Two stars. Rated R, for profanity
By Derrick Bang
Inevitability is the death of
drama.
Ten minutes into Brad’s Status, it’s blindingly obvious
where writer/director Mike White will take his story, and precisely how he’ll
get there.
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| Brad (Ben Stiller, right) and his son, Troy (Austin Abrams), time their visit to Harvard so they can catch a classical music concert by one of the latter's former high school friends. |
And that journey is pretty damn
dull.
Mind you, the premise would have
been a tough sell, even under more optimal circumstances. A middle-class,
mid-life crisis feels unpalatably narcissistic these days, and casting Ben
Stiller in such a project is way too
on the nose. Much of his career has involved playing self-absorbed mopes, and
this story’s Brad Sloan finds Stiller treading his own well-worn ground.
A 101-minute self-pity party
isn’t my idea of a good time. Particularly when White’s plot bumps are so
predictable.
Brad and his wife Melanie (Jenna
Fischer) lead comfortable lives in suburban Sacramento; he runs a nonprofit
that matches worthy causes with like-minded angel investors, while she pulls in
“real money” with a government job. Their 17-year-old only child Troy (Austin
Abrams) is college-bound, prompting a father/son trip across the country, to
check out the universities likely to extend offers on the basis of the lad’s
strong transcript and solid extracurriculars.
It’s a milestone event for Brad,
which triggers all sorts of memories, long-buried desires and Big Questions. Am
I successful? Have I done everything in life, that my impassioned, idealistic
college-age self intended?
Trouble is, White saddles Brad
with some rather insensitive dialogue right off the bat, during the sleepless
night before the trip, in the form of a financially themed chat with the
patiently exhausted Melanie. Right away, we don’t like Brad. He sounds and
behaves like a whiny jerk, and Stiller never does much to change that snap
judgment.
Which is a problem, because we’re
definitely supposed to identify — even sympathize — with this guy. That’s an
uphill struggle, likely impossible for some.
Matters aren’t helped when Brad
constantly shares his innermost thoughts, via a constant sulky voice-over. I’ve
long found unrelenting off-camera narration a potential red flag in cinematic
storytelling; very few writers and directors know how to use it properly. White
isn’t one of them; the technique merely slows his already dull fill to a
lifeless crawl.
The share-all Facebook age has
amplified Brad’s doubts and misery, because he’s constantly reminded of the far
more successful lives enjoyed by his four best friends from college: political
pundit and best-selling author Craig Fisher (Michael Sheen), ubiquitous on television
and book covers; tech entrepreneur Billy Wearslter (Jemaine Clement), who
cashed out and now leads a life of sybaritic bliss in Hawaii; hedge-fund
founder Jason Hatfield (Luke Wilson), wealthy enough to travel in his own jet;
and Hollywood big shot Nick Pascale (White), whose palatial home is the subject
of glossy magazine spreads.
Brad’s saga subsequently divides
along two parallel paths. The more interesting half finds him trying to bond
better with his son, in an effort to make up for lost time: a dynamic quickly
recognized by every parent about to become an empty-nester. Although very
little of White’s dialogue could be considered profound, he cajoles some
quality moments from Stiller and Abrams. Their wary dance feels authentic.
Brad is all twitches, unfinished
sentences, nervous tension and impulsive behavior. (In other words, typical
Stiller.) Abrams’ Troy, in great contrast, is mellow, laid back, spare with
words, and — this is important — sharply perceptive. He’s embarrassed by his
father, yet nonetheless pleased to be with him.
It’s always an awkward moment for
a kid, as a parent “devolves” into a fellow adult: the point at which a son is
allowed to notice and even share his father’s insecurities. White’s touch, in many
of these scenes, is as gentle and understated as Abrams’ performance.
This half of the story has
potential, during the Boston excursion built around visits to Harvard and
Tufts. The character dynamic expands to include Ananya (Shazi Raja), a couple
of years older than Troy. She and a good friend, Maya (Luisa Lee), already
happy and successful Harvard students, bubble with enthusiasm during an
engaging dinner that — if only briefly — makes us forget the film’s primarily
dour tone.
Alas, these real-world
interactions share screen time with fantasies concocted by Brad’s imagination,
as he envisions the lives being led by his four friends, and places himself in
their respective worlds ... all the while prattling on, via voice-over, about
all those paths not taken. Poor, poor, pitiful me.
Yawn.
Such wallowing twaddle is even
harder to accept, given the lie at the heart of this narrative. Brad isn’t
“friends” with the other four, and he has no right to feeling wounded by having
been left out of recent get-togethers, because he obviously hasn’t put any
effort into keeping up with them.
Granted, this is part of the lesson that Brad must learn, during the course of
this film, the moral of which goes no deeper than The Wizard of Oz: “There’s no place like home.”
White does earn points for
inserting a character who nails Brad for his shallow, first-world egomania: a
thoroughly satisfying, slap-upside-the-head moment that concludes much too
quickly. All of us, at one time or another, need somebody to ground us with a
similarly perceptive reality check.
One also suspects that the
Southern California-born White doesn’t think much of Sacramento; the city takes
several barbed — and quite funny — shots during the course of this film.
Clement and Wilson are little
more than cameo players, their fleeting screen time in keeping with the vague,
unreliable sense that Brad has of Billy and Jason. Nick is the least developed
of the quartet, White giving this role no personality whatsoever.
Sheen fares better, deftly
shading Craig as a suave man-about-town who enjoys the spotlight in which he
basks, while at the same time adding a subtly arrogant frisson that makes him mildly smarmy.
Mark Mothersbaugh’s soundtrack is
as annoying as Brad, thanks to the frequent fingernails-on-blackboard
screeching of a violin.
I often wonder how some films get
made: how anybody ever could have thought, at any point, that a certain
premise/script would amount to anything. Brad’s
Status is a good example.
Ultimately, the one-note Truth at
the end of this film isn’t nearly substantial — or enlightening — enough to
justify the tedium getting there.
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