Spectacularly incompetent, Don’t Tell races into self-parody before the end of the opening credits. There we find patriarch Raleigh swigging whiskey while weaving his tractor through the corn. It stalls, and his heart follows suit. His constipatory grimace as he expires sets the tone for the broad nonsense that ensues. The three estranged kids reunite for the funeral and compare the dysfunctions brought on by Pop’s abuse. There’s Izzy (the vivid Bonnie Root), a mother and boozehound prone to Ecstasy-fueled motel screws, and Yale (!) (the soap-operatic James Wleck), a tanned, toned, tight-shirted, and not-so-believable farmer, who also happens to be accused of acquaintance rape. The innocuous lead, Rachel, is played by Alison Eastwood, Clint’s daughter and the associate producer here, who should re-watch a few of her dad’s films to see the value of underplaying and narrative economy. Perhaps next time she’ll drop the last-act incest angle.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on October 4, 2005