A family, sort of: Hill, Tomei and Reilly
by Jay and Mark Duplass
Jay and Mark Duplass, who share writing and directing credit
for Cyrus, have pulled off an unlikely feat: They’ve
made an excellent, mainstream mumblecore movie.
The duo have always been at the more accessible end of the
genre’s spectrum. Though they’ve made their films inexpensively,
embraced the handheld aesthetic, and favored scripts that
are—or seem—highly personal and improvisational, there’s always
been an evident awareness of audience. For all their lo-fi
vibe, the Duplasses are more traditional filmmakers than peers
like Joe Swanberg.
In their previous films, this odd combination of DIY technique
and Hollywood instinct has yielded mixed results. Their debut
feature, The Puffy Chair, was like a home-movie version
of When Harry Met Sally—i.e., unbearable. The intimacy
of the Duplass style worked as an unintended parody illustrating
just how grating it would be to actually encounter in real
life any of rom-com’s “opposites attract” stock couples. On
the other hand, the brothers’ take on the low-budget horror
movie, Baghead, was smart, funny, inventive and scary.
In Cyrus, the brothers have scored with a virtual dream
team of name actors with the chops and charm to fill spaces
the Duplasses give them. Everyone in this movie is simply
John C. Reilly plays John, a middle-aged shlub bracing for
the re-marriage of his ex-wife, with whom he is still close.
Too close, maybe. A chance—and embarrassing—encounter with
Molly (Marisa Tomei), a long-time single mom to an adult child,
brings John out of his doldrums. The quick chemistry between
John and Molly (and between John and Marisa) yields a genuine
and believable connection. Despite John’s self-deprecating
characterization of the couple as a “hot girl” and “Shrek,”
they are charming together. Much of the movie’s appeal is
the pleasure of spending time with John and Molly.
The complication is, ostensibly, the too-close relationship
between Molly and her 21-year-old son, Cyrus (Jonah Hill),
who still lives at home. Cyrus has not yet “come into himself,”
to use Molly’s euphemism. To use Cyrus’s own he is a really
“fucked up and dysfunctional individual.”
And this is the real heart of the movie. Cyrus is, whatever
else, an astute diagnostician. But he’s not the only fucked-up
character. Each of the three main characters is fucked up,
psychically battered and sad. But they’re self-aware, strong,
dignified and decent, as well. The depictions of John, Molly
and Cyrus are tender without being precious; and the Duplasses
intimate direction allows perfect access.
is far and away the best work the Duplasses have made (for
what it’s worth, it’s also a better rounded picture than any
made yet by Noah Baumbach, another mumblecore-indebted director).
But I’d say it stacks up well against any other movie this
year, and recent years.