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Give Ivan Reitman props for never cashing in his Ghostbusters chips to make The Catcher in the Rye. To paraphrase a wise man: "A director's got to know his limitations."
Which brings us, unfortunately, to Rawson Marshall Thurber, the helmer of the energetic Reitman-esque Ben Stiller/Vince Vaughn comedy Dodgeball and perpetrator of this more ambitious -- but ill-advised -- derailment of coming-of-age cliches.
Based on the well-regarded book by Pulitzer-Prize winner Michael Chabon, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh isn't a total botch -- it's too polished for that -- but it's also a misguided head-spinner of conflicting tones, listless lead performances and dashed expectations.
Dodgeball 2 anyone?
Jon Foster stars as Art, a rudderless college graduate circa 1983 who returns home to Pittsburgh only to drift purposelessly between two kinds of options: Not very good and worse. A business major, Art is unenthusiastically circling a career as a stock broker, mostly so he can avoid being pulled into the permanent orbit of his mobster father (a gravelly Nick Nolte).
In the meantime, he's working retail at a discount book store.
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Among the perks: Frequent sex with the store's pert but peculiar manager (the always-welcome Mena Suvari). Matters soon get even livelier with the introduction of musician hottie Jane (Sienna Miller) and her charismatic low-life boyfriend Cleveland (Peter Sarsgaard). Expecting Cleveland to grow violently jealous of Jane and Art's rapport? Don't. Chabon isn't so simplistic, but Thurber struggles to nimbly execute the narrative's themes, twists and tonal shifts; he simply isn't an agile enough filmmaker -- at least not yet.
The result generates more mixed feelings than admiration (or, conversely, loathing). At best, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh is a troubled entertainment remarkable largely for its untapped potential; at worst, it unspools like second-tier Sundance.
No surprise there -- the movie debuted at that film festival in January 2008.
Equally unsurprising?
That over the course of this fateful summer, Art is dragged feet-first into soul-weary adulthood, what with its complexities and responsibilities. Sound like almost every other pseudo-bogus Hollywood flick you've seen about a young, searching protagonist at a crossroads? In truth, familiarity is the least of the movie's worries.
Much more problematic is the humdrum work by Foster, who's too hollow a presence to stoke much interest or attention. Faring only modestly better is Miller, who's most effective in gorgeous come-hither mode, but wanes as the plot deepens. Only Sarsgaard, one of the industry's most reliable character actors, and Suvari, nailing all the right off-kilter notes, measure up.
(This film is rated 18-A)