Stranger Than Fiction
Stranger Than Fiction is an amusing and sweet film, Will Farrell the filling between sweet Maggie Gyllenthal and emotional Emma Thompson. Dustin Hoffman plays the literary detective of sorts and in one scene a cloying omniscient cosmic narrator that reminded me of annoying Dustin Hoffman moments not necessary to his disheveled, quirky character.
Mr. Farrell Plays Harold Crick, a man of precision and boredom. One day he hears a voice while a famous author is composing her decade long new book; could the two be related? In the process of Mr. Crick’s self-discovery his nemesis turns curly in the ovens of Ms. Gyllenthal’s commanding if occasionally over the top feminity, if such a thing is possible. I recently saw Ms. Gyllenthal in Sherry Baby, a dark film about her character’s return to a life she left behind when in prison. Ms. Gyllenthal is a thoroughly absorbing actress, a physical presence, a pretty Olive Oil with a brain somehow, her lanky frame angling at all the sweet features that I find so intriguing about the drawn or painted figure, the lines I go for in art. Will Farrell is fun to watch when he’s a smart dud… characters with quirky brains work better for me on Mr. Farrell because he can pull off scenes like this, when Mr Hoffman asks: Do you feel like parts of you are from somewhere else? And Mr. Farrell replies, “Do you mean, like my arms?” Emma Thompson plays more neurotic than I enjoy her wise, fluid spirit, but she satisfies her role as a torn up writer.
The film is light enough that it must be pinned down into memory lest it fly away, but I enjoyed it strangely like I enjoyed Sandler and Emily Watson’s punch drunk love; Stranger than Fiction is the better film perhaps, certainly more mass appealing, but two simple love stories with neurotic, complex characters facing situations they never asked for in the first place.
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