St. Vincent

Here's the thing about buddy comedies: You have to care about both parties separately, as well as the central friendship itself, for them to be a success. Lose one or the other, and you have a movie that might be fleetingly enjoyable but ultimately forgettable. ST. VINCENT is anything but forgettable. Gifted with a strong cast led by Murray -- who out-Murrays his own previous cheekily brilliant performances -- and a meandering but still compelling story that somehow ties in divorce, Alzheimer's, and race-track gambling, the movie feels like good jazz should: dizzying and moving. We care about Vincent because Murray makes him real enough despite his outrageousness, and we care about Oliver because Lieberher, aided by a script that dares to make a child multi-dimensional, works hard to imbue him with personality and all sorts of complicated emotions.

Laced through it all is a message about judgment. Or, rather, the metamorphic powers of abandoning it. What makes a person a good person? That they pay bills? Look put together? Mow a lawn (or even have a lawn)? Though the film at times strains credulity (and the audience's patience) by pushing Vincent to do meaner and crueler things (see: the scene in the bank regarding a wrongful withdrawal), it nonetheless makes a strong case -- somewhat messily, but still -- for taking people as they are and accepting the gifts that they give willingly, despite sacrifices and personal cost.