and reads her paper. And Frankie is clearly lonely, at least until the meets the stranger. Piano music—soaring and spirited—is often juxtaposed against this grayness, lending poignancy through contrast.

The loneliness is so masterfully constructed, so thoroughly felt, that we’re practically drooling for a spark between these characters. When it finally comes, it’s earned, it’s deserved. Better still, the relationships don’t resolve themselves with tidy, cookie-cutter simplicity.

Who knows if “Dear Frankie” will be seen by more than 200 people. It’s a quiet movie with a quiet release, but it hits harder than most dramas we’ll see this year.

Agree? Disagree? E-mail me at jeff@latinoreview.com.