RIORI Vol 3, Installment 94: Jake Kasdan’s “Orange County” (2002)


15754842_PA_Orange-County


The Players…

Colin Hanks, Jack Black, Catherine O’Hara, John Lithgow, with Schuyler Fisk, Lily Tomlin, Harold Ramis and Kevin Kline.


The Story…

Ah, SoCal. Perfect place for sun, surf and simply goofing off. Ideal for your average high school grad…if you wanna go nowhere fast.

After a tragedy in his young life, Shaun snaps to reality right quick. He figures out almost too late that there’re more to life than sun, surf and simply goofing off.

There’s the Great American Novel to write!


The Rant…

What seems like a lifetime ago I dreamed of being a writer. Well, “dreamed of” may be a bit inaccurate. You’re reading this blog I’ve been toiling at for over 6 years. Most of it contains words. I suppose you could claim RIORI as writing. Y’know, like the comments section on a YouTube channel, or the blurbs on Facebook.

I, then/still demanded paper. Remember paper? It’s not just for your stinky ass anymore. It’s been also used in books. Hypertext with ink. You know. I wanted to write books. Big novels all about the human condition and short stories all about, well, the human condition. And robots. Always enjoyed science fiction.

I wanted to write like my author idols did. Carver, Vonnegut, Bukowski, Ellison and King. Create creeping tales of the desperate and torn characters on their quest for self-reliance, truth and maybe even robots. Didn’t really pan out that way. I have a few struggling manuscripts gathering dust on a thumbdrive somewhere, and a clutch of ancient short stories taking up rent on my hard drive forever. At least they’re finished. And one novel, actually. And if I have to edit the 500-plus thing one more time into the creek she goes.

Writing is tough stuff. I screamed back in my Finding Forrester installment BCE that writing is a chore. A craft. That being said it takes years of ink to figure it out. Find a voice. Find a style. Find a publisher. Takes a lot of time, anxiety and alcohol (which may explain all my typos). Not an easy venture. Worthwhile maybe, but never easy.

Here’s a tale from the vault: post-grad 1998. I was big into the sadcore band Galaxie 500. Obsessed would be e better term. I had a germ of an idea based around some disparate couple from the 90s falling all over each other at a dying Galaxie 500 club date at a bar I was at in Colorado. From humble beginnngs do legacies start.

Fast forward to 2013. The short story bloated to a 500-plus page novel (might of mentioned that). A lot of the human condition poked its ugly head from the sewers. Got out of control. It’s complete, but totally not ready to publish.

Anxiety, remember? Every writer is driven by fear. Is this right? Was that right? Where’s the wine (worked for Bukowski)? None of it is easy. Writing is a craft and not a gift. Even that lyrical prose of Fitzgerald took a long time to weave between holding Zelda’s hair and assuring her Earth wasn’t Neptune. There’s always writers’ block.

What I am getting at? Besides my S/F fetish I love reading and writing as a wonderful outlet. All you ametuers like me dig that score. Think about it beyond the basic words-on-paper final product. The creation. You build worlds. Characters to do your bidding. Vent. Explore places you’ve never been, or perhaps ever. As a writer you get to play God (a wonderful example of this paradigm is Stephen King’s short story “Umney’s Last Case” from his Nightmares And Dreamscapes collection. Check it out; I’ll wait).

*whistling*

All sounds pretty sweet, right? But it is not easy. When you get to wallow in some literary success it is rewarding. And all that time churning it out to reward a friend or stranger. But Connery put it best to his young charge Rob Brown:

“Women’ll sleep with you if you write a book?” Jamal asked.

And Forrester replied, “Women will sleep with you if you write a bad book!”

With a female shaped like an ampersand. Swaddled in Nestle’s Crunch. And hopefully with a willing vag.

Crude? Yes. True? Affirmative. There is glamour in writing, even with mediocre work (looking at you, Danielle Steele and/or John Grisham, who both have yachts). From what I’ve seen Big Deal writers can get the rock star treatment. Book signings with a queue of rapturous fans going out the door and onto the freeway. At events like sci-fi conventions, certain writers are treated like royalty, up on stage with a panel of their peers, geeky slobbering audience hanging on every word. Heck, my buddy Stephen King holds a contest to have a campfire with some lucky fans to exchange scary stories.

