St. Vincent

Concealed tender attachments, buried beneath a gruff miserable parched exterior, foul to the uninitiated, frozen finicky finesse, a babysitter, Bukowski shorn and shackled, providing advice, caring for the next generation, a single mother's compensation, working as duty requires, loving and trusting yet unsuspecting, situation confronted, solution, agreed upon, he will care for my child, I will work and have faith in benevolent common decency, the grip and the gristle, asserted hardboiled exactitude.

Opportunity hasn't knocked for struggling Vincent MacKenna (Bill Murray) for some time, then one day it bounds and pounces, his skills and acquired knowledge valuable once again, a sympathetic listener, there, to learn from his life's lessons.

Sleaze and pettiness have taken root over the years, but within their ornery sizzles, character and sacrifice still remain.

Bullies therefore are confronted.

Harrying fortunes assay.

I didn't think St. Vincent would be so well done, but it slowly and slyly reaps inversed inventive concessions, atlantic rapscallions, an impounded sense of goodwill and understanding, hanging on the edge, making ends meet, taking necessary risks, combusted communal curmudgeons.

It's not too cheesy, it's not too perverse.

Melissa McCarthy (Maggie Bronstein) takes a secondary role within and I thought an extended scene with her and Murray mutually fuming, both of them possibly throwing things, would have worked well.

They interact a number of times, but their encounters are too short and sweet, too openly one-sided.

Murray is fantastic though.

So's the kid (Jaeden Lieberher as Oliver).

Naomi Watts too.

Nice to see her showing up in films again.

Complex.