Review: "St. Vincent"

I think superior film acting is misunderstood – or, at least, often misidentified.

When we’re talking about adulation and awards, most of the attention tends to focus on “big” acting. That’s where the performers can display a whole lot of studied behavior and over-the-top emotion, or spew great dialogue at a furious clip. Think Denzel Washington in “Training Day” or Natalie Portman in “Black Swan.”

But some of the best cinematic acting is played close to the vest, using only subtle cues, and tends to get overshadowed by the more grandiose sort. Example: I remember watching “Awakenings” and everyone was raving about Robert De Niro’s tics and stammer. For me, the performance was emotionally vacant. Meanwhile, I thought Robin Williams was staggering, seeming to leak pain and loneliness out of his epidermis.

There are a few big moments to Bill Murray’s brilliant performance in “St. Vincent,” but what most struck me about the role was how brave and uncompromising it was. Most movies of this sort about cantankerous older men provide us a window to access his secretly cuddly soul. We feel the actor winking at us even as he parades the sturm and drang.

Not Murray. His Vincent McKenna is a man who is entirely true to himself, even if that truth is off-putting and abrasive. A drunk and a gambler, he doesn’t seem to have anything going on in his life beyond his decrepit Brooklyn house, his battered convertible Reliant K-car (complete with wood paneling) and playing the horses at Belmont Park – mostly poorly, which is why he’s perpetually strapped for cash, with a loan shark (Terrence Howard) circling.

Vin is a sour pill, and he knows it, embraces it, though he doesn’t necessarily delight in throwing his obnoxiousness in other people’s faces. Mostly, he’d just rather leave people alone, and have them return the favor.

This is perhaps the finest turn of Murray’s long career, and one certainly deserving of some attention from awards voters down the line.

The setup is that a newly single mom named Maggie (Mellissa McCarthy) moves in next door with her awkward young son, Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher), and Vin is pushed by necessity/opportunity to form a relationship with the kid.

They don’t meet under the best of circumstances: her moving truck smashes up his place, and they exchange unpleasantries. On the first day at his new Catholic school, Oliver has his clothes, phone and keys stolen, and can’t get into his house. Maggie works long hours as a medical scanning technician, so an ad-hoc arrangement emerges in which Vin babysits Oliver for $12 an hour. She needs a helping hand, he needs the cash and the boy needs a friend.

The pair bond while going to the track, imparting wisdom about standing up to bullies (aka, how to break a nose) and other manly arts.

Most movies of this sort quickly teeter over into rank sentimentalism, with somebody like Vincent softening up like mush in the warm glow of a golden-hearted kid. But Vin more or less stays the same, while it’s Oliver who opens up and grows. This is not so much a story about an old crank who has a change of heart, but one who lets the world into his self-imposed cocoon long enough to discover the reason he got that way.

First-time writer/director Theodore Melfi elicits some terrific performances from his cast. Murray is bleak and brilliant. Lieberher is studious and inquisitive as Oliver, because that’s the kind of child he is. McCarthy is so genuine and wonderful as a struggling everyday woman that I’m willing to forgive her for starring in and co-writing “Tammy.”

Chris O’Dowd has a nice turn as a remarkably upbeat priest/teacher at Oliver’s school, and Naomi Watts supplies enviable comic relief as a pregnant Russian hooker who exchanges services, and something more, with Vin.

“St. Vincent” is one of my favorite films this year. It’s got a lot of hard edges, but treats its characters as believable people who, despite their problems and pain, possess an inherent grace.

Review: "This Is 40"

Judd Apatow knows how to create amusing scenes, but as a storyteller he’s hopeless.

The prolific and popular comedy writer/producer/director employs a familiar circle of actors who are encouraged to ad-lib their scenes prodigiously. These are then linked together in an editing process that employs all the restraint of Homer Simpson in a donut factory.

For a sketch comedy show, that’s a great M.O., but for making movies it’s the equivalent of diarrhea.
His last directorial effort, “Funny People,” had a terrific first 80 minutes and then flushed itself down the toilet with an indulgent, overlong visit with the main character’s ex-girlfriend, played by Apatow’s real-life wife, Leslie Mann.

His latest, “This Is 40,” moves Mann from the supporting role to the spotlight, with Paul Rudd playing her husband as the pair deal with twin monster-sized mid-life crises.

Its demise is not quite so systematic as “People,” since you can’t pinpoint an exact moment when the film runs off the rails. But gradually you come to realize you’re trapped watching a bunch of people you don’t like who stopped being funny a while ago.

Knowing Apatow’s estrangement from the concept of brevity, I resolved to go into “This Is 40” not fretting about its length, and just let the story come to me. Finally, when it seemed like it was reaching a point of natural denouement, I looked at my watch. Just over an hour had gone by – meaning I was still less than halfway through the film’s interminable 134 minutes.

Some of the film’s best moments come from the supporting characters, of which there are plenty, played by Apatow mainstays like Jason Segel as well as newcomers like Albert Brooks, Lena Dunham, Melissa McCarthy and Chris O’Dowd. (Many of the latter have appeared in projects Apatow produced.) They get to come on stage, have a nice moment of mirth or pathos, and then dance off. Brooks in particular shines.

The problem is the main characters, Debbie and Pete. They start out as quirky and end up as contemptible. When bad things begin to happen, I found myself cheering on the forces arrayed against them.

Example: their tween daughter gets caught in a nasty Facebook fight with a boy, and then Debbie confronts the online oppressor and browbeats him into crying. Later the boy’s mother (McCarthy) gives Pete a tongue-lashing, and he responds with a violent, misogynistic screed so black-hearted that I rooted for her to bury her fist deep in his sinuses.

For a pair of folks who are both about to turn 40, Pete and Debbie are remarkably juvenile emotionally. Their relationship feels like an ironic sparring between college chums that never progressed into any real emotional depth. Love is more conceptual than operational for them.

They’re indifferent parents at best, greeting their two daughters with harried looks of exasperation, as if having kids is the ultimate downer. Apatow offspring Maude and Iris play the kids, turning this movie into a championship-level nepotism jubilee. The Apatow young’uns are not bad performers, but their dad’s screenplay only provides them with one speed/volume at which to play: the older one is constantly hollering, the younger one always teasing.

The family is faced with some pretty dire financial problems, but it’s hard to summon much sympathy for them, since Debbie and Pete each seem to work about five hours a week. Meanwhile, they spend like bandits – expensive cars, weekend getaways, personal trainers, etc.

He runs a small record label that is unsuccessfully flogging a nostalgia rock act, and she owns a fashion boutique where she occasionally drops by to check in on her two warring employees (Megan Fox and Charlyne Yi), one of whom is stealing.

The humor is pretty raunchy, although as with other Apatow flicks sex is more discussed than performed. Many scenes end up feeling more icky than amusing – as when Pete goes spread-eagle and insists Debbie inspect a growth in his… um, nethers.

There are some funny moments in “This Is 40,” but what there is tends to be clustered toward the beginning. Until Apatow learns how to get a grasp on story structure, his movies will continue to wallow in self-indulgence.

1.5 stars out of four