Posted: 10/31/2001

My First Mister

(2001)

by Joe Steiff

Top-notch actress Christine Lahti fumbles in second directing attempt…

Imagine Roseanne’s Darlene succumbing to her depression not just by dyeing her hair black but by piercing her body multiple times, getting tattoos and cutting herself ritualistically. Funny stuff, huh?

The only bigger laugh would be a terminal illness, right?

Thank god My First Mister isn’t a comedy. I know, the previews imply that this is going to be some fun. I mean, there’s that whole wacky May/December (or more accurately, February/December) romance thing. Did I say, “romance?” No, they’re just platonic friends. Happens all the time. No one bats an eye when it does.

Maybe that’s why there have been the cliched comparisons to Harold & Maude. I’m not sure which film should be more offended. Let me just go on record right now that not every film that has an age discrepancy between its leads should be compared to the now classic Harold & Maude story. No one commented on Redford and Pfiefer in that Jessica Savitch rip off, now did they? Of course, neither character in that film is a teenager, but the number of years between them probably isn’t much different than the ones between Leelee and Albert.

As for comparisons, it might prove a more worthwhile and thoughtful (if disconcerting) point of analysis to compare My First Mister to a film like L.I.E.

Oh wait, Hollywood just shuddered. Or was that an earthquake?

So let’s see if we can sort this out a bit without spoiling all the surprises or plot twists.

Albert Brooks plays a stuffy and lonely shopkeeper, Randall, who hires Goth wannabe Jennifer, played by Leelee Sobieski (a Helen Hunt wannabe previously seen in The Glass House, Joy Ride and Here on Earth). On the condition that she remove her piercings and try to look more presentable. Because she’s been sitting outside his store, “scaring the customers away.” That’s just the reason he says. We know that he has hired her because he sees something in her, something that resonates with his own loneliness.

And though Jennifer is presented as a tortured soul, she has her limits. For example, there are places she won’t pierce herself. Somewhere in here is a statement about the expression of fashion versus (emotional) pain, but I’m never quite clear on which side of the equation Jennifer falls. This is not helped by the fact that her parents are presented one-dimensionally; a mother (Carol Kane) to provide humiliation, a step father who’s barely warmer than an arctic tundra, and a stoner father (John Goodman) evidently pushed away by his daughter. These abbreviated characters are designed, I guess, to make sure we develop empathy for Jennifer, but frankly, I didn’t have much. Even her ritual self-abuse seems trivialized here rather than - well, I’m not sure I expected it to be explored, but I expected it to have some weight to it other than a simplistic character trait.

Everyone’s an asshole except Randall.

Wow, I guess that kind of sums it up. But this being a movie and all, Jennifer makes a character change, a transition, incited by her feelings for Randall. Clearly romantic on her part, though the film sidesteps any real discussion of the issue since Randall throws up when she first raises the possibility of sex and then completely ignores it for as long as possible, which in this script is a pretty long time — like forever.

Which means either that he is an asshole, or she stops being one. Hmmmm.

Formerly a producer and writer for the critically acclaimed but short-lived television show, It’s Like, You Know…, screenwriter Jill Franklyn has written a film that owes more to the women’s weepies of yesteryear than today’s comedies. And as such, it loses its relevance (in terms of both character development and dramatic structure). That’s not to say that the film isn’t effective at times. With director Christine Lahti (who last directed 1995’s Lieberman in Love), Franklyn crafts several moments that break through all this artifice and convenience (without giving it away, let’s just say everyone ends up with who they’re supposed to).

My First Mister works hard to make us like the characters, even the assholes. Well, okay, not the mom, not the stepfather, not the father — unless you count the dinner scene near the end. Which I guess we’re supposed to. For all that work, the film should be more poignant than it is. Okay, yes, I got a little weepy towards the end. The film manipulates us in bold and bald ways. I just wish it had done so with a little more finesse.

Instead the film treads like an elephant along the uneasy tightrope between comedy and tragedy.

There are some nice touches. Randall’s reasons for pushing people away are actually integrated into the plot. But we don’t get the same amount of insight into Jennifer despite her life taking up much more screen time. As a case in point: I’ve laid on graves; I’ve got tattoos; I’m pierced; I was humiliated by my mother while I was growing up; I even had my black clothes phase — but just in the same way that those facts give you no real insight into me, these provide just about as much understanding of Jennifer. Oh wait, I forgot, she dances by herself in her room. That changes everything!

Any episode of My So-Called Life has more to say about being an adolescent, family, age or life and death than this film.

The few moments that really ring true are overshadowed by a plot so predictable it’s not even worthy of a TV show episode. Once Desmond Harrington makes his appearance, anyone who doesn’t see how this is all going to resolve should - well - nevermind. Hollywood loves you.

Interestingly enough, for all of these problems, the film still moved me. If only for Jennifer’s toast at dinner. I guess I am just a sucker for people overcoming all the emotional obstacles in their lives. I really do want to believe that families can come together despite their differences.

Albert Brooks probably deserves the credit for any of this film holding together, despite playing the same character he always does. Leelee Sobieski doesn’t bring the darkness necessary for her role unless the character really is just a poser. Desmond Harrington, Mary Kay Place and Carol Kane are quite fine with the limited roles they have.

Still to be made is a really good film with these characters or character types. In the meantime, this one will have to do. Despite my snippiness, if you tear up at the thought of fate and love and reconciliation, then My First Mister might do it for you. But just in case, go to a half-price show.

Joe Steiff hasn’t lain on a grave in a long time—not since that woman was screaming at him for being sacrilegious.

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