FILM REVIEW: 'St. Vincent'

Bill Murray is the sultan of subtlety. He possesses the rare gift of not having to speak a word or move a muscle to induce uncontrollable laughter. In his new film, "St. Vincent," Murray gives an Oscar worthy performance guaranteed to please his ardent fans.

Vincent (Murray) is a racist, alcoholic, angry Vietnam vet whose gambling on the ponies is getting him into hot water. When new neighbors, Maggie (Melissa McCarthy) and son, Oliver (Jaeden Lieberher) move in next door, 68-year-old Vincent agrees to baby sit for 12-year-old Oliver. It's pretty clear Maggie has few options.

Soon Vincent is dragging Oliver to his local watering hole and the racetrack unbeknownst to Maggie. Oliver is being bullied at school so Vincent teaches him how to break noses, at which he promptly succeeds. The two become unlikely buddies and although it seems so wrong, it feels so right.

Such is the first half of "St. Vincent." The second gets somewhat sappy. Vincent's moral compass surfaces and we're taken down a path 180 degrees off course from the point of embarkation. Let's just say that the softer side of Vincent (evoking the status of Saint) isn't as much fun as the cantankerous, lecherous old coot we've come to know and love.

First time director-writer Theodore Melfi demonstrates that he has the chops to deliver the goods. The script is witty, the camerawork spot-on and the scoring is sweet. Most importantly, he knows how to tap into the genius of Bill Murray. He tosses in some off-beat characters including Vincent's main squeeze, a pregnant Russian stripper (Naomi Watts) and a loud-mouthing Catholic schoolteacher (Chris O'Dowd). But Murray owns every inch of this film.

And he manages to juggle the loose cannon with Saint perfectly, proving what a brilliant actor he truly is. His dancing to Jefferson Airplane's "Somebody to Love" in front of a jukebox is an endearing visual of Bill Murray hearkening back to his classic work on "Saturday Night Live." It's pure unadulterated fun.

"St. Vincent" is one of those films that stoops to inserting a lump in your throat when it doesn't seem necessary. But it's also a platform upon which Bill Murray can strut his stuff. When Vincent's swilling bourbon while seated on a cheap lounge chair in the backyard as Oliver, under his tutelage, mows his grassless lawn, it just doesn't get any better. Oh, and hang around for the credits as Murray interacts with a garden hose. Priceless.