Anybody can have an off-day, but it's hard to believe that the man responsible for such classic comedies of manners as *Broadcast News* and (to a somewhat lesser extent) *As Good as It Gets* would go on to make *Spanglish*. James L. Brooks' latest film is not so much a comedy of manners as it is a situation comedy for TV, stretched out to faux-epic proportions for the big screen. The characters are TV caricatures, not real people. Adam Sandler plays an L.A.-area haute-cuisine chef whom one critic dubs "the greatest chef in America"; Tea Leone as his wife is a neurotic spastic, incessantly shooting her mouth off, incessantly jogging, etc. (in other words, the clichéd version of the southern Californian well-to-do hausfrau); Cloris Leachman plays Leone's mildly alcoholic mother, a former jazz singer and one of those "quirky" people who exist only in movies and middle-brow fiction with literary pretensions; and newcomer Paz Vega plays the beautiful and saintly Mexican maid with an equally beautiful and saintly daughter.
One might add the qualifying adjective "improbably" to beautiful and saintly. The movie is a dreary exercise in White Guilt: the wealthy and white Clasky family owns the monopoly on petty neuroses, here. Even their kids are screwed up: the pubescent daughter is slightly overweight, which wouldn't be half the problem it is if her own mother would stop reminding her of it; the younger son is apparently plagued with nightmares, but we're not sure exactly why, and in any case the movie sort of forgets about the little bugger for long stretches. Meanwhile, no one in the house seems to resent the perfection of the live-in maid Flor, with her grounded family values, her eye-popping beauty (Vega is a ringer for Penelope Cruz, but without that actress' supermodel hard edges), and her sweet temper, all of which is contrasted against Leone's bratty, self-centered, adulterous, and physically unlovely character. (Brooks makes the poor woman drip snot from her nose for the last twenty minutes of the film, while the heavenly, marmoreal Vega consummates a sweetly platonic love affair with Sandler.) Even the movie's framing device, the Longest Admissions Essay In History that Flor's daughter writes to Princeton, seems like a stacked deck. Since, at film's end, Vega removes her kid from the tony private school that Leone puts her in, we may assume that the girl achieved singular, unparalleled academic brilliance in the gritty public schools of the barrio. How heartwarming!
Counterintuitively, the movie dances around, rather than engages head-on, the issues of class and race in American society. For instance, the Claskys pay Flor $650 a week, if I heard correctly. What a load. $650 every TWO weeks is a more realistic going-rate for undocumented housekeepers in the wealthier enclaves of southern California, and THAT figure is probably still too high. Oh, but that's right, Flor and her daughter are apparently LEGAL immigrants -- presumably, Leone cuts her maid checks which are deposited in a bank somewhere, instead of handing her cash under the table. As a lifelong southern Californian, forgive my skepticism. (If the movie informed us that Flor was undocumented, I must've missed it when I went to the kitchen to get some coffee, and I'll stand corrected if that's the case.) Clearly, insisting that the film honestly depict the uneasy relationships between rich white people and the Hispanic "hired help" may be asking too much.
Which leaves only the various character studies. I've already talked about the women, but I can't finish the review without mentioning the inadequacy of Adam Sandler. Mr. Sandler is not ready for Prime Time. Tentative, hiding behind mannerisms, clearly not directed by Brooks (what -- would YOU tell Sandler, one of the most powerful celebrities in Hollywood, how to act?), he is the person in the film who doesn't know how to speak English. He strangles his dialog with unnecessary dramatic pauses, open-mouthed staring, and a lot of casting hopelessly about in general. Vega Paz is more clearly understood, and she doesn't speak a word of English for the first half of the movie. If Sandler wants to emulate the Saturday Night Live alumni of yore with extending his range as an actor, he'd be well served by doing some Ibsen and the like for a few years with an acting troupe. Since he lacks the depth of natural talent that a Bill Murray or a Steve Martin was blessed with, a lot of hard work -- practice, practice, practice -- is required in order for him to attain the credibility of his predecessors in terms of dramatic roles. When, for instance, Leone informs him of her adultery, Sandler's reaction is cringe-worthy -- he clearly has no idea how to perform the scene. These comments are not as unkind as they might seem. Sandler may be a decent actor someday, but he's not remotely there yet, and someone needs to tell him that -- otherwise, he'll continue to waste his time and our money.