But I’ve writing to be a humble, lonely craft. Mostly because it is not easy, but it also takes its toll on one’s imagination. That is the hardest part. Getting lost. Losing sight of the story, which often leads to writers’ block, which is even harder to cope with. Look at me: every novel I started is still in a holding pattern. Low-grade writers’ block. It happens from time to time, which is another aspect of the craft of writing makes it not so easy. Example? I’ll mention my main man Stephen King again. He’s knows some sh*t. He explained in his bio that when block hits, he goes for a long walk to mull things over. A significant time he did his walk (and it didn’t involve any auto accident) was back in the 70s when was laboring over his tome in progress, the jillion-pages of The Stand. He hit a rut and went for his walk, then came across a solution.

Spoiler (as if you read anything on paper anyway).

Blow up the protags. He then carried on his apocalyptic vision. You do what you gotta do. Namely find the right inspiration to alleviate the not easy part of writing. It’s what gets you started, what keeps you going and above all your environment. Hopefully a comforting, clear one. Like a walk in the woods. Or curled around a craft beer at your local watering hole. Or even the beach.

When the curls are massive…


Shaun (Hanks) has a kind of dilemma.

Senior year. Time to goof off with a vague sense of leaving the nest and pursuing a future. But the surf beckons, as does beer busts, canoodling with his girlfriend and getting a tan. But even a beach bum such as Shaun knows there’s more to life (especially after one of his best friends kicks it in a surfing accident). Life is short.

One afternoon on the beach, mulling over an existential crisis, Shaun comes across a beaten copy of Straight Jacket, a novel written by one Martin Skinner (Kline), a prof at the esteemed Stanford University. Shaun can’t put it down, and it inspires him towards a station in life: he decides to become a writer. If only to score a chance to be near his literary hero at Stanford.

That’s one part. The other part is this: his whacked out family. As well as his daffy guidance counselor (Tomlin) who inadvertently sent him down the river. Listen:

Shaun needs approval (and cash) to go to Stanford. Good luck there. Especially when his counselor f*cks up mailing his impeccable transcript to the wrong college. HIs mom (O’Hara) is too nuts with separation anxiety. His dad (Lithgow) is too much of a workaholic to care. His bro Lance (Black)? Perpetually hungover. Commence with the hair tearing. Stanford? So out of reach.

Until Shaun’s always upbeat girlfriend Ashley (Fisk) gets resourceful. Why not just drive out to Palo Alto and plead your case to Prof Skinner in person, Shaun?

So crazy it just might…


Orange County did not hold my attention. If you are folding laundry during your viewing of a movie, it is not doing it for you. I did and it didn’t.

The plot is razor thin, a throwback to 80s John Hughes’ films. How? His works almost exclusively being hinged on memorable characters. In fact, I think all his movies were character studies. The plots were simple. The Maguffins were direct. The cast were almost always misfits. Kasdan had a a lot of misfits to rearrange here, but the puzzle was missing a lot of pieces. Namely, no chemistry. Not a whit. These folks were wacky and funny and had no business sharing a scene together. Boom.

Harsh? Sure, but not as grating as the disjointed humor. Look, the plot for Orange has been used many times. Beat the clock. A good many Hughes films played this game also. Sixteen Candles, Ferris Beuller’s Day Off, Planes Trains And Automobiles and such. Even his script for perennial favorite Xmas comedy Home Alone was also based on this precept. It worked for those movies because they followed the three-act structure. Namely something will happen/something is happening/something will get resolved. This does not happen with Orange. It’s all one big first act, taking off and going nowhere.

There. Whew. Had to let that hen out.

However it can’t be ignored there was a movie there. Not much of a story, but a movie. It’s slightly goofy bent attracted my attention at first only soon after having saying. “Please, don’t be a ‘trying to be hip’ movie.” It tries, all right. I just could not escape the feeling that this has been done before (Brian Robbins’ mediocre The Perfect Score) and done better (eg: Steve Pink’s Accepted, also torn to shreds here. Wasn’t bad). I think I was correct there, which is unfortunate to have such a stale plot driven by—can’t be denied—a great and totally misused cast. It’s one thing to take a rinky-dink script and spin into a wonderful tale populated with talented unknowns. Kasdan did the direct opposite with Orange.

