Theres a lot to like in Theodore Melfis St. Vincent, which details the relationship between a misanthropic loner and the cute little boy who moves in next door. The writing is sharp. The humour is distinctly acerbic. And, of course, the performances from Melissa McCarthy, Naomi Watts, and most notably Bill Murray and newcomer Jaeden Lieberher are all perfectly tuned in to the films unique vibe; this is a movie in which every element is tailored so as to be exactly on the same tonal wavelength, resulting in a film that is completely its own unique and distinct thing. However, despite these strengths, theres also a quite a bit in St. Vincent that isn't as easy to like, not the least of which is its frustrating refusal to try to be anything deeper. Time after time, St. Vincent teeters on the edge between melodrama and truly meaningful pathos, mere inches from tipping over into something profoundly moving and time after time, it abjectly refuses to step over the line, settling instead for a tension relieving joke, or a dramatic beat that works too hard to be taken seriously or, worst of all, forced sentimentalism. Its almost as if Melfi is afraid to let the story flow the way that its supposed to, like he doesnt trust the audience to be engaged enough with the characters and themes to follow along. The result is a frustrating movie that, while entertaining, always feels as though its operating in the shadow of its better self.
