Reportedly cantankerous, resistent for way too long over the Ghostbusters threequel (probably because he's the only person to acknowledge the sequel was poor) and as creatively diverse as a pick'n'mix, Bill Murray is an indie actor who doesn't really make indie movies. He flits from one genre to another, as comfortable in and as curious about making a war ensemble as a Grumpy Old Men surrogate (like this week's release St Vincent) and his name is the only advertising some fans need to see any film. As every story of Murray tending bar, or turning up at house parties appears, you get the feeling that he's now beyond the stage where he cares what anyone thinks of him (did he ever?) though there's the very real threat that he could become too much of a parody of himself. His life right now already reads like the sequel to Joaquin Phoenix's I'm Still Here. But it's Murray, so it's utterly forgivable. Not that he cares either way. With St Vincent now hitting cinemas, it's time to look back on the career of a truly cherished actor: the way he's beloved now you'd think he hadn't made any missteps on is way to the special level of fame he enjoys. He has, and in some style. Were there licence to celebrate an actor being himself, Murray would inevitably qualify for Zombieland (and perhaps even Space Jam), but given the calibre of most of his work it's inevitable that moments when he's just playing around as himself will be squeezed out.