Let’s talk about the casting, shall we? You know how I do love to bitch about pacing and put the actors through the wringer. This may not have been his first role, but Tom’s kid Colin Hanks as the only port in the storm here; his first leading role and role of note. He holds his own well here with Orange as he holds all of Orange together. And only him. And that’s a shame. Not that Hanks doesn’t do the “frantic graduating high school senior” trope well (he does), but rest of the players either perform as wooden or stereotypical (eg: crazed suburban mom, workaholic dad, Leslie Mann being all slutty, etc). That being pointed out, I noticed certain “tics” Colin inherited from his famous dad. A big success in Tom’s acting is having a “rubber face.” That’s not some pejorative. Hanks has had a very expressive face (career wise) since the eldritch two seasons of “Bosom Buddies.” Tom’s best roles always involving him freaking out. I’m not saying Colin doesn’t “freak out” in Orange (he does), but the “tics” leading up to them smack of dad’s are even a little more pronounced, like he’s trying to channel angst from his stiff cast members. In other words, Colin’s the only honest actor here. Everyone else seems tired. Really bothered me.

Leseee. We have O’Hara here, the queen of pee-your-pants-funny freak out. She excels at crazy. Remember the Harry Belafonte scene in Beetlejuice? That was her. Manic mom on a quest for Culkin in Home Alone? That was her. Early SCTV? That was her. Boozy, opting for no medication codependent suburbia divorcee? Nope. At least not here with such a schtick. Over the top, that was the problem. I know that what described does not allow subtly, but the pill-popping divorcee mom popping pills to deal with the divorce has been done to death by lesser moms than O’Hara’s.  In sum, she was boring and predictable.

John Lithgow, perhaps one of the best, most versatile character actors ever, is a painfully wooden cipher here. Selfish, workaholic dad, divorced, trophy wife, ignored his son in love but not in money, soft ice cream machine in the sauna, etc. You’ve seen it before. You can seen Lithgow straining against the script, some light shining through, but I’d like to think his gruff nature as Bud is channeled frustration at his agent. I’m getting all forlorn here.

The only play-against type role here is that Jack Black wasn’t really funny. A first. His manna. Second billing. Moving on.

Tech stuff! This is the “Warning: Science Content” part of the installment, akin to when Mythbusters needed to explain the details of an experiment before the program took a left turn into the “What can we make go boom this week?” show. As a dejected fan, I’m not bitter. Anyway.

It’s curious. We have a great ensemble cast, misused. We have untried but sturdy lead who does a good job. We have a “name” actor betraying his accepted histrionics. The essential pieces of a movie hopped the tracks. All we’re really left with the director’s view of the lens. He did a good job. Jake Kasdan is the usually solid and reliable director Lawrence Kasdan’s son. Lawerence cut his teeth on ensemble pieces like The Big Chill and Silverado (one of fave westerns, and I really don’t like westerns). And like those movies, Jake’s Orange is not for lacking with an eclectic cast. Poorly used eclectic cast but good actors all around.

Kasdan the younger seemed the ideal guy to move a project like Orange right along. Jake cut his teeth directing episodes of the cult/sociological TV series Freaks And Geeks, and as the title says…well, you get it. The paradox of Orange laid not with the transparent plot nor even the rip-off acting as problem; I sniffed something else. Yes, it was the pacing and, yes it was rushed, but I don’t think “rushed” is the right word for what really went wrong here.

Orange was harried. There felt like something twisted was afoot in the film’s production, and I had an inkling what. Can’t prove it and don’t dispute me.

Something was trying too hard. Y’know how I like to badger my little badger pacing, like, all the damn time? This time out with something like Orange needed less editing. The movie unfolded like a cheesy Carver story. There could’ve been a new spin on the old trope here. Like I said, John Hughes made his career on this gimmick. Instead not unlike Carver’s editor Gordon Lish’s scorned earth approach to trimming the author’s stories, Orange was peeled down (ha!) till the bone was showing by editor Tara Timpone all jacked up on th’ Mountain Dew. The running time was barely 90 minutes, and that’s usually reserved for animated flicks. Wanna know what I think happened? Really raunchy and thereby pithy sh*t was slashed so Orange  could get a PG-13 rating instead of an R.

I hate that. It’s only done to net a larger audience. More money for less art. Sigh.

