Bryan Cranston has a wonderfully expressive baritone tailor-made for voiceover work. Writer/director Robin Swicord capitalises on it, and mines it to unfortunately nauseating effect in Wakefield, her plodding adaptation of El Doctorow’s short story about a man who chooses to retreat in his attic for several months, away from his family.
With only himself to speak to for much of the film, Swicord has Cranston’s lead character dictate every inane thought that pops into his head. It’s a shame then he’s such terrible company.
Manhattan corporate lawyer Howard Wakefield (Cranston) is first introduced as a crotchety, miserable presence, growling his way through New York’s Grand Central Station on his commute home to his family. A freak power outage brings his train to a standstill, forcing him to walk to his quiet suburban neighborhood, which he evidently despises. Nothing seems to please this guy. Not even his doting and gorgeous wife, Diana (Jennifer Garner), whose calls he ignores despite her obvious concern over his whereabouts.
Finally home, he’s greeted by a raccoon in the driveway. He hates it too, and throws his briefcase at the animal. The critter escapes into his carriage house-turned-garage, so Howard goes after it to scare it out. In the seldom used and dusty room he’s drawn to a big window that looks into the back of his house, allowing him an ideal vantage point for spying on his clan, which he does with a twisted sort of glee. When he spots Diana calling the police, he chuckles.
It’s firmly established that Howard is a grade-A dick: a neglectful father and terrible husband with zero concern for those that love him. This is a man who takes pleasure in witnessing the pains of others.
Antiheroes can often make for fascinating protagonists. There’s no defending Travis Bickle’s actions in Taxi Driver, but Martin Scorsese probed his troubled psyche so deeply, it’s impossible not be lured in. In Howard’s case, he’s just written as a one-note asshole, not worth spending a second with, let alone two hours.
A series of flashbacks, depicting his emotionally abusive relationship to Diane and the twisted courtship that led to their rushed marriage (he stole her away from his best friend, just to prove to himself that he could do it), doesn’t humanize Howard, so much as further demonstrate what a controlling monster he is. Whatever midlife crisis that led him to act out so unconscionably is not explored, so his motivations remain annoyingly vague.
Garner lends the film what little heart it has, but she’s often only spotted from the attic’s window and rarely heard from.
Wakefield is a mostly one-man show, save for a severely misjudged last-minute introduction of two children with learning difficulties who come into his life to turn it around (don’t ask). The redemptive last act is painfully forced and wholly unwarranted.
Cranston acts the hell out of the role, like he’s performing Macbeth in a room. Unfortunately his commitment isn’t enough to sell Wakefield as anything more than a hollow character study, with an unappealing tool at its core.
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