St. Vincent is about a young boy whose parents have just divorced finds an unlikely friend and mentor in the misanthropic, bawdy, hedonistic war veteran who lives next door.
If you’ve seen the previews for the film, you’ll probably be unsure of whether or not you’ll be seeing it. It’s what I thought, at least, and that’s why it took me so long to get around to seeing it. Some of the thoughts, I might say, were of recycled story lines with some serious actors taking slightly lesser roles to give it name released in award season. But the thing that happened is that all this preconceived notions dissolve and involves you in an enjoyable time at the movies.
Bill Murray gives a convincing performance, especially in his career of late that has been filled with mediocre performances and random cameo’s (although his cameo in Zombieland was one of my personal favourites). Naomi Watts, who plays a pregnant Russian prostitute, plays it disgustingly disturbing, but she grows as a character and becomes likeable as she looks after Murray’s character post-stroke.
A key to films like St. Vincent is that you have to trust your script, your actors, and the director to give lead and let it run. And that’s what we have here. The film is a little contrived, but still very charming.