Enough playing Fox Mulder. Halfway through the movie I was forced to come to the conclusions that: 1) this is a “trying to be hip” movie. With dysplasia, 2) there might’ve been something seriously lost here due to the editing. Or wasted, 3) great cast, all for naught, and; 4) Lithgow is a genius. I’ve probably painted a real skewed view on how I received Orange. Duh. It was psychologically confusing (as was overall stupid, sorry). I know this installment has been a bit schizo. I felt Orange to be, besides very meh, an exercise in cognitive dissonance; two or more things were contradictory for me here and I got all bamboozled. And bored. And I need a Tylenol enema. Really reaching with this one.

Gordon Lish? Really?


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. Orange was boring, confusing and tired, even with the reliable (muted) goofiness from Jack Black. When the DVD crapped out in the third act, I didn’t even consider notifying Netflix. And yes, I am one holdout out of 3 million subscribers that still risk it with the damned discs.


Stray Observations…

  • “Do you want me to get naked and start the revolution?” Works every time.
  • “I’m gonna assume you read all my fanboy-ism for Stephen King. I know a lot of folks believe he’s kinda a hack. He can be, but I thank him all the same for being the first writer I ever paid attention to, regardless of his hack scary and sci-fi stories. Yes, he’s written sci-fi. And fantasy. And articles for the NY Times magazine. Top that, Dickens!
  • “You stole my Palm Pilot!” How to date a movie: mention period tech.
  • Barring Social D, I hate the soundtrack.
  • Notice the untamed eyelids?
  • adore Lithgow. So should you, philistine.
  • Notice the reclining statue?
  • And the socks?
  • “I gotta get outta Orange County.” Word.

Next Installment…

When evil rears is many hydra’d head to destroy the world, you better seek the aid of The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen!

Just bone up on your popular 19th Century fiction first.


 

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RIORI Vol 3, Installment 93: Jon Turteltaub’s “Disney’s The Kid” (2000)


The-Kid-poster-art


The Players…

Bruce Willis and Spencer Breslin, with Emily Mortimer, Lily Tomlin, Chi McBride and Jean Smart.


The Story…

Russ Duritz is not a happy man.

Sure, he lives in an nice home, drives a cool car and is above all a successful businessman. But all at the expense of being terminally stressed, insomniac, no social life and married to his job. His fortieth birthday is days away, and that is usually a time for reflection, which he does as one would bat away a gnat.

One strange night, Russ discovers an intruder in his posh pad. It’s just an eight-year old boy named Rusty. Before he calls the authorities Russ senses something odd about this kid. That and the toy plane he’s clutching. That and it feels all so familiar. Didn’t he have one of those planes when he was Rusty’s age? That was over 30 years ago.

Wait a minute.


The Rant…

My birthday’s coming up, and that always puts me in a philosophical mood. One more year down. How many more to go? Rate I’m going, this might be the final installment of RIORI. Hope not, not while Scarlett Johanson still breathes and squeezes into black latex. That’s not being charitable, BTW.

On the whole, birthdays are fun even if you don’t celebrate them. You can, rest-assured some dork at your workplace caught wind of your b’day and ordered some cake for your grey ass and all worker friends. Some of those worker friends might take you out for a few after shift for whist and beer. Good times. Maybe your fam will get you a gift. If you’re lucky another cake, ice cream this time. All nice gestures. Once more around the sun. You survived! And back to churning out shrimp cocktail the following day. Maybe this year will be better.

I don’t do anything for my birthday anymore. The last significant birthday deed was renting a car when I turned 25. Didn’t bother campaigning for the presidency at 35. By my record, I’d only rate as the valet at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Heard that diplomats drive some fly rides. All those Accords. When I turned 40 I went to work and got a gift of thorough indifference. Now get to deveining those 10 bales of shrimp.

I hate shrimp.

So I get all reflective come birthday time. Surprise, surprise I tend to get maudlin, too. If you’re a thinking person, you probably do too come that time of year. Reflecting on the time gotten away. Example, I never really wanted to be a chef. It was during the great recession when I made my decision to attend culinary school. The work I was outwardly qualified had dried up, so onto the fallback career. I had studied to be an educator, but again, recession. And we all know schools take the biggest hit when the well is running dry. In short I missed out, and consider that often.

