Directed by Danny Huston | Starring Anthony Edwards, Robert Mitchum, Lauren Bacall, Anjelica Huston
The Plot: A Breeze Blows into Newport—and Immediately Puts You to Sleep
Mr. North is one of those movies that arrives with a puff of polite literary air and a cast list that makes you think, Maybe this will be a charming, quirky gem! Instead, what you get is a painfully well-mannered snooze dressed in seersucker and manners. It’s like Harold and Maude if everyone was rich, white, and afraid of any actual plot.
The story, in theory, is about Theophilus North (yes, that’s really his name—nobody calls him “Theo” because even the characters in this movie are allergic to fun), a cheerful young Yale graduate who rolls into 1920s Newport, Rhode Island. He charms the locals, befriends the eccentric elderly, and—get this—starts getting a reputation for having healing powers.
That’s right. Healing powers. In a movie this beige.
Anthony Edwards: Goose Out of Water
Anthony Edwards stars as Theophilus “Mr.” North, a man so earnest he makes Mister Rogers look like a Vegas magician. Edwards is likable enough, but he’s asked to carry a movie that’s basically about being very polite while riding a bicycle in linen pants. He smiles, he listens, he quotes Emerson. He’s not so much a protagonist as a walking motivational mug.
Every scene he’s in is like being offered weak tea by someone who won’t stop complimenting your posture. He doesn’t have an arc. He just is. It’s like if Forrest Gump had no life experience and worked part-time as a New England life coach.
The Cast: Wasted Like Bourbon at a WASP Wedding
You’ve got a loaded cast here. Robert Mitchum plays a crusty doctor. Lauren Bacall floats around like a yacht in a fog bank. Anjelica Huston stares off into space like she’s wondering how she got here and when her next Addams Familycheck is coming in.
They’re all gifted actors, but the script gives them nothing to do. It’s as if the director hired a five-star chef to serve you toast. Bacall has two moods: slightly amused and ready for a nap. Mitchum delivers his lines like he’s recovering from a long weekend with Frank Sinatra’s ghost.
The Tone: Quirk Without Bite
There’s a paper-thin whimsy draped over the movie like a lace doily. Every interaction is “quirky,” but none of it sticks. You’ve got rich widows who need their auras adjusted. You’ve got tennis whites, sailing talk, and parlor room gossip. It’s like someone tried to write a Wes Anderson film after reading The Great Gatsby on cough syrup.
And don’t expect any actual stakes. The town begins to suspect that Mr. North’s healing abilities might be “witchcraft” or “dangerous,” but this is all handled with the kind of tension you’d expect from a town hall meeting about lemonade stand permits.
Cinematography: Postcard-Pretty Purgatory
Visually, the movie is gorgeous—if your idea of beauty is New England in perpetual golden hour. The seaside mansions are pretty, the costumes are crisp, and everything feels just slightly over-pressed. But after the fifth wide shot of Mr. North riding a bike past a gazebo, you start to wonder if this movie was secretly funded by the Rhode Island Tourism Board.
The “Powers”: Soothing Hands, Sleeping Viewers
So let’s talk about Mr. North’s healing powers. Basically, when he touches people, they start feeling better. That’s it. He’s like a human comfort blanket with really good skin care. There’s no explanation, no real development. People just feel nice around him—like a lavender candle with Ivy League credentials.
Of course, this causes mild panic among the Newport elite, because when you’re rich and bored, anything interesting is automatically a scandal. But don’t expect angry mobs or flaming torches—this is Newport. They settle their witch hunts over tea and passive-aggressive brunch.
The Direction: Huston, We Have a Problem
Danny Huston directed this based on a novel by his grandfather, Thornton Wilder. Which is sweet. It’s also like trying to turn a Hallmark card into a feature film. The pacing is glacial, the emotional stakes are invisible, and the whole thing feels like an obligation—like a school project you only finish because you promised your dad you’d try harder this semester.
There are occasional moments where you think, Okay, maybe this will turn into a satire… and then—nope, more smiles, more whispers, more vague platitudes about being a good person.
Final Verdict: The Most Polite Waste of Time You’ll Ever Endure
Mr. North is not a movie—it’s a genteel coma. It’s the cinematic equivalent of an overlong dinner party where no one laughs too loudly and the biggest drama is someone misplacing the sherry. It wants to be charming and magical but ends up being flat and forgettable. You’ll walk away thinking, I feel nothing... but in a well-mannered way.
Rating: 3/10 – Theophilus North may heal others, but he damn sure put my interest to death.
