It seems not so long ago that Bill Murray got laughs by dynamiting gopher puppets and lounge-singing the theme to Star Wars in an open-chested polyester suit. But if Broken Flowers, Murray's latest film, tells us anything, it is that -- for better or worse -- those days are now far behind him.
Over the past half-decade or so, in films like Rushmore and Lost in Translation, Murray has completely transformed his on-screen persona. Formerly the prince of clowns, Murray is now a careful student of subtlety -- which is not to say that he is no longer funny. What Murray used to do with puppets and flamboyant costumes, he now does with the slightest tilt of his smile, or, more often, the blankness of his stare -- which is great, if you like that kind of thing.
While many moviegoers adore the new Murray, just as many detest his recent work -- see The Life Aquatic (2004) -- and wax nostalgic about the Murray who wasn't ashamed to bust ghosts or kidnap groundhogs in pursuit of a laugh.
Broken Flowers isn't going to convert members of either camp. Murray's performance is masterful but rather similar to his performances in other recent films -- Garfield notwithstanding -- and therefore will have less than universal appeal.
Murray plays Don Johnston, an aging womanizer who is informed, via a letter from an anonymous ex, that he has a 20-year-old son. Johnston questions the letter's stunning claim but, with prodding from his neighbor Winston (an endearing Jeffrey Wright), he sets out to visit a handful of exes in an attempt to discover the mother of his "hypothetical son." Each ex, though, is progressively less happy to see Johnston, and as he MapQuests across the country, he finds himself no closer to the truth.
For those with a taste for nuance, quiet humor and meditative pacing, Murray and Broken Flowers should be a languid pleasure, like a single glass of wine savored slowly over the course of an evening. For others, it may seem like sharing a drink with their least favorite ex: boring, grave and seemingly endless.
Jim Jarmusch directs with almost-stubborn patience. He indulges in 15-second fadeouts and lengthy shots of characters sitting alone or enduring awkward silences. Much of the time, though, his patience pays off, as he uncovers microscopic moments of emotion and meaning that few other directors would bother to wait for. The chemistry between Jarmusch's restrained, observational directing and Murray's restrained, comprehensive acting is palpable, and the two combine for some inspired moments.
Surprisingly, however, in Jarmusch's previous film, this chemistry is lacking. In the episodic Coffee and Cigarettes (2003), Murray is the clown prince of yesteryear, downing coffee straight from the pot and medicating his throat with oven cleaner. But this throwback Murray, with graying hair and oatmeal skin, is somehow not quite as funny as the original Caddyshack-era Murray.
Among other things, Flowers is about giving up the past. In his lone philosophical moment, Johnston muses that "The past is gone. The future isn't here yet. ...So all we have is this, the present." This, of course, is as true for aging comic actors as it is for aging Don Juans. Sometimes your act just doesn't play anymore. The only way to survive is to find a new one.
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