I took against this harmless but artificial film from the outset, perhaps being aware that anyone staying in such a retirement home would have to be worth a fortune. Also, no one really seemed to need to be there: Billy Connolly has the mildest balance problem, Tom Courtenay is as fit as a fiddle, Michael Gambon in fighting form, nothing at all wrong with Trevor Peacock, Pauline Collins seems usually quite together with her mild dementia, etc. It's always sunny, Sheridan Smith is a perfectly lovely supervisor, and there's fags and booze if you know how to get them. Actually that's what's wrong with it. There's really no tension, no surprise, no incident, just a load of luvvies farting around. Blame writer Ronald Harwood.
Give me Harold and Maude or Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont.
It did make me think of two other films that might be worth watching though, Man Friday with Peter O'Toole and Richard Roundtree and The Dresser with O'Toole and Courtenay.
I wonder what a retirement home for film critics would be like.
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