The Bishop on Thumbsucker
If the Bishop might be so bold as to posit one inclination far too common amongst the young independent North American writer-directors of the last 15, or even 30, years, it is an almost pathological love of restraint. No doubt this is a reaction to Hollywood excess; and as one who largely resists the urge to take the top off the cognac until the sun is at least a yard or so over the yardarm, the Bishop concurs that this is a laudable goal. But when it’s time to have a drink it’s time to have a drink, and all too often the cinematic result of this penchant is more un-statement than understatement—the dramas ain’t dramatic, the funnies ain’t funny—and, more often than not, watching one of these fillums is like walking through a friend’s front door expecting to discover a tastefully furnished apartment, only to find two cardboard boxes, a mattress and a lamp. Todd Solondz, Wes Anderson and, at his intermittent worst, Jim Jarmusch spring to mind.
A genuine knack for the less-is-more approach is probably as spartan a gift as one is likely to find; but if it can be taught, the Bishop directs the American moyen garde to the first nine-tenths of Thumbsucker, wherein a thing or two might be learned. Here is a measured single malt with just the splash of water, only in its final minutes succumbing to the urge to grab the Johnnie Walker Black and gulp the whole thing down with Coke. It is a cocktail of intentions not so much foiled as ill-formed, hopes not so much dashed as dismissed, and conversations not so much not finished as never really started.
Seventeen-year-old Justin Cobb is nervous, and sucks his thumb. This is irrelevant. He is diagnosed, rightly or wrongly, with ADHD, prescribed drugs, and gains confidence. He becomes disenchanted, throws out the drugs, and relents to a state somewhere in-between. He is, throughout all, deeply concerned that he, his parents, and just about everyone else is not quite happy enough; but it is clear that this is only the sort of teenage fussing one never really grows out of.
In the world of the film, almost nothing is given away. Yet there is always the sense that it is there to be given away—the cellar, not often visited, is not, as in Spanking the Monkey, Welcome to the Dollhouse and the like, dry. And, while the balance between au natural and eau du quirky is sometimes uneasy, filmmaker Mike Mills is not afraid, thank heaven, to do funny things in his quest to be funny.
The awarding of awards for ensemble casts is an idea so silly it could only have been thought up by committee, but if such a thing were ever useful, it is useful here. Vincent D’Onofrio is a refreshing, pleasantly uncertain vodka tonic to the twitching, Ritillin-infused OP rum he plays on TV, while Lou Pucci, with one of the most characteristically teenage-and-American voices the Bishop has heard, would make a fine young California Riesling: doing quite a bit with not much, generic yet somehow distinct, and lasting well enough over the stretch. It is only when he places the title thumb in his mouth that he seems to be acting. Kelli Garner, as his paramour, recalls for the Bishop certain of the recent Burgundies: airy, precise, and lovely. And the addition of Keanu Reaves teaches a singular lesson in casting. His slightly ridiculous, pontificating orthodontist works because one is always aware that this is Keanu Reaves, an almost charismatic actor who, when out of his element, just about defines the word ridiculous; here, with artificially deep voice, characteristic clumsiness, and good-humoured sense of self-awareness, he brings comic timing that beats in 5/4 instead of the usual common time—and reminds one that even a shandy is the right drink if the weather is fine. His character could have been played by no-one else.
Tilda Swinton, finally, must be congratulated as an actor willing to take risks. For much of the film she rings slightly false; this is because she has stayed altogether true. She seems, in the early going, too lofty or insufficiently daffy as a mildly dissatisfied, celebrity-obsessed suburban mother, but events bare her choices out. And, of course, a good red must be allowed to breath for a little while.
Speaking of which . . .
A genuine knack for the less-is-more approach is probably as spartan a gift as one is likely to find; but if it can be taught, the Bishop directs the American moyen garde to the first nine-tenths of Thumbsucker, wherein a thing or two might be learned. Here is a measured single malt with just the splash of water, only in its final minutes succumbing to the urge to grab the Johnnie Walker Black and gulp the whole thing down with Coke. It is a cocktail of intentions not so much foiled as ill-formed, hopes not so much dashed as dismissed, and conversations not so much not finished as never really started.
Seventeen-year-old Justin Cobb is nervous, and sucks his thumb. This is irrelevant. He is diagnosed, rightly or wrongly, with ADHD, prescribed drugs, and gains confidence. He becomes disenchanted, throws out the drugs, and relents to a state somewhere in-between. He is, throughout all, deeply concerned that he, his parents, and just about everyone else is not quite happy enough; but it is clear that this is only the sort of teenage fussing one never really grows out of.
In the world of the film, almost nothing is given away. Yet there is always the sense that it is there to be given away—the cellar, not often visited, is not, as in Spanking the Monkey, Welcome to the Dollhouse and the like, dry. And, while the balance between au natural and eau du quirky is sometimes uneasy, filmmaker Mike Mills is not afraid, thank heaven, to do funny things in his quest to be funny.
The awarding of awards for ensemble casts is an idea so silly it could only have been thought up by committee, but if such a thing were ever useful, it is useful here. Vincent D’Onofrio is a refreshing, pleasantly uncertain vodka tonic to the twitching, Ritillin-infused OP rum he plays on TV, while Lou Pucci, with one of the most characteristically teenage-and-American voices the Bishop has heard, would make a fine young California Riesling: doing quite a bit with not much, generic yet somehow distinct, and lasting well enough over the stretch. It is only when he places the title thumb in his mouth that he seems to be acting. Kelli Garner, as his paramour, recalls for the Bishop certain of the recent Burgundies: airy, precise, and lovely. And the addition of Keanu Reaves teaches a singular lesson in casting. His slightly ridiculous, pontificating orthodontist works because one is always aware that this is Keanu Reaves, an almost charismatic actor who, when out of his element, just about defines the word ridiculous; here, with artificially deep voice, characteristic clumsiness, and good-humoured sense of self-awareness, he brings comic timing that beats in 5/4 instead of the usual common time—and reminds one that even a shandy is the right drink if the weather is fine. His character could have been played by no-one else.
Tilda Swinton, finally, must be congratulated as an actor willing to take risks. For much of the film she rings slightly false; this is because she has stayed altogether true. She seems, in the early going, too lofty or insufficiently daffy as a mildly dissatisfied, celebrity-obsessed suburban mother, but events bare her choices out. And, of course, a good red must be allowed to breath for a little while.
Speaking of which . . .
posted by Salisbury at 12:43 am
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