The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
(2013)
At least this second big screen adaptation of James
Thurber’s short story is no by-the-numbers remake. Unfortunately, few of Ben
Stiller’s and writer Steve Conrad’s choices in this very different take to the
Danny Kaye original are positive ones. It’s all the more disappointing, as
Stiller’s directorial work has been a consistent bright spot in a career
frequently marred by a tiresome comedy klutz persona spread across chasm of
undifferentiated movies. One suspects the problem may be too little involvement
in the screenplay, as on paper at least the writer-director of Zoolander and Tropic Thunder is a good fit for a movie reliant on extravagant
fantasy sequences and witty satire. That The
Secret Life of Walter Mitty has little of either speaks to something going very
wrong at the conception phase.
Of course, one shouldn’t be arguing over what a movie isn’t
(compared to, say an original) but rather what it is. And what Walter Mitty 2013 is, is a fantasy (I’d
hardly say a comedy, as there are few laughs) of self-actualisation. But
self-actualisation where the self-actualiser has little to overcome and precious
few markers of a subordinated personality. The substance of Walter Mitty is so paper thin that it must
live or die on the cinematography. Stiller makes some of the best looking
comedies around, a rarity in the point-and-shoot world of US laughers.
Unfortunately, without the chuckles, the images just sit there looking pretty,
and, without any real conflict or motivation for our central character, he
merely goes through the motions of a wholly undemanding recapturing of his “lost”
youth.
I’ve remarked before that I’m not in the anti-remake boat. I
don’t think there’s any principle to be adhered to other than: have a good
reason to want to do it. Hollywood has been remaking movies and churning out
sequels since its inception, but each new generation moans about the practice
as if it’s only now marring creativity or adventurousness. There’s no reason
not to remake Walter Mitty. The
opportunity to take flight in a sporadic fantasy world is ever-relevant and appealing
fuel for humorous diversions. And it isn’t as if James Thurber had anything
good to say about the 1947 picture, which came a mere eight years after his
short story, or The Public Life of Danny
Kaye as he maligned it. Thurber wrote a dissatisfied letter to Life magazine on the subject; can it be
a coincidence that Stiller’s Mitty works for (the now-defunct) Life? If not, it’s a dubious shout-out;
however dismissive of Norman Z McLeod’s film Thurber was, he would surely have
been even less pleased with Stiller’s unpersuasively upbeat jolly.
Notwithstanding Thurber’s lack of appreciation, the original
ranks among Danny Kaye’s three or four best movies. In it, he is a put-upon escapist
proofreader who becomes entangled in a real life adventure and so learns the
mettle to deal with life. Thurber includes no such character arc in this story,
nor is there any real life drama. One might argue a real world adventure
detracts from the fantasy sequences, and the whole point is escapism as a means
to avoid life, but without such a device its difficult to see how the brief story
could engage as a feature length one. Should Walter Mitty even find a means to
triumph in the real world? Even more in Stiller’s version there isn’t a movie
if he doesn’t. The fantasy sequences are neither memorable nor clever. There’s
nothing even approaching the iconic “ta-pocketa-ta-pocketa-ta-pocketa”
found in both the Thurber story and the Kaye movie (even if trying to avoid it,
you’d have though Stiller would recognise he needed something just as
arresting). It’s all very curious, almost as if he didn’t really have a clue
why the original picture and story were appealing in the first place.
It is perhaps understandable the route of having Mitty
involved in a criminal plot was avoided, as that is still the standard for any
everyman-breaks-out-of-his-boring-world comedy. One suspects this was a fixture
throughout the many redrafts and stars and directors throughout the project’s
20 years of development hell. It was a Jim Carrey joint for the longest time
(although somehow, somewhere, Eric Bogosian may have been involved even
earlier; difficult to countenance, I know), and his directorial partners at
various points included Ron Howard (terrible idea, look at the mess he has made
of his few fantasy projects), Chuck Russell and Steven Spielberg (superficially
a good match, but then recall how successful his only straight remake Always is). Also in the frame along the
way were directors Mark Waters and Gore Verbinski (who retains a producer
credit) and stars Owen Wilson, Sacha Baron Cohen, Will Ferrell and Mike Myers
(the latter two and Carrey are