2 stars out of 10. One of the big disappointments of 2004.
One might add the qualifying adjective "improbably" to beautiful and saintly. The movie is a dreary exercise in White Guilt: the wealthy and white Clasky family owns the monopoly on petty neuroses, here. Even their kids are screwed up: the pubescent daughter is slightly overweight, which wouldn't be half the problem it is if her own mother would stop reminding her of it; the younger son is apparently plagued with nightmares, but we're not sure exactly why, and in any case the movie sort of forgets about the little bugger for long stretches. Meanwhile, no one in the house seems to resent the perfection of the live-in maid Flor, with her grounded family values, her eye-popping beauty (Vega is a ringer for Penelope Cruz, but without that actress' supermodel hard edges), and her sweet temper, all of which is contrasted against Leone's bratty, self-centered, adulterous, and physically unlovely character. (Brooks makes the poor woman drip snot from her nose for the last twenty minutes of the film, while the heavenly, marmoreal Vega consummates a sweetly platonic love affair with Sandler.) Even the movie's framing device, the Longest Admissions Essay In History that Flor's daughter writes to Princeton, seems like a stacked deck. Since, at film's end, Vega removes her kid from the tony private school that Leone puts her in, we may assume that the girl achieved singular, unparalleled academic brilliance in the gritty public schools of the barrio. How heartwarming!
Counterintuitively, the movie dances around, rather than engages head-on, the issues of class and race in American society. For instance, the Claskys pay Flor $650 a week, if I heard correctly. What a load. $650 every TWO weeks is a more realistic going-rate for undocumented housekeepers in the wealthier enclaves of southern California, and THAT figure is probably still too high. Oh, but that's right, Flor and her daughter are apparently LEGAL immigrants -- presumably, Leone cuts her maid checks which are deposited in a bank somewhere, instead of handing her cash under the table. As a lifelong southern Californian, forgive my skepticism. (If the movie informed us that Flor was undocumented, I must've missed it when I went to the kitchen to get some coffee, and I'll stand corrected if that's the case.) Clearly, insisting that the film honestly depict the uneasy relationships between rich white people and the Hispanic "hired help" may be asking too much.
Which leaves only the various character studies. I've already talked about the women, but I can't finish the review without mentioning the inadequacy of Adam Sandler. Mr. Sandler is not ready for Prime Time. Tentative, hiding behind mannerisms, clearly not directed by Brooks (what -- would YOU tell Sandler, one of the most powerful celebrities in Hollywood, how to act?), he is the person in the film who doesn't know how to speak English. He strangles his dialog with unnecessary dramatic pauses, open-mouthed staring, and a lot of casting hopelessly about in general. Vega Paz is more clearly understood, and she doesn't speak a word of English for the first half of the movie. If Sandler wants to emulate the Saturday Night Live alumni of yore with extending his range as an actor, he'd be well served by doing some Ibsen and the like for a few years with an acting troupe. Since he lacks the depth of natural talent that a Bill Murray or a Steve Martin was blessed with, a lot of hard work -- practice, practice, practice -- is required in order for him to attain the credibility of his predecessors in terms of dramatic roles. When, for instance, Leone informs him of her adultery, Sandler's reaction is cringe-worthy -- he clearly has no idea how to perform the scene. These comments are not as unkind as they might seem. Sandler may be a decent actor someday, but he's not remotely there yet, and someone needs to tell him that -- otherwise, he'll continue to waste his time and our money.
2 stars out of 10. One of the big disappointments of 2004.