A single mother and her precocious child move next door to an ornery, down-on-his luck Vietnam vet and, despite their differences, the child and the man form a bond. Yup, St. Vincent sounds so similar to a bunch of other films—About a Boy, Bad Santa, Gran Torino, just to name a few—it almost seems unnecessary.
But what if I told you that the ornery vet was played by Bill Murray, splitting the difference between the gloriously irreverent rapscallions that defined his early work and the more introspective stuff he’s done lately, that the mother was played by an understated and affecting Melissa McCarthy, and that the little boy (Jaeden Lieberher) had such droll comic timing he easily kept up with his adult counterparts.
You might give it a shot, huh?
(However, if I told you that Naomi Watts played a Russian hooker with a heart of gold that Murray’s Vincent employs, you might say, WTF?—which would be a reasonable response, even if she does manage to pull it off.)
Yup, St. Vincent is definitely guilty of sticking to a formula, but what it does, it does really well. Primarily, it’s very funny, whether Vincent is getting young Oliver to mow his dirt patch, or teaching the kid how to defend himself against bullies. (“If you do this right,you’ll break his nose,” Vincent says, demonstrating an uppercut move. “Break his nose?” Oliver says, aghast. “Don’t worry,” Vincent replies ironically. “You won’t do it right.”)
In the film’s most mawkish touch, Vincent’s beloved wife has Alzheimer’s and he keeps her in a fancy nursing facility that he can’t afford. But that leads to one of St. Vincent’s surprising strengths: its rather frank and tough-minded attitude toward money. The fear of Vincent losing his house, being forced to downgrade his wife’s care facility, getting roughed up by some goons because he owes them money (he has a gambling problem) looms over the film rather ominously. As for McCarthy’s Maggie, she works double shifts at the hospital where she’s a nurse, but still has a hard time making ends meet. Indeed, it’s financial distress—he needs the money; she can’t afford to do better—that leads to the unlikely scenario of Maggie allowing Vincent to watch her son.
And then, about two-thirds in, Vincent has a stroke. This affords Murray the chance to do some show-offy (if impressive) acting as the old cuss struggles to regain his mobility and voice. It’s also where St. Vincent kind of succumbs to its worst, most sentimental instincts. But then, just when you think maybe it’s all gotten too neat and cute, Vincent (okay, actually Bill Murray) half-mumbles, half-sings Bob Dylan’s “Shelter From the Storm” while lounging on a beach chair, smoking a cigarette, and overwatering his plant, and, once again, all is right in the universe.