St. Vincent

"What the hell do you know about me?" shouts an angry Bill Murray to his young neighbor Oliver - a 12-year-old boy that has recently moved in next door. The question comes towards the end of St. Vincent and it seems strange: Murray's character - an elderly curmudgeon living on fumes in his run-down home in a not-so-fashionable Brooklyn neighborhood - was pretty much defined in the film's first five minutes; by this point we pretty much know there's a saint lurking beneath that crusty surface and his good side will bubble up in the film's treacly climax. But, to the more cynical amongst us, the film turns out to be less a petition for Vincent's sainthood as it does Murray's bid for an Oscar.

We've been here before: The nasty old man that befriends the awkward kid leading to important life lessons learned by both. So why did it play better in the infinitely bolder "Bad Grandpa" a year ago? Despite a bravura turn by Murray that is nicely matched by the terrific, 11-year old actor Jaeden Lieberher, "St. Vincent" shamelessly exploits a well-worn scenario, right down to Murray having a wife with Alzheimer's Disease being kept at an expensive extended care facility he can't afford and a health emergency - a stroke - that gives Murray a chance to rant with a convincing slur.

Written and directed by Theodore Melfi, "St. Vincent" has sit-com rhythms extended to fit the feature film three-act formula. The premise has the down-and-out Vincent becoming the babysitter for Oliver, the son of his new neighbor Maggie (Melissa McCarthy). Maggie and Oliver have moved to Brooklyn after Maggie has discovered her husband's been cheating on her. She finds a job as a medical tech in a nearby hospital and enrolls Oliver in a Catholic school; but her late hours lead her to tap Vincent to sit with Oliver. Within days Vincent is taking Oliver to the race track and neighborhood bar, as well as introducing her to Daka (Naomi Watts), a Russian hooker he hires whose is finding work harder to get since her pregnancy is beginning to show.

When Oliver is bullied by a boorish classmate, Vincent teaches the boy to stand up for himself. That Oliver and the boorish clasmate end up being best friend is one of the obvious numerous plot memes that Melfi taps to propel this emotional claptrap and points to what's wrong with "St. Vincent": its paint-by-the-numbers plotting, which makes the cross-generational buddy movie dully predictable.

Vincent is also in deep in the hole to a mobster, Zucko (Terrence Howard) for gambling debts. That Howard plays another well-worn stereotype with a quiet menace brings the only reason to see this film: the quality of the acting. Throughout its first-rate ensemble play these clich�d characters with conviction. Murray, especially, makes Vincent worthy of the saintly ascension that closes the film. He is so good that you give yourself to the film, despite your better judgment. That he's matched by Lieberher gives their relationship a dimension not deserved by the script. He conveys Oliver's growing self-assurance with wonderful believability and plays a great straight man to Murray's garrulous persona.

It's also great to see Melissa McCarthy in a role that doesn't reduce her to a blowsy caricature. Her capabilities as an actress are realized in her heartfelt portrayal of a stressed woman transitioning to a new chapter in her life. She shows what she's capable of. And Naomi Watts turns the labored stereotype of the prostitute-with-a-heart-of-gold into an endearing, often very tart characterization. There's also Chris O'Dowd as an endearing priest who acts as Oliver's benevolent teacher. Melfi's heart is big and his film is, despite its obviousness, manages to touch. As Manohla Dargis pointed out in the New York Times, it is difficult not to succumb to the emotional juggernaut this movie turns out to be.