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Dahl’s grief is monumental, violent, some might say self-indulgent. He has a family to look after and he leaves it to Neal, who never loses sight of the other children. It is part of the film’s argument: Dahl’s inner child made him a great writer of children’s books. It also meant he never grew up. His grief is like that of a child – self-centred and blind. He continues to write, through the haze of a whisky bottle. Indeed, the booze bills for the pair of them must have kept the local off-licence in clover.
At some point, a nasty question arose in my gorge: would we be as interested in their grief if they were not a celebrity couple, in today’s parlance? What makes their loss of a child so much more interesting than that of someone down the road going through similar pain? And, of course, the answer is: no one makes movies about the tragedies of the local grocer or post-office worker. We are supposed to care this time because Roald and Pat are artists. Dahl writes through his torment, drunk and self-pitying; Neal lands a part in Martin Ritt’s Hud and works her lines through her tears.
For its final act, we shift to Hollywood and her preparation for the role for which she would win her first Oscar for best actress, opposite Paul Newman. Finally, the picture turns towards her life rather than his. And somewhere, from the same cold grave, I hear her husky, cigarette-seasoned voice, whispering, “Too bloody late.”
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Racist bully? Much-loved author? The conundrum of Roald Dahl
Source: Philippines Alive