Might be the same for you. The older of us I mean, when the Interweb required a plug. The years wear on and on, and your memory gets longer. You reflect on past glories (like that time at Polk High…), your salad years at college, planting pearls here and there, your high school crush and where they are (prob married with a litter of troglodyte kids. Stupid vaccinations). Former employment, good jobs and sh*tty ones alike. Heck, you learned a lot from both and maybe took away something (like a girlfriend, which was your undoing at your late place of employ. Oops. Love you, Kay). Even mundane stuff like your first piece of sh*t car you bought with your own money, drove to death for years until it imploded outside the DQ you used to take aforementioned crush to every Friday back then. Always check the fluid level in the radiator, always. A Yugo is a rather fragile piece of junk.

Or a fave read you didn’t quite get, but the journey was fun (I’m teething through my third stab at Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. A little luck would be welcome). Or a movie that stabbed you into reality. Or lost friends, lost jobsand lost opportunities. The stuff that makes you stare into the morning mirror. Face it, getting older sucks, but chewing over a lost past sucks even more. The truth digs, as does scraping that dull razor across your neck before you dash to work a devein more shrimp.

I hate shrimp. Did I mention that?

Let’s put the moaning and groaning on hold. When your b’day rears its mocking face again, it’s not all gloom and doom in said mirror. You’ve learned a lot, experienced a lot over the years. You are definitely wiser now than in your callow youth then. The mistakes and successes from the past has molded you into a fuller person. You’ve read a lot of cool books, seen many cool movies, met several cool people and rubbed your eyes enough to understand streaming Netflix’s Runaways into bingeworthy results in a dramatic loss of Cheetos. For shame. Still, another lesson learned based against the wisdom accumulated via many birthdays hence. Such knowledge is a good thing, esp considering your next job interview.

As a caution, I recall something I mentioned about my dislike for the cockroaches of the sea, AKA shrimp.

*sound of beer cans being stomped on*

Time to stop with the editorial. Truth be told, birthdays are ultimately there to remind you of stuff. Mortality. Fortune. Lessons learned and not. Where to go from here. But mostly reflection. And that reflection is usually couched in the existential, “What happened and what if?” I feel that “if” often revolves around the halcyon days of youth. Childhood. Then the scene was wide open. Green fields. Delightful ignorance. NES taking prioriety of school performance (as it should be!). Time to fritter time for wondering. Right? Them’s were the days. No bills. No work. No taxes. No parenting. Just you, sixth grade bullying and Mega Man 2.

But that “if” only occurs after many, many calendar pages get torn off and tossed in the dustbin. Nowadays you look around and weigh things. To cut it short, you wanted to be an astronaut. Now? You want fries with that? Okay, maybe it ain’t that bad. Fries are yummy, after all. I read once an editorial by the late, great s/f writer Harlan Ellison was his definition of success as an adult is an extension of your passions as a kid. I’m paraphrasing. Example: if your fave toy was Legos, you’d grow up to be an architect. If your rode a pet horse then, you’d be a rancher now. If you played drums all the way into high school you might, might find yourself opening for a fledging Gaslight Anthem in some dive bar in Devil’s Crevice, NJ. Stuff like that. Makes sense in a way.

But if you’re like me, birthdays find yourself under you own microscope. How’d I do? I hate to get all negative, but I think a great many of us, despite great reserve, start shaking their fists heavenwards, tempting a storm. Where did my life go? Where did my dreams go? Who the f*ck are the Gaslight Anthem?

The flipside is true also, I think. No matter one’s accomplishments, there’s a nagging voice all about, “Where do the years go?” You presently have a good job, money in the bank, a nice family, a reliable car and a vintage, working NES in the man cave. But is this all there is? I’m still not an astronaut, dammit.

Well, not yet.

Or not then…


Image is everything, at least according to Russ Duritz (Willis). He’s a special consultant, an “image consultant,” as it were. His job entails dispensing advice how to make the bad look good, both literally and metaphorically. Make the questionable appear legit. Recommend the right haircut. Russ makes his living based on artifice. And he does not care for it lately.

He might be good at his job of constructive schadenfreude, but it sure makes a lonely life regardless of his acumen. He’s fast approaching a Jerry Maguire moment, as well as an impending 40th birthday. It’s that age where youth is over, and now the past. Bitter nostalgia.

One night after sweating over his latest mark, the TV starts blaring. He follows a trail of popcorn and discovers some 8-year old kid (almost 9) named Rusty (Breslin) has set up shop in his living room. Russ grills him. Where did you come from? What are you doing here? Where’d you get the popcorn?

