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Before you consider renting this, consider the fact that it is a filmed stage play consisting of three people at a table talking not to each other but to the person watching.

Nobody here has mentioned the coloring of each scene. There is some significance here.

If you enjoy a true exercise in using your little grey cells, you will enjoy this. If you enjoy watching skilled actors talking ideas, you will enjoy it.

Don't look for action or plot. This is only for people who love thinking, who are able to live in the world of the mind.

'The Designated Mourner', a play by Wallace Shawn, is above all else an exercise in writing. Three people (in this adaptation by David Hare, sat statically throughout in one of two locations, one of which appears to be a television news desk, the other a table in a small café), discuss their relationship. But although they respond to each other in tone, they rarely directly address the subject material that the others refer to; and the wider backdrop to their personal story, a crypto-fascist coup, is mentioned only elliptically by all three participants, just as it might be in real conversation where certain things would be taken as known. But there's little that's naturalistic or conventionally conversational about these carefully constructed interlaced monologues; they better represent the inner voices of self-justification (or alternatively, the voices of published autobiography). In spite of the artifice, one does develop a sophisticated sense for the nuances of the trio's characters; everyone has an agenda, and deciphering the three unreliable narrators is exactly the point. Thi particular film of the play is well acted, and it's probably sensible that Hare has chosen to add very little to the basic script (having made this decision, almost his only work as director is to choose when to cut between alternative close-ups). But while theatre has to work within certain intrinsic limitations (and offers you the benefits of live performance as a compensation), cinema does not and in this sense, this seems a strange work to put on screen. Nonetheless, it's still an interesting experiment, and worth watching if you like your drama wordy and cerebral.

I quote the Beatles lyric in my summary, and so the words are flowing in this 1997 film adaptation of Wallace Shawn's play, at the time simultaneously being performed in the David Hare staging of this play on London's West End.

When I first saw this on screen in some art house theatre, I was deeply impressed. Probably because the mood of intimacy one experiences in a stage presentation had been so successfully transplanted to the screen. Or so I thought at the time.

A 2015 re-screening of this film reveals a cripplingly top-sided series of monologues, devoid of panache or invention. A better choice for this film might have been Steven Soderbergh or Jonathan Demme who have both masterfully translated Spalding Gray monologues into unique movies. However David Hare, veteran of esteemed stage productions, brings nothing especially visual or memorable to this celluloid record of Shawn's play. It is three head-on characters in monologue, and the success of each depends on how capably the actor in question can carry the weight of Shawn's impenetrable thickets of dialogue.

Miranda Richardson, an actor of impressive pedigree, feels largely left to the wolves with Wallace Shawn's sketchily-conveyed account of a splintering family set against a country in political meltdown. Any texture in the performance of Judy is owed to Richardson herself, coloring in some of the numerous blank spaces left by Shawn's writing. David de Keyser, as occasionally irritating patriarch Howard, fares a little better...and has a couple of nice moments.

But best of all - and surprisingly - is famed stage/screen director Mike Nichols as Jack, a self-involved, unrepentant hedonist, who watches the real off-screen drama as a disaffected observer, pronouncing wryly on the fortunes of his estranged wife Judy and father-in-law, Howard. Shawn's dialogue is unwieldy, but Nichols masters it with relative ease. If "Jack" in the play seems to be the voice of Shawn himself, then it perhaps takes a personality as big as Nichols' to punch the words, to give them meaning and purpose...all with a sort of aloof superiority.

It really is splendid to see Nichols back in his milieu some thirty-five years after the end of his acclaimed partnership with Elaine May. Especially in the light of his passing, this must be seen as a wonderful personal document of the way the director moved and spoke in daily conversation. Yes, he's performing a character, but the barriers between actor and role seem less pronounced here than if, say, Alec Baldwin had performed the part. Nichols - I presume - graciously lent his mannerisms to Jack to enrich the performance. It was easy for him (maybe it was all he knew how to do), and it gives the character of Jack an added weight & dimension. This is a fellow we feel we know, or have encountered somewhere in our lives.

As written elsewhere, the film's closing moments become profound, and Nichols carries off the last intimate speeches with enormous delicacy. But it's hard to rely on the final five minutes to rescue the ninety previous ones of leaden-paced speech-making with little else to compensate the viewer. (Though at no point did I want to put a loaded gun to my head!) Wallace Shawn's play may indeed be better than I am giving it credit for being. But the flat visual concept and execution of this film unfortunately influence the viewer's reception of the source material. On that score, this is a non-recommend.

