by Joseph Rossi
Bill Murray proves once again that he is the man.
St. Vincent is magic. It’s a small film with small moments that resonate with grace and emotion. It casts its spell so well because of its star. Bill Murray has a lock on an Oscar nomination here. If he doesn’t get it, I don’t know how the academy rolls.
The film is about Vincent, an actual grumpy old man who lives in a dumpy house in Brooklyn. He owes money to loan sharks, is behind in the rent, pays for a pregnant prostitute (a game Naomi Watts) to service him and drinks like a fish. Not a nice man by any means. One day a single mother (Melissa McCarthy) and her son Oliver ( a star bound Jaeden Lieberher, I think and hope, ) move in next door. Vincent, not by reasonable choice, becomes the boys after school sitter. Vincent tries to teach the meek youngster about the real world, meaning, bars, boobs and spending some time at the race track.
Pretty standard stuff up until the mid point where we get to see why this crotchety man has let himself go. Not to reveal any plot points but it had me on the verge of tears and I’m not an easy cry. As the film progresses, we get under this man’s skin and behind his very expressive eyes. I’ve never noticed Murray’s eyes before. They are sad and soulful. Vincent, at points, seems to be always on the verge of tears, but then they turn to pools of anger and regret. It’s all relatable. Life has beaten this man down but it takes the kindness of his new ward to bring the real person out from behind the sad and angry curtain.
Director Theodore Melfi has made a little gem that proves that he knows what he is doing behind the camera. His cast brings it in spades ( as well as heavyweights Murray and McCarthy, Chris O’Dowd and Terrance Howard show up as well in small but pivotal roles). Go see this movie. In a time of massive production it’s nice to see a tiny miracle shine through.
