I haven’t seen much of Garry Marshall’s work, and remember
that I’m mostly familiar with more recent cinema so I have a lot of
older films to get to including a few of his, but what I have seen in no way
sets my hopes high for consumable product this time around. His brand of heavy
pandering under the guise of empowerment with The Princess Diaries (BOTH of
them) and the plain-old twisted sense of festivity of the last two
holiday-centric releases makes him the kind of filmmaker who is quite poisonous
to people like me. This should come as no surprise for those of you who have
read my earlier gripes on chick flicks, but yeah; I really friggin’ hate
these kinds of movies almost on principle by this point. Not that that is
reason enough for me to hate anything though, just that it makes what I am sure
is going to be pure bile come up a lot more smoothly. So, let’s get this
gastric excavation of a film over and done with already. This is Mother’s Day.
This ensemble cast must have been put together with
name-brand recognition at the forefront because they certainly aren’t
passionate about this material. Sure, it’d be mighty difficult to find someone
who would find this tripe compelling,
but at the very least they could’ve made some
effort. Julia Roberts barely gets any screen time, and most of it is just
flogging fictional product, but she performs just at the base line. Kate Hudson,
Jason Sudeikis, Britt Robertson, Margo Martindale… screw it, pretty much everyone here is
on auto-pilot. After being genuinely impressed by several of the actors here in
other films, including Ella Anderson’s surprisingly solid performance in The Boss, it just plain hurts to see them go through the motions this poorly. Worst
of all is Jennifer Aniston, whom I’ll admit has never really wowed me as an actress but
she gives what is seriously in the running for the worst performance of the
year. She’s so stilted and awkward in every one of her scenes that I wouldn’t
be surprised if this was some Ex Machina situation where they were trying to
test a robot for traces of emotion, only with the Rachel 9000 over here.
Needless to say, I doubt there’s much chance that she will start ranting about
the Jews on Twitter any day soon.
Following his previous holiday-themed works of Valentine’s
Day and New Year’s Eve, Marshall steadfastly refuses to learn from past
mistakes. You’d think that with the less cluttered focal cast (well, relatively
so at any rate), he’d have a better time with the pacing of the numerous
stories as has been a recurring issue with his most recent fare. Unfortunately,
despite less people needing to be juggled around for screen time, the pacing is
still a colossal mess. No characters sink in because they aren’t given enough
time in their respective segments for any real development, some scenes
literally showing up for about 1-2 minutes and doing little more than reminding
the audience that those characters still existed. Sandy’s feeling of inadequacy
as a mother, Jesse and Gabi dealing with their redneck parents (oh, we’ll get
to them in a bit), Bradley struggling to cope with the death of his wife,
Kristin’s relationships with Miranda and Zack; none of it is either developed
in any real way that doesn’t make this feel like the first episode of a very
long soap opera, or even resolved in a way that makes any rational sense.
All of this is bolstered by how this is another supposed
“chick flick” that sticks to the main tactic of that sub-genre: Woman can’t
handle the feels, so don’t give it to them. The problems being dealt with are
relatively major all things considered and could (and indeed have many, many times before) make for
compelling drama. However, none of them are given anything resembling weight.
Everything is just resolved with the idea that mothers know best, which makes
the constant “towel-head” remarks from Flo even more offensive when they’re
just brushed aside like this. When it isn’t being wholesale racist and making
the fact that she is racist the joke, for reasons that I so do not want to look
into, it’s sticking to incredibly dated and lame situations. Say, do you find
men shopping for tampons inherently funny? What about older people trying to be
hip with a scene that makes me want to incinerate my film ticket and send the
ashes to Shock G in penance for its sins? Or how about a man pressuring a woman
into marriage, in an attempt to subvert gender expectations that has been
overdone to the point of becoming a
gender expectation? What about a finale involving a car chase? That last one
has car acting much in line with Aniston’s entire performance, in that it is
incredibly clunky and unnatural. Now, I’m not saying that we should just do
away with all the old tropes and subject matter; all I’m asking for is some
effort when it comes to delivering on them.
I am 100% convinced that this film did not begin with a
script. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that there probably wasn’t even a
script to this thing at all because there is no way that these lines
were written down anywhere other than in the actors’ heads. It’s the kind of
dialogue and blocking that makes me appreciate pretty much every other film
I’ve ever seen in retrospect because it’s so badly done here. It’s awkward and
rambling in a usually realistic fashion, but it doesn’t work for the same
reason that people usually hire actors and not regular people to perform in
films: It may be real, but it doesn’t look good on screen. Hell, the most
natural any of this becomes is during Zack’s scenes where he does stand-up
comedy, and that’s because it’s actively staged like a directed performance and
Whitehall comes across as relaxed and charming in those scenes.
Everywhere else, he and the many other actors working off their most recent mortgages feel like the rehearsal takes before the genuine attempt. Once again, no effort has been made here. It’s actually that poorly handled that I’m looking back on the attempt to force pregnancy subplot from New Year’s Eve with strange fondness because, as wrong-headed as it was, it showed a lot more creativity than anything found here. Hell, I’d take the 1980 film Mother’s Day over this. Sure, it was a pretty woeful film about redneck serial killers who debate whether punk or disco is better, but again: Creativity. Unless you count having pretty much every character be an awful human being, either out of direct action or apathy towards said direct action, as being creative, you’re shit out of luck.
Everywhere else, he and the many other actors working off their most recent mortgages feel like the rehearsal takes before the genuine attempt. Once again, no effort has been made here. It’s actually that poorly handled that I’m looking back on the attempt to force pregnancy subplot from New Year’s Eve with strange fondness because, as wrong-headed as it was, it showed a lot more creativity than anything found here. Hell, I’d take the 1980 film Mother’s Day over this. Sure, it was a pretty woeful film about redneck serial killers who debate whether punk or disco is better, but again: Creativity. Unless you count having pretty much every character be an awful human being, either out of direct action or apathy towards said direct action, as being creative, you’re shit out of luck.
All in all, this is a film that immediately made me think
positively about every other film I’ve watched, both good and bad, because of
how little even happens in this trudge of a sit. The acting across the board is
phoned-in the likes of which rarely seen on the big screen, the writing
combines treacly sentimentality with a dash of unchecked racism and the overall
production has that Hollywood sheen but none of the actual effort beyond that;
it’s like a glossed-up straight-to-DVD movie. Actually, it’d be more like
straight-to-VHS because only hipsters could find something to like about this
wreck. I thought we’d have a little longer before we encountered this year’s
Love The Coopers, but here we are.
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