St. Vincent

St. Vincent is a crowd-pleasing, heartwarming Bill Murray vehicle that is by turns funny and touching. It does little — perhaps nothing — you don’t expect. It is meant for people who want such a movie. It’s for those who don’t mind feeling good at the end of a movie — and don’t mind wiping away the odd tear. St. Vincent is not for the hardcore cynical, nor for the terminally hip — though it is gracious enough to give them time to dry any uncool excess eye moisture without being exposed to the world at large. At the same time, it wisely banks on the inherent cool factor of Murray’s presence to keep it from completely being subsumed by the treacle pit of sentiment it perilously navigates. It would be unthinkable without Murray, but I don’t think anyone ever entertained such a thought.

The film marks the feature debut of writer-director Theodore Melfi, and it sometimes shows. There’s an entirely superfluous subplot involving Terrence Howard as a bookie. It is so very unnecessary that you’re apt to forget the whole thing is in the movie long before it finally gives up and goes away. Mostly, Melfi sticks closely to a pretty basic comedy-drama template involving a cantankerous, antisocial drunk and a beguiling little boy. It’s nothing new. Think of it as About a Boy (2002) with Bill Murray as a self-involved, grizzled Vietnam veteran instead of Hugh Grant as a self-involved playboy and you’re partway there. Melfi brings his own touches and embellishments to the table, but saying he crafts anything original is an overstatement. Saying he crafts something entertaining and pleasant is nearer the mark — and there’s nothing in the least wrong with that as a goal.

Murray plays Vincent as a misanthropic, alcoholic, gambling-addicted hedonist who likes no one — and the world returns the favor by not liking him. At least, that’s the theory. The film is shrewd enough to suggest early on that there’s more to him, if only because the habitues and bartender at his favorite watering hole not only tolerate him, but seem to care about him. However, Vincent is less than delighted when newcomers — a mother, Maggie (Melissa McCarthy), and her 12-year-old son, Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher) — move in next door, though he’s quick to take advantage of them at every turn. It is this — and the fact that he obviously likes (but won’t admit it) Oliver — that leads cash-strapped Vincent to agree to act as babysitter — for a fee, of course. The savvy viewer will know the drill — taking Oliver on all sorts of age-inappropriate adventures, teaching him how to beat up a bully (Dario Barosso in his third role as a bully), introducing him to dubious people like Vincent’s pregnant Russian hooker/exotic dancer girlfriend (Naomi Watts). The trick is that knowing these things doesn’t keep them from being entertaining.

It mostly works because of Murray and the chemistry he has with Lieberher. It’s good enough to keep you from noticing a narrative gap or two, and to smooth over some of the more generic aspects of the story. But there are other charms to be found here. Melissa McCarthy actually plays a character and not her usual overbearing self. Naomi Watts — complete with classically phony Russian accent — is both funny and appealing. And Chris O’Dowd as a broad-minded and worldly priest at Oliver’s school adds an agreeable touch. But, yes, it’s a Bill Murray movie, and it’s always mindful of that fact. It stretches him a little, but not enough to interfere with his essential Bill Murrayness — and that’s a very good thing. Rated PG-13 for mature thematic material including sexual content, alcohol and tobacco use and for language.