REVIEW. In HERE, Home is where the Heart...er, Camera is.

The first time I visited Spain, I remember walking into the magnificent Cathedral of Toledo and suddenly being overwhelmed with emotion. For some reason, I felt like I'd been there before, as though I could feel the presence of all those people who walked through its grand doors over the centuries. I paused, for a moment, closed my eyes and let myself wonder about the lives of those who'd passed this way before. What joyous, sad, events - holy and un - took place on that site? If there was a book of stories from all those who stood here, what narrative would unfold? What similarities, differences, examples of the human condition would we share? What could we learn from others? If I could frame that spot in time, what kind of history would be revealed?

That idea, observing one single spot over time, forms the essential conceit for Robert Zemeckis' new film Here, based on the 2014 graphic novel by Richard McGuire. I must admit, though, that after watching the movie's trailer a few weeks ago, I had no intention of seeing it. In addition to its generation-spanning story, Here has been marketed as the long-awaited reunion between the actors Tom Hanks and Robin Wright, their first cinematic pairing since 1994's Forrest Gump. Completing their homecoming with director Zemeckis were co-screenwriter Eric Roth and composer Alan Silvestri, adding optimism that another movie box office triumph was in the making. Could history repeat itself in another blockbuster box office return?

I asked myself, who cares? Truth is, I never really cared much for Gump. No, let me rephrase that: I - and a handful of similar-minded historians - hated Forrest Gump, for being nothing more than a highly stylized piece of revisionist history that shamelessly stole hearts - and the Oscar for best picture. I still recall hearing Silvestri's simple, almost childlike melody that opened the movie for the first time: it defined everything that followed, and made me well up before I heard one line of dialogue or watched the story begin. I also remember that I didn't like having my emotions manipulated so aggressively: I'm no stranger to crying at a movie, but my tears aren't cheap, and I expect actors, writers and directors to earn my lamentations.

More than the emotional manipulation, I really objected to how important historical events - everything from the Civil Rights Movement to Vietnam, were trivialized by Forrest's goofy intrusions and ever-present grin. In stark contrast to what many audience members who lived through the 1960s and 70s might have experienced, Forrest blithely jogs through time, seemingly oblivious to the social and political changes taken place around him. Perhaps, that was the point, except that the novel (by Winston Groom) on which the movie was based was a work of satire, and Zemeckis' movie was anything but.

What really burned me was Gump's Oscar sweep over the much better Pulp Fiction, easily one of the best movies of all time. Director Quentin Tarantino's audacious, ground-breaking tale of thieves, hit men and dreamers, told against a non-linear pastiche of gangsta noir, touted iconic performances, memorable dialogue, and a kick-ass score. Though definitely not for everyone (my mother could never understand how I could even watch it let alone prefer it to Gump), Pulp Fiction continues to pop up on "Best of" film lists from various decades, genres, directors. Give me a royale with cheese over a box of chocolates anytime.

Back to the present. Despite early buzz and marketing efforts that suggested Here would be an Oscar contender, critics started weighing in, and the word wasn't good. Adjectives ranging from "gimmicky" to "awful" punctuated reviews. Hmm, I thought, admittedly a bit smugly, even more reason to avoid it.

And then last Friday, the NY Times published an interview w/Hanks and Wright about making the movie, and my curiosity piqued. They spoke at length about the movie-making process, specifically, Zemeckis' placement of the camera in one place, forcing actors to modify their movement and voice, as typically film techniques like close-ups, camera angles and pull-aways, wouldn't be employed. In a sense, the actors' presence, the characters' stories, and the usual emphasis on plot development, weren't important here. The focus was on the frame, the passing of time, the inconsequential events that populated one piece of land over time.

So intrigued was I by the actors' enthusiasm for their on-set experience, that I thought it might be worth it to at least see the final product. I even cancelled my ticket purchase to the critically acclaimed Anora and instead decided to spend my Sunday with Tom and Robin, hoping to glimpse something special in their new film. Mind you, I take a kind of perverse delight in finding beauty, some intrinsic value, in movies that everyone else - critics, audiences, you-name-it - don't like. In the same way that my favorite Monkee was Peter Tork when everybody else loved Davy Jones, I take a certain amount of pride in being different, of seeing something no one else does.

I'm not sure that happened for me with Here. The movie began with a sweet and sentimental melody, not unlike the opening notes from Forrest Gump, so I girded myself for the inevitable schmaltz that might follow. Zemeckis takes us on a journey through the ages, carefully using CGI to transport us from the age of dinosaurs through the present day, overlaying events in an even more carefully constructed frame: a simple window that eventually becomes the view to a living room in a house across the street from the one built by Benjamin Franklin.