Rusty doesn’t know. He just found himself in Russ’ pad, dicking around with his toy plane, and feeling very lost. So Russ sweats the kid like one of his vainglorious clients. What’s your scene? You lost? Why do you look so damned familiar?

Well, after sharing stories (and scars, and birthmarks, and memories), it smells like Rusty is Russ, 30 years behind. A pudgy, curious, scared l’il Russ, had inexplicably been warped from the 1960s into the smack dab of the 00s. Face to face with his cranky future self. Russ wonders if there’s a lesson happening here.

A piece of that insists that many major errors went down between Rusty growing into bitter Russ. It’s a nasty image.

And where the crap is Chester anyway…?


Years ago, there was some Disney-smelling junket heavily promoting The Kid. From that I learned that WIllis took the role of Russ to be involved in a movie that his kids could watch with no grease. I guess after a stream of successful R-rated action/violent/weirdo movies like Pulp Fiction, 12 Monkeys, The Fifth Element, The Sixth Sense, and/or Unbreakable The Kid would be okay for Scout to see. She was 11 when Kid dropped. Okay there.

I’m willing to wager that Scout, Rumer et al knew Dad made his mark as a tough guy action type starring in defiantly R-rated movies. As well he did and still does. Kids ain’t dumb. Maybe the idea (ploy?) was to ingratiate his brood at take them on a family-friendy field trip. Is it a coincidene that Willis divorced from Demi Moore the year Kid was released? Probably. Makes me wonder though. Divorced dads circle the wagons often.

So what if this was a deperate plea. Before John McLane ever uttered a “Yippee-ky-ay, mofo” he was comedic actor. Really. I know. I’m just as surprised as you are. It’s hard to remember Wills as bumbling dick opposite Cybill Shepard on TV’s “Moonlighting.” Or his first starring movie role as loser-in-love paired against a very hot Kim Basinger in Blake Edwards’ screwball rom-com Blind Date (highly underrated in my book, esp if you dig Laurel & Hardy). Willis’ second onscreen role was in Sunset, a swipe at old school Westerns, where he played the role of Tom Mix, a bloated John Wayne-esque superstar who eventually quit Hollywood and ran away to join the circus. Literally. In simpler terms, Willis got his start as a clown. Then Hans and crew took over and looted Nakatomi Tower. Merry Xmas, an action stalwart is born, for good or for ill. What did Scout think, all too young to see Die Hard?

I’m betting nothing. Chances are she never saw Blind Date. Most of you didn’t either. Doesn’t matter. I’m also betting the laundry list above of Willis’ first foray into movies are on no one’s key Willis top tens. So for whatever reason—kiddies squealling or no—with Kid, Bruce jumped feet first back into the comedy meatgrinder. After over a decade of thrwarting terrorists, bouncing through time and rescuing his dad’s poop-stained watch it was time for a change. And, boy, Bruce needed a refresher course on how to use those atrophied comic chops.

For being promoted as an effervescent family comedy, Kid sure is dour. That’s what I tasted at the outset. A sort of mean-spiritedness. We understand Russ is not a happy camper, but to let his regret and passive-aggressive bullying drive his character does not a family friendly protag make. Willis is the anti-Willis here; no clowning to be seen. Heck, even John McClane was a warmer Joe than fussy Russ, and folks were trying to kill him. So now we’re supposed to get behind this guy ready to crack up? Yep. All lights are go. It’s a Disney film, after all. Do not stray from the course.

It’s a drudge, I won’t lie, but Kid is a drag from go, mostly from Willis being such a Sour Patch Kid. Between the decade of Blind Date and Die Hard 2, Willis lost all but his basal comic skills (read: one liners) essential to a flick like this. If Willis’ duty was to star in a family film with his kids in mind, chances are his kids didn’t want to smell and acrid flak. That being said, Willis is too brittle here to make a polite impression. Right, all our jobs suck, including the ones that do indeed suck. The action genre has been kind to Bruce, but not to his range. Watching this makes one pine for David Addison. Willis’ rusty gift for comedy is, well, very rusty here.

