St. Vincent (2014)

If you get even slightly moist in the eyes at this sentimental bullshit, you should be embarrassed—and I am embarrassed. I guess when a sweet kid meets a complete jerk of an old man and sees the good person beneath the hideous exterior, I get a little misty. Don’t mind me. I’m not well. I rationalize it by noting that Bill Murray gives one whale of a performance. For awhile, he’s one of the top movie assholes of the year. Rude, petty, miserable and lonely for good reason. He’s the kind of person we’ve all met and now avoid, a seething ball of unhappiness who wants everyone else to be unhappy, too. Murray gets downright mean here, but we never completely hate him, partly due to an opening sequence that shows him getting kicked around by the world and partly because of Murray’s natural screen presence. It’s a showcase role, an Oscar contender, the best reason to see the movie. Aside from some good licks from Naomi Watts, who’s perfectly arch as a pregnant Russian immigrant stripper and prostitute, the rest of the film wilts in Murray’s shadow. Its cathartic moments come straight from the latest edition of the How to Make a Feelgood Movie manual. Chapter 6: Redeeming the Jerk, Chapter 9: Everybody Likes Kids! and Chapter 15: Gimme Indie Soft-Rock!