Delivering laughs, pathos, and easy-going charm, St. Vincent is a good example of a film that doesn’t aim to break new ground, but exceeds at being broadly entertaining.
It’s mostly a compilation of moments you’ve seen before, and despite the odd left turn, things play out as you’d expect. It’s made considerably more compelling though by Bill Murray’s still-magnetic screen presence as the titular Vincent. It’s hard to imagine anyone else making a character this irascible be so watchable.
St. Vincent doesn’t aim for belly laughs, but it’s consistently amusing, with a surprisingly dark streak of comedy running throughout. Plot developments that in lesser movies would have maximum angst wrung out of them are admirably shot through with wry humour.
Melissa McCarthy is endearing in her most restrained performance in a while, and Chris O’Dowd shows up in his 100th movie this year to add additional deadpan chuckles. McCarthy’s son Oliver is played by newcomer Jaeden Lieberher, who easily holds his own next to Murray, selling the comedy and tugging the heartstrings.
Satisfying like a roast dinner without the need for any fancy garnishes or condiments, St. Vincent breezes along to a finale that, while somewhat predictable, should give even the most cynical viewer a dose of the warm fuzzies.
