Sometimes a film is successful despite its flaws. Such is the case with
St. Vincent (2014), which I watched last night courtesy of Netflix. It is the story of a grouchy Brooklynite, a role tailor made for Bill Murray. He is on the skids, broke, drinking and smoking too much. He's thrown a lifeline when a single mom and her pre-teen son move in next door. He agrees to "babysit" a couple hours a day, filling the gap from the end of the school until the woman returns from her job as a nurse. He does not change his ways, taking the boy to bars and the race track. Sure, this is Hollywood excess, where sinning is shrugged off as really no big deal as long as there are a few good deeds of penance, but it's heart is in the right place in the same way
Little Miss Sunshine (2006) is. The cast is outstanding. Melissa McCarthy plays the mom, a departure from the comedic roles she usually undertakes. Naomi Watts' abundant talent raises the stereotypical role of a pregnant, Russia-born hooker/stripper to lofty heights. Jaeden Lieberher is as touching as the kid as he was three years later in
The Book of Henry (2017), another contrived story that somehow manages to hit home. I was impressed most by the performance of teacher/priest Chris O'Dowd, a rare positive portrayal of Christian clergy in a tinsel town flick. It was written and directed by Brooklyn-born Theodore Melfi. Unfortunately, there isn't much info on him on the web. Since the protagonist is from Sheepshead Bay, my neighborhood, I wonder if Melfi is too. While viewing, I've always found it difficult to pinpoint where filming took place, and that was the case again here. Despite the predictable material, I got misty during the kid's warts and all school presentation, a nomination for sainthood that reveals a lot about the curmudgeon's history. 84,000+ users at IMDb have rated
St. Vincent, forging to a consensus of 7.3, which is on the money by me. It runs less than two hours and has a soundtrack baby boomers would enjoy. I believe its appeal is broad. A cynic might scoff, which is ironic, as the main character is one. Here's a still of McCarthy confronting Murray:
It was a glorious day, the sunshine taking the bite out of the wind which has persisted all week. My thanks to the woman who bought
Beyond Fear by Dorothy Rowe and
Night by Elie Wiesel, the umpteenth copy that has sold at the floating book shop; and to the woman who selected
Gorgias by Plato and
How to Stop Worrying and Start Living by Dale Carnegie; and to the woman in a wheelchair, who purchased five CD's. She'd just returned from the parade and was dressed appropriately for St. Patty's Day, green derby and all. A young woman came out of nowhere with a donation of about 30 books, a marketable mix of fiction and non, and refused my offer of books as payment - my thanks. And a middle age woman I expected arrived just before closing with about 15 thrillers, a blend of hard and soft cover. As a thank you I suggested she take a few books. She took two anthologies of the supernatural and my own story collection
A Hitch in Twilight. I was glad to surrender it, as she is an avid reader who will at least give it a shot.
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