Over- polished drama is far from heavenly
Film tries so hard to be offbeat that it forgets you need more than a cute kid in distress to win audiences over
JESUS HENRY CHRIST Starring: Toni Collette, Jason Spevack, Micheal Sheen, Samantha Weinstein and Frank Moore Directed by: Dennis Lee PG: Coarse language, tobacco use Running time: 94 minutes
“Jesus H. Christ!” is a rather quaint expletive in these days of ubiquitous racist, sexist and sloganeering slurs. It’s so dated, not even rappers use it, because taking the name of the lord in vain lost its shock value once “f---” found a home on cable.
Director- writer Dennis Lee was no doubt highly aware of this pop- culture chasm when he penned Jesus Henry
Christ, a coming- of- age story about a very different brand of 20th century human.
Henry James Herman ( Jason Spevack) is a “test tube baby,” but unlike other babies conceived with the aid of technology, he can speak in full sentences shortly after exiting the womb.
The kid is a genius, but that’s of little comfort to his single mother, Patricia ( Toni Collette), a strident feminist and social activist who doesn’t like elitism of any kind and struggles to keep young Henry grounded. Think: About
a Boy, Part 2, only more contrived — and way more self- conscious.
Perhaps director Lee was going for some hybrid of Wes Anderson and Walt Disney when he decided to open the movie with a mom being burned alive at a birthday party, but the hook doesn’t work.
Not only is the mise- en- scene entirely unbelievable, the tone is entirely off from start to finish.
Eager to float in the giddy halflight of the surreal, Lee tries to make us walk a mile in the shoes of a child savant. He also tries to open our eyes to the evils of homophobia, the arrogance of academic parenting, the mother- son bond and the dangers of polyester in the presence of an open flame.
But that’s not all. Lee also wants to explore the idea of nature versus nurture, university corporatism and the sticky symbolism of the Post- it note.
Jesus Henry Christ is so desperate to be offbeat and charming, it forgets you need more than a cute kid in distress to win people over. You need characters that make emotional sense in the real world — and we don’t get a single one.
A study in grotesque exaggeration on every score, Lee’s cast includes the angry feminist mom ( Collette), the sweetly precocious prodigy ( Spevack), the henpecked nerdy academic ( Michael Sheen), the chain- smoking, truth- spouting granddad ( Frank Moore) and the ever- dependable pubescent girl with an attitude problem ( Samantha Weinstein).
Oh yeah, there’s also an oily fertility doctor, a shrill nymphomaniac ex- wife and an aging Brazilian nurse who wears bright red lipstick and flirts with gramps. We’re supposed to feel amused, I guess. But it just feels cluttered, and finally, cloying.
The central misstep in this Torontoshot movie produced by Julia Roberts and lensed by hubby Danny Moder is the quirk- fatigue factor.
Little Man Tate told a very similar story, yet where Jodie Foster’s directorial feature debut found a solid foundation in a quiet sense of humanity, Lee’s movie doesn’t seem satisfied with anything remotely recognizable.
A collection of over- polished moments, the dramatic beats have all the emotional sustain of a car ad.
For instance, Henry plots to have his biological parents meet, yet the scene isn’t advanced by any suspense, and when it finally transpires, it’s entirely flat because the angles are all wrong and we can’t read the actors’ faces.
Just about every character is ill served by the direction because we never feel everyone is acting in the same movie.
Even the director seems confused about his desired intent.
A sloppy assembly of unbelievable people with unbelievable problems, Jesus Henry Christ may very well leave you scripting your own expletives upon exit.