However, if you are an admirer of Mike Nichols' work, and want to perhaps steal 94 minutes with one of Broadway's & Hollywood's most celebrated and respected personalities, then this is definitely worth your curiosity. Mike Nichols is the reason for the 5 out of 10.

"The Designated Mourner" is obviously not a cinema film in any meaningful sense. It is a play staged for cinema recording. Three characters and a table; that is the amount of it. None of the characters interact, instead directly addressing the camera. Perhaps this is boring, if visual stimulation is a requirement of cinema, but yet it seemed utterly compelling to me.

The performances from all three of the cast are riveting, but it is Nichols who raises this above the usual public-subsidised arty nonsense. He is quite simply revelatory. As a man whom most know for his directorial work, the depth of the performance is a great surprise. Very possibly his almost "non-acting" style could be attributed to the fact that he is not a professional *film* actor, but the naturalistic style he employs lends his character such a gravity. It is almost documentary in it's sincerity. Jack is a deeply flawed man, in many ways a reprehensible man, who merely assumes the intellectual values of those around him while in fact cultivating considerable distaste for his high-brow friends. He is, though, often a very funny man and it never becomes impossible to understand or empathise with him. His epiphany at the climax of the film, surrounded by cheap magazines and pornography, is completely heart-breaking. As the title of the film begins to make a terrible, Orwellian sense, we are left with nothing but this broken man, lamenting unavoidable actions in which he seems almost complicit.

This is certainly an important piece of work, if perhaps not an important *film*, if nothing else, it will give people who may never have the chance to see the play staged the opportunity to see it performed.

This is a tough one. I couldn't decide if I should continue to patiently listen to the rest of this film or shoot myself in the head. Listening to this sea of blathering words, sometimes flowing other times ejaculating out of the actors mouths is a very trying experience. This film features the mental masturbation of of 3 actors, but mainly Mike Nichols. It seems to intend to reveal and exercise the motives and experience of human existence. However it had me rolling my eyes with annoyance at the implied self-importance, grandiose style imagery, pompous "dry" humor had me spinning on the floor with boredom. And on a very personal note, Mike Nichols verbalization of his 'erotic' impressions were downright creepy to me as a woman. He's that prototypical rich, successful old man who has always been deferred to and given positive attention from woman for their own practical reasons. But in his egotism he deludes himself into believing HE is what they admire rather than the money and power. So the Lothario, yet in reality, couldn't please a woman with a 10" vibrator and a million dollars in cash. Yet we have to listen endlessly to his sexual imagery that would turn-off a cat in heat. I am going to go load my gun now.

Three characters sit at table, taking turns speaking directly to the camera, talking of courage and cowardice in a time of repression, in an unspecified yet intuitively recognizable place and time not far from our own.

Shawn's virtuoso writing (far more nuanced than a short summary can convey) meditates on the hairsplitting liberal in us all, as 'the last people who really understand John Donne' are casually wiped out in the interest of 'fighting terrorism'.

As for the lack of action: yes, maybe it's really a radio play, but every actor or actress should *see* Mike Nichols, who gives an extraordinary, one-of-a-kind performance. Particularly, he breaks all the rules of "actor's diction," so he sounds just like a *real* person (say, being interviewed for a documentary). Not an effect you can use just anywhere, but brilliant here.

I happened by complete accident on this film late last night on BBC 2; and although I had to arise early the next morning, there was NO WAY I could do anything but watch it to the end. I'll have to watch it again - maybe more than once - to discover all the nuances in the wonderful dialogue, but for me the performance of Mike Nichols (whom I remember as half of the wildly funny Nichols and May) was amazing and totally riveting. For that alone - and the complex and all-too-human nature of the character he plays - it was well worth viewing and re-viewing (and reviewing!). This is not to denigrate the other actors' contributions; It's just that Nichols' was so memorable. So September's license fee is already justified . . .