Speaking of Rusty, here we have an alternate, and a much needed foil at that. Young Spencer Breslin. Genius role of casting. Cutting to the meat, I expected the diminutive version of Russ to be petulant, whiny and addicted to his own boogers. I was pleasantly surprised, nay, shocked that Breslin was not only down to earth but dare I say endearing and (urgh) cute. Remember how Tom Hanks nailed the whole man-child schtick in Big? Right, except here with Rusty it flipped the script. How can such an honest, nice, mostly well-behaved 9-year old morph into the crank that is Russ?

Like I said, foil. Russ would not be such a hard case without Rusty nagging is aging ass. The movie’s called The Kid, right? That kid ain’t Rusty. It’s the idea Rusty represents to Russ: curiosty and wonder. Image consultant? Yeah, that’s a thing. Molding reality to fit your quarter. Artifice. Kids don’t pull that. If some yowwen steps up and tells you flat out you’re fat, you are. Enjoy those Cheetos, m’man. Breslin comes more across like, “Can I have some Cheetos?”

Russ can’t make a viable smoothie from Cheetos. You get it.

(BTW, Mortimer is totally out of place here. She’s the female. She’s just there. If you’re not doing anything to actviely drive the plot, back to the trailer with ya. That’s all. Moving on.)

This is a time-out-of-joint morality tale. Russ is a jerk, and his life reflects that. Rusty’s a simple kid, seeing the world how it is and how it should be a lot cooler. Right, right, right. If only Russ would owe up to his junior version and aim to change his wicked ways, would Rusty get…what? His toy plane back? The coolest dog ever? Nope. No wishes to made on Rusty’s star. Just Russ wrangling with his believed wasted past. It’s kinda bitter sweet, but it mostly tastes bitter.

Speaking of bitter (me? Nah), there are some pummeling fouls to Kid‘s execution. Drum roll…the pacing! It’s poor. I mean desititude. Things are waaay too drawn out, like we the audience are too slow to get what’s going on. Truth be told, most of the time wtching the movie I was, “Where are we going with this?” Kid meanders, and if you’re a thinking person you’re quoting Python halfway through the second act: “Get on with it!” The film’s all languid and lazy for its own ends, but to what? Zzz.

All that rot about pacing brings us to the third act. It takes forever to heat up, but it does. Thankfully. Some just reward crawling through this dour kiddie flick. If the only rest of the movie was like this, because the finale was actually pretty satisfying in it’s standard Disney way. For those of you wringiing your hands in anguish for the first two-thirds of the movie wondering when, oh when will Bruce ever warm up to Rusty, your patience is sort of rewarded.

We get to the bottom of this time-hopping mystery with gusto and info overload. After an interminable slog through “are we there yet?” director Turtletaub finally lets up have the scales fall from our tired eyes and see the drama and humor the story taunted us with all those zillion hours before. Chemistry blooms between our May-November pair of Billy Pilgrims. The guts of the matter is smeared all around, barely hinted at earlier. That doofy biplane bit gets explained (sort of). It’s like a three ring circus with all three rings shoved together into one big wad. I have to admit, I kinda enjoyed the resolution, disjointed as it was.

Sigh. “If I only knew then what I know now.” There’s a classic. Well, you gotta give Kid credit for turning that saw on is dull blade. Rusty knew more than Russ forgot on his march to middle age. Sure, unconvential, and at many times a bit to conceptual and overreaching. If this was the family flick Willis was aiming for, the scenarists should’ve steered clear from Sartre as a refernece.

Ah, well. Got the dog, right?

(That was not a spoiler! You saw that crapola coming a lightyear away!)


The Verdict…

Rent it or relent it? Relent it. Too. Damned. Slow. Especilly for a family film. From Disney, no less. Bad dog. Bad, bad dog.


Stray Observations…

  • “Nice tie.” Ugh.
  • Willis is a lefty? Huh.
  • “We are up.”
  • There’s a diner on the airstrip? Of course not (wink).
  • “I don’t have time to go crazy!”
  • The bullying thing. Is Russ’ grown up job a passive-agressive version of smacking down playground thugs from recesses long gone? I’d like to believe so.
  • So that’s the best way to use a treadmill. Smart kid.
  • Hey! Melissa McCarthy! Gotta start somewhere, right?
  • “Holy smokes!” That’s an expression which needs to come back.

Next Installment…

Colin Hanks needs to escape dull Orange County, and his enrollment into Stanford might be just the ticket out.