Little boy lost
Judd Apatow’s uneven film sees an immature, unbalanced stoner grapple with unresolved grief for his father as his long-suffering mother finds love
DEDICATED to the memory of actor Pete Davidson’s firefighter father, who died on September 11, 2001, The King Of Staten Island is a loosely autobiographical comedy drama about mental health, grief and self-destruction. Director Judd Apatow co-wrote the script with Davidson and one of his best friends, Dave Sirus, adding fictional gloss to a deeply personal story that mines gallows humour from palpable human despair.
Seventeen years ago, Scott Carlin (Davidson) lost his firefighter father in a hotel blaze.
Now 24, the pothead struggles to articulate feelings to his ER nurse mother Margie (Marisa Tomei) and younger sister Claire (Maude Apatow), who is poised to leave for college.
Instead, Scott puffs merrily on the pipe dream of opening a tattoo parlourthemed restaurant, oblivious to health and safety concerns about mixing needles and noodles.
In the absence of a strong male figurehead, he wrestles with attention deficit disorder, Crohn’s disease and dark thoughts in the company of stoner buddies Igor (Moises Arias), Oscar (Ricky Velez) and Richie (Lou Wilson).
They sell pills to local kids and Scott occasionally shares the bed of childhood pal Kelsey (Bel Powley), whom he has known since fourth grade.
“You deserve somebody way better than me,” he confesses in a rare moment of clarity.
Margie remains faithful to Stan’s memory until she unexpectedly opens her heart to firefighter Ray (Bill Burr).
The arrival of another man in uniform sends Scott into a downward spiral and he resolves to poison Margie and Ray’s relationship using ammunition supplied by Ray’s embittered ex-wife (Pamela Adlon).
The film opens with the troubled lead character intentionally closing his eyes behind the wheel of a speeding car, while driving without a seat belt on a busy highway.
This heart-stopping scene is inspired by a real-life incident and buckles us tightly, and uncomfortably, to Davidson’s manic alter ego as he battles personal demons. Soul-searching is counterbalanced with potty-mouthed, snarky humour reminiscent of Apatow’s earlier work (The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up). Tonal gear changes aren’t consistently smooth, the 137-minute running
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