‘Sixty Six’: Ain’t That a Kick in the Head
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.
Something about England — and English filmmakers — lends itself naturally to the plucky, can-do comedy. Maybe it’s the deep-seated cultural memory of living on rations and bravely scraping by in the years during and immediately after World War II. Maybe it’s inspired by the hardships faced by striking laborers in the Thatcher era. Maybe it’s because they still eat baked beans for breakfast.
Given that the pound sterling is worth more than the euro right now, and that the once brilliantly grubby East End has been transformed into a yuppie breeding pool, who knows whether the cheeky-humble tradition of entertainments that stretches from “Wish You Were Here” to “The Full Monty” and even to “Hot Fuzz” will exist in another 20 years?
For now, at least, such fare is secure, and Paul Weiland’s “Sixty Six,” which opens Friday, is firmly in the mold. Mr. Weiland’s gentle family saga, which he based on his own experience as a boy, is akin to a Jewish version of “The Wonder Years” set in Britain, as 12-year-old Bernie (Gregg Sulkin) anticipates his looming bar mitzvah with every ounce of his bespectacled, baby-fat-laden being. Dreaming of an extravagant fete with hundreds of guests and an orchestra — the better to erase jealous memories of his older brother’s coming-of-age blowout — perpetual underdog Bernie also is laying major stress on his struggling parents. His milquetoast father, Manny (Eddie Marsan), may lose his grocery store as a new market lures away his customers, even as Bernie’s relentlessly optimistic mother, Esther (Helena Bonham Carter), does her best to keep her boy’s ambitions viable.
But everything is cast into doubt when England’s soccer team goes on the march for the 1966 World Cup title. If they make it to the finals, the big game will be played on the same day as Bernie’s bar mitzvah.
This news is crushing. And much of the comedy, related through a prism of nostalgic period scenes accompanied by Bernie’s voice-overs, stems from the boy’s efforts to jinx the national soccer team through juvenile stabs at black magic, negative thinking, and finger-crossing. Nothing seems to work. As England rolls to victory after victory (despite the assurances of his parents) and the country becomes consumed with World Cup fever, all Bernie manages to do is develop a case of asthma. This brings him into the philosophical orbit of Dr. Barrie (Stephen Rea), who offers advice and a bit of an escape from the family drama — though absolutely nothing can pop the solipsistic bubble in which Bernie dwells.
Mr. Weiland, who also directed the poorly received “Made of Honor,” owns neither a subtle touch nor an aesthetic metabolism capable of processing the surplus of sugary sentiment he stirs up. But as things go from bad to worse for Bernie and his family, the film’s excellent cast makes it easy to sympathize — even for those of us who do not consume baked beans before noon.