You can guess the sorts of events we witness from prehistoric through Colonial to present-day Philadelphia. Beyond the dinosaurs, we follow the narrative of an indigenous couple, the musings of Franklin's son William (usually at odds with his father), and, after the home across the street is built, the families that lived there: a wannabe pilot at the turn of the 20th century and his reluctant wife, a fun-loving Depression-era couple looking to make a money on a new invention: the reclining chair (Can you see the Lazy-Boy reference coming), a post-WWII veteran and his pregnant wife, who form the center of the stories, and an African-American family (most of whom appear to be here for diversity purposes and not much else), who move the house's history to the present day.

In effect, the house is the protagonist and narrator, allowing the audience a glimpse into what that space has meant to those who inhabited it. If you know your pop culture history, especially music, along with changing styles in fashion and future, you'll be able to follow along with the non-linear storytelling, which sometimes jumps back and forth without much transition other than the pop-up of a new frame. The problem with this technique is that, in crafting a very deliberate focus on the living room space that moves back and forth in time, Zemeckis has also limited himself to one view from the camera. This technique creates problems for the actors, who must emote in a similar fashion that employed by theater actors, often making their delivery sound over-the-top and hokey, rather than genuine and real. In this respect, the most evocative story for me was the Native American couple, whose story is told without dialogue. Their body language amidst the forest primeval is lyrical and poignant. It needs no words nor explications to express its theme or its significance. Too bad other stories didn't use as much verbal restraint. As a result, the other stories that suffer from TMI, a stream of platitudes ("Time passes" is a frequent utterance), and a preponderance of exposition. Does everything need to be explained? Ugh. I kept wondering if there was beauty in banality, or whether there wasn't much point to the film at all.

In some ways, Here is a little bit of both: it shows snippets of promise exploring the little, mundane things that make life worthwhile, the seemingly insignificant moments that we remember for reasons as varied as people themselves. Hanks, Wright, and Co. are all fine in their respective roles, but we really don't learn much about life or human nature, other than there's a lot of disappointment in life, and most of us wind up with a lot of unfulfilled potential. Not sure if that's what Zemeckis was going for, but the result is a mostly missed mash-up of vignettes that don't really add up to much. The constant framing of scenes, props, and people runs its course after the first hour, leaving me to become impatient for the ultimate wrap-up and denouement.

Of course, with this film touted as a reunion thirty years in the making for its two co-stars, Hanks and Wright have aged a bit, though their characters' story spans decades. Zemeckis uses AI to recreate their faces from teenage through retirement in ways that may seem off-putting to some, but actually look better here than the usual prosthetic make-up. I've never been bowled over by the kind of special effects Zemeckis is known for - from Michael J. Fox's hoverboard in Back to the Future to the integration of historic footage in Forrest Gump. Most of these tricks do little more than create superficial interest, while often detracting from the movie's overall message or theme.

If you've seen the trailers, you know the gist. I'm not giving away any spoilers. Wright's character Margaret develops Alzheimer's and Hanks' dutiful Richard takes her back to the now-empty house they've lived in since they were teenagers, in the hope she'll remember their life together. It's almost as cheesy as the final scenes in 2004's romantic weeper, The Notebook, but lacks the emotional wallop that builds to that moment. Zemeckis' short, clipped scenes don't allow for much character development or any real attachment/identification to their plight, so - when at last the camera moves away from its fixed perch and shows us the rest of the house, including the exterior, it feels like an afterthought.

The exterior of the house we've watched for over a century, is as ordinary as the people who lived there. Maybe that's the point, but it seems like a cop out. In the NYTimes interview, Hanks and Wright were asked whether projects like Here, which take on a "sweep of history," have changed their perception of time. Wright's simple reply, "I feel like we're talking sense about who we all are." Huh? Now there's response befitting of the movie's many clichés.

But Hanks said something that, as a fellow sexagenarian, I understand: "I used to think a day was 36 hours long, and now I'm convinced it's only 18.....[Tme] is a very finite thing. And to squander it is a sin." Amen.

Too bad I wasted two hours of mine on this film.

Coming soon: If it's still playing here next week, I'm hoping to see the film I originally intended to to to today, Anora. And then I'm excited for A Real Pain, the new and much anticipated film from writer-director Jesse Eisenberg.