When a nearly half century old letter from John Lennon is uncovered bearing advice of the kind of musician he could have been, an aging, has been (Al Pacino) playing tired hits to a room of old ladies and going home to his disloyal trophy wife while blowing coke in his Beverly Hills mansion decides to get his ship in shape and contact his estranged son (Bobby Cannavale). Danny Collins is hackneyed cutesy tripe that goes to inconceivably trite places and yet another bad trip for Pacino that further evidences that good actors are only as good as the writers, which goes the same for Cannavale, Annette Bening, and a poorly cast Christopher Plummer, none of whom walk away unscathed.
* 1/2 out of ****