I was unable to sit through The Designated Mourner. There are three characters sitting or standing behind a table and talking directly into the camera. There's no dialog because they don't talk to each other or even acknowledge each other's presence. It's like three interspersed monologues or rambling answers to a talk show host without the questions because there is no clear thought development. They don't even address what each other is saying. My only clear recollection is of the husband describing his wife's unusual dressing habits. It was so boring it was hard to pay attention. I like good dialog but I've never seen anything like this. At first I thought it was some odd ball lead in and soon the real movie would start. Soon my jaw literally started to drop open as I realized this was it. 12 minutes was all I could stomach. Afterwards, I sat there dumbfounded that anyone has the audacity to make this and call it a movie or that anyone could actually sit through this let alone enjoy it.

I worked at the national film theatre & had to usher this film, unfortunately I drew the short straw & was the only one who had to watch it twice. About 75% of the audience walked out per screening. Three people talking to camera. set = table. Genuinely had people snoring. I had to stand up to stop from sleeping.

Worst film ever made. don't accidentally watch it, hire it etc. It really is not worth the effort. If however you're planning to rob a bank, show the workers this film & watch them nod off. This really is a film to kill yourself to. Dull Dull Dull.

PS. no this is not highbrow - it's tosh.

I stumbled across this film late one night, as if i had stumbled into a dream, one i couldn't draw myself from.

The lack of set puts all emphasis on the long monologues, which are delivered with such riveting feeling that the character's words fail not to touch you in someway.The script seems split between drawing from reality's loneliness and hurt, and poetry's cutting imagery and sentiment, which altogether creates some haunting myth.The entire cast (numbering but three and including a fabulous Miranda Richardson)are thoroughly engaging-Mike Nickols carries the film admirably-their characters seem locked in the retelling of the story, utterly lost in the memories and who can help but reflect the feelings of identity and loneliness upon themselves.

Sadly, I bought this tape based on the description and came to the same conclusion as a previous poster -- the worst film I ever tried to watch!

I can usually make it to the end of almost any movie, but 10 minutes into this one has tried all my patience. This is a style you either appreciate or you don't -- no middle ground.

There are three people sitting at a table speaking about mundane nothingness into the camera. No plot or action or change of scenery.

Sorry, had to give this a 1 out of 10.

This is a very funny film, especially for anyone who has been to a University party with self congratulatory, self aggrandising pretentious smart alecs. The whole film is done in the same 'high-brow' style whether it is the weepy self pity and anguish of Judy or the prurient, ignorant, though arguably more accessible filth of Jack. This is VERY trying, it is what turns most people off the film but is also entirely the point. This film would have been better served if it had been a lot shorter as it would have made the same points and been more accessible at the same time. The main benefit of it's length is the increased time to include the snappy one liners that helped to lighten the mood of the monotony.

A drama of evolving inconsequence may evoke a certain appeal, as we hear the meandering rambling from one to another, the authors describe each other and themselves, analyze and criticize without arriving at any apparent conclusion or plateau of resolution. A seemingly unapparent effort in arousing suspicion amongst it's audience-in an effort to suggest a deeper meaning, a plot or subtext (this quite obviously is non existent) And yet, they continue to groan and meet with more intimate resolution as the 'play' takes a more detailed step forward, only to be rudely interrupted by their chief protagonist 'Jack' The whole affair reminds me of production meeting of a fictitious film company, with fictitious goals, offering pointless objectives based upon circumstances manipulated at their leisure as a means to perpetuate their overtly pointless existences. Still, it inspires writing in others, and indicates a challenge to conventional wisdom of broadcasting commissioners.

Overwhelmingly describes the tedious equation of life over time, as seen through the eyes of the oppressed middle classes, with no drive or enthusiasm remaining-or perhaps they are simply too boring to inject the juice into their lives once more.

Did somebody die?-I forget

If you manage to read this review and find your brain elsewhere by the second paragraph, do yourself a favor- rent Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey!

What does it mean to be an intellectual? is it a facade comprised of book-learned knowledge, some peripheral understanding of poetry, art, and literature that are ultimately the persona known to others as one's self? Or is it the inner core of a person who possesses not simply a mere knowledge, but rather engages in communal understanding with the work of art, living and experiencing it? These are some of the many questions that this film raises. What these three actors -- who sit at a table, talking into the camera -- manage to accomplish is beyond my comprehension. If you like writers like Joyce or Kafka, if you enjoy poetry and intellectual stimulation in general, you will most likely appreciate this picture.