Danny Collins reveals itself right at the beginning — “Kind of based on a true story a little bit.”
They had to try, so hard. And sound like it, so hard.
For when the John Lennon (the emphasis theirs) is the fulcrum — or more precisely an actual letter written by him — you can’t be flippant about anything while still making a film about an ageing rock star who has lived flippantly.
That’s what ails this film written and directed by Fogelman (an old screenwriting hand, this is his directorial debut). In Pacino he has a star who has let himself go in quite the way of his main character, and the actor — all dyed hair, fake tanned, unbuttoned shirt, and colourful jackets — gives it his best shot in some time. However, Danny Collins doesn’t have the faith Pacino displays, making a safe and sound film where the aforesaid rock star neglects his son, does drugs, drinks at length, prances with teens, ignores his music, drops out of a tour, and is never very far from redemption.