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Maguire plays Sam Cahill, a straight-laced guy on a path to being a career Marine. A few days before a redeployment to Afghanistan, he reunites with his troubled younger brother Tommy (Gyllenhaal), fresh from a jail stint. At a family dinner the evening of Tommy's release, Sam is asked about leaving behind his wife, the aptly named Grace (Portman), and two daughters. He plainly explains, 'It's my job. His job turns terrifying when he's taken hostage with another soldier, both men practically left to waste away. The military, unaware of Sam's whereabouts, assumes he's dead, and the Cahill family mourns.
Sheridan, with a screenplay by David Benioff (The Kite Runner, X-Men Origins: Wolverine), adapted from a 2004 Danish film, begins laying the groundwork for the type of gut-punch Brothers will become. The film follows two parallel paths: the brutal emotional battle at home and the horrifying nature of war in a faraway place. Sometimes, Sheridan uses it to show contrast: Grace, Tommy and the girls ice skate while Sam is locked away. Other times, the director layers one sad setting over a frightening one, and the tension takes your breath away.
When Sam returns home (not a spoiler, since the trailers show it), Brothers becomes a story of intense heartbreak, a drama that simply and effectively states that war can destroy everything. Sam can barely think about what's happened to him, never mind confess it. At the same time, a budding friendship between Tommy and Grace may be something more, but that's also not clearly discussed.
Sheridan is no stranger to characters facing adversity (just ask Daniel Day-Lewis), and he ratchets up the pressure. Luckily, he has the cast to do it. Maguire, who lost 20 pounds to portray post-war Sam, turns his character into a wide-open wound, a man changed profoundly, possibly lost forever. The weight loss already emphasizes Maguire's eyes; his choice to bulge them in fear, combined with simmering anger and verbal confusion, is downright scary as his mental state becomes more tenuous. We believe this guy's pain and paranoia, and understand that he may snap.
Gyllenhaal is often hanging on for the ride in Maguire's presence, but he has a transition of his own that he manages competently. Portman, a skilled performer since her preteen years, succeeds in what may be the toughest assignment of all, molding combinations of sadness, regret, fear, and pride. She takes on a grab-bag of down-deep emotions without overselling or giving too much away.
Also holding her own is ten-year-old actress Bailee Madison, who plays the Cahills' oldest daughter Isabelle with an astounding level of control and timing. Her talent is undeniable, and one can imagine the well-prepared Sheridan taking particular care with Madison and her role, particularly in a wildly edited scene in which a hardened Isabelle pushes her Dad's buttons. The problem is Sheridan and company too often rely on Madison's performance to pop open the waterworks and grab the audience's sympathies. We barely need the help.
A photograph in the film acts as a touching life milestone, changing meaning as the story progresses. It's a shot of Portman and Maguire as teens (composited?), looking awfully cute, and trying really hard to seem cool. As the past recedes and the future looks more uncertain, the picture hurts more -- much like the film itself.
