A mash up of You’ve Got Mail and Eddie and the Cruisers.
Okay, not really. But kind of. Rose Byrne is a curator of the historical society in a small English seaside town, and she lives with her professor boyfriend Chris O’Dowd, whose primary passion is the work and life of an alt rock phenom of the 80s, Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke). Hawke went into hiding at the height of his underground fame, thus making him even more of an enigma and obsession for O’Dowd and like-minded fans.
O’Dowd clearly loves Hawke more than Byrne, and his primary focus is on the blog he manages which is solely dedicated to his idol. In a fit of pique, Byrne posts a scathing review of Hawke’s work, and Hawke alights from his bunker to respond, thereby sparking an intimate long distance connection.
To tell more would be a true spoiler. This is a charming, very funny, clever film. Byrne (the hardest working woman in pictures) is her winning self and O’Dowd painfully funny, but Hawke steals the film as the jaded, regretful but still hopeful former “star” (we are not talking David Bowie; think Jeff Tweedy, after the first two Wilco records, just disappearing). Chock full of wry observations on hero worship, the digital age, the concept of family, and intimacy.
I knocked this down half a point because Byrne has a sister who is just a little too “on” and the film ends rather abruptly.
Robert Benton was no slouch (Kramer v. Kramer, Places in the Heart). Indeed, he wrote and directed one of my favorite films (Nobody’s Fool), and I could watch Paul Newman sell Tang. Throw in Susan Sarandon, Gene Hackman and James Garner (and super young Reese Witherspoon and Liev Schreiber) in a noir-ish tale of an old Hollywood murder and it seems can’t miss. But miss Twilight does. Sarandon is too young for the role of the former grand dame and the love story between her and Newman is unconvincing. Worse, the mystery is just not that intriguing. Still, the picture has Newman, who is wry and world-weary in that Newman way. Hackman is fantastic, as always, and Garner is just the right mix of folksy and sinister.
As for Still of the Night, it alternates between psychological thriller and moody, smoldering romance. It is terrible at both and badly cast as well. Roy Scheider is best caustic and as a man of action, a terrible choice for a quiet, introverted psychologist. Meryl Streep as a breathy young ingenue wrapped up in a murder is all wrong. She’s many things, almost all good, but carnal and smoldering ain’t in her bag of tricks. Her performance nears a Saturday Night Live character.
The film is drab and clunky. It has aspirations to be Hitchcockian, but it lacks all of the care. The romance is preposterous, and the score is sickly sweet. And as a whodunit, the killer can really only be one person.
Guy Ritchie doing what Guy Ritchie does best, this is a rollicking, smart and often times hilarious caper film. The cast is fantastic, Michelle Dockery (Downton Abbey) personifies the modern meld of sexy and capable, the soundtrack rocks from the opener and Hugh Grant, who I used to deride as a pouty, hair flipping, mincing one-trick pony, shows why he is perhaps one of the best character/lead actors around.