It’s simple enough: upon the death of his grandmother, who would have never approved of such an enterprise, author Jonathan Safran Foer flies to the Ukraine to research his grandfather’s life. Upon his return he writes a novel (unread by me) based on the trip. Then actor Liev Schreiber adapts the book and directs the film of the same name, which I watched tonight.
It’s like two movies. It starts out as a wacky road trip—Elijah “Frodo” Wood, resplendent in slicked Eisenhower-era hair and huge plastic-framed spectacles, is a fastidious collector of his family’s ephemera--a wall in his house bristles with artifacts, photos, knickknacks, his grandmother’s false teeth, each carefully dated and labeled in a Ziploc bag. “Why do you do this?” he’s asked. “I guess sometimes I’m afraid I’ll forget,” he says.
Freshly off the plane in Europe, his translator, Alex (Ukrainian actor and bandleader Eugene Hütz), serves as a translator and guide, breaking Foer into a world that doesn’t understand or accept his Jewishness, vegetarianism, fear of dogs, humor and clumsy attempts to offer helpful locals boxes of Marlboro Reds as tips. (“I read you can’t get these here,” he explains.)
Alex’s grandfather Boris Leskin), his partner in their scheme to help “rich Jews” from America find their families, is vocal, cranky and blind—or only thinks he’s blind—which makes him the second-scariest non-English-speaking person to be in a car with, after only Roberto Benigni in Night on Earth. Every so many mistranslated misunderstandings. My favorite travel narratives are written by Bill Bryson and Illuminated is filled with these sorts of fish-out-of-water characters.
Then the second half slows the movie’s pace; its flip tone dissolves and leaves in its wake a surreal and reflective voyage of self-discovery for all three men (and a batshit-crazy dog) crammed into that ridiculously small Eastern European car. It was something different for certain, and unexpected, which is often all I ask for in a movie.