Ladies and gentile men, goys and girls, gather ye round and listen to the schmaltzy stale of the Montreal’s mightiest putz, it just won’t be the version you were hoping for. This marks the feature film debut of director Richard J. Lewis, and is an episodic schlep through the lifetime and memories of the titular character, Barney Panofsky. He’s a hard-drinking, cigar-chomping Canuck, with an eye for the ladies and a penchant for a hockey puck, and his story will range from love and loss, family and separation, to a rather unwelcome debilitating illness.
Viewing the trailer, you may well have been expecting a wholesome two-hour romp, the comedic serial of a schlimazel, a chronically unlucky so-and-so, with a deft turn by that master of North American misanthropy, Paul Giamatti. Oy vey, you would be wrong. Things take a sharp turn from the very get go, bypassing the warmth and humour the trailer promised and heading straight for the misery, dare I say boredom, of plodding drama.
The plot splits, diverging into two distinct threads, love and loss. Despite being a charmless and untalented klutz, Barney proves to be quite the lothario, wooing three women, each of whom appeals to an aspect of his personality; a freewheeling artist, a loaded socialite, and a grounded radio presenter. The ladies each excel; Rachelle Lefevre shows there’s a lot more to her than her Twilight origins, while Minnie Driver derives much fun with a showy and frothy performance as the yuppie yenta, the second Mrs. P. But it is former Bond Girl Rosamund Pike who shines brightest. Her Miriam is sweet and loving, invested in her relationship fully, but capable of rebuilding herself after its dissolution. That she could ever have been charmed by this boychick is neither believable nor desirable, particularly as Barney woos her by effectively stalking her over a prolonged period after meeting at his wedding reception.
The second thread bizarrely centres on a passionless whodunit, with Barney’s trip down memory lane keeping the audience in the dark as to how much he was involved in the death of his drug-addicted friend Boogie (Scott Speedman). This investigation feels uncomfortably wedged in, never properly sitting beside the other bits of Barney’s tale. Speedman doesn’t have enough screen time, nor the winning chutzpah, to impact the film readily, and his absence is barely noticeable. As for the proceeding police inquiry, well anyone paying even the slightest of attention should be able to work out this paint-by-numbers twist in what is a dull and magnolia mystery.
That these plots are finally tied together through the wearisome descent of Barney into Alzheimer’s fails to give the story the humanising pathos it was surely going for.
The film has been well received and Giamatti was awarded a Golden Globe for her performance, with many critics praising his performance as some sort of entrancing Hebrew Hamlet. This made it all the more disappointing for me, as the film is a scattershot mix’n’match of middlebrow drama staples and disease-of-the-month histrionics. Far from Hamlet, more so a ham-fisted Laming of the Jew.
2 Likes.
2 Likes.
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