St. Vincent

**Spoiler Alert**

Director: Theodore Melfi/Starring: Bill Murray, Melissa McCarthy, Naomi Watts, Jaeden Lieberher, Terrence Howard and Chris O'Dowd

First time director Theodore Melfi's St. Vincent, which he also scripted, introduces a motley assemblage of potentially amusing characters, then quickly consigns them to situations and behaviors as readily packaged and ready to serve as vending machine candy bars. One could chart the story knowing only the characters, who are more archetypes than people: the crusty old slob who drinks and gambles too much and is hostile to his neighbors but has a heart of gold; the single, working mother who has just moved in next door and has a son who is bullied at school; the street-wise, struggling prostitute who services the old slob but has a heart of gold; and an underworld figure who is after said slob for a gambling debt but doesn't have a heart of the shiny, precious metal. The only character who doesn't come in a box happens to be the one we seldom see; a Catholic school brother/elementary school teacher with a mildly sarcastic sense of humor whose class is made up of Jews and agnostics, who are welcomed warmly. Can you already see where this story will go?

Bill Murray plays Vincent, a Vietnam veteran who spends his days at the track and on a bar-stool. His shabby life is interrupted one day by a single mother named Maggie (Melissa McCarthy) and her son Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher), who move in next door. The movers Maggie has hired accidentally knock a branch from Vincent's tree down onto the hood of his car. Vincent angrily demands compensation from Maggie, who is miffed at her neighbor's un-neighborliness.

As Maggie's hospital job leaves her son in a latch-key state, Vincent reluctantly allows Oliver to stay at his house after school but only for an agreed-upon wage he negotiates with Maggie. The moment Vincent and Oliver meet, we already know where the relationship will lead. We know Vincent will help Oliver with the bullying he faces at school and that irresponsible visits to the track and the bar will follow soon after. We also know that the symbolic father/son relationship will be beneficial for both as Vincent's parental instincts are roused and Oliver learns to stand up for himself.

The other story developments are as predictable. We know what will become of the Russian prostitute Daka; played by Naomi Watts, whose accent is as broad as the Mississippi River. It's almost a narrative imperative that Vincent will eventually help her and become a kind of surrogate husband.

The one character I had hoped to see more of was Chris O'Dowd's Brother Geraghty. He is fairly amusing the few times we see him and something funny always seems to spill out of his mouth. Terrence Howard plays Zucko, the man who threatens Vincent for welching on gambling debts. I can't imagine his role was imagined any further than his name. His character lacks humor, personality and even the requisite menace his line of work demands. He is barely there and I wondered if the best parts of the character ended up under a table in the editing room. Watts' accent grates after awhile and generates little humor.

Some scenes were genuinely funny and the film never strays far from its comedic tone. But it lacked the anarchic energy the preview promised. When we learn Vincent has a dementia-afflicted wife in a nursing home, what little edginess the film still has drips into a pool of sentimentality. It isn't enough that he helps Oliver's self-esteem or becomes his surrogate father or that he takes on Daka's problems too; he must be the saint the title demands he be. It doesn't exactly pain me to admit it, but saints are often a drag.

In the end, Vincent, Maggie, Daka, and Oliver come together to become a family of sorts. No surprise there.

If the film had been funny throughout, its sagging characterizations and story might have been made irrelevant. Comedic talents like Murray, McCarthy and O'Dowd can't quite distract us from the film's flaws. Maybe if Vincent had been more sinner than saint, the film might have established and maintained a comic edge.

I noticed the film was only playing in one theater in the area. Maybe industry barons Bob and Harvey Weinstein, the producers of St. Vincent, knew something about their own film that we unsuspecting ticket-buyers don't. Bob and Harvey, you should have trusted your instincts; you should have sent the flick straight to DVD. I know I would have conferred sainthood on you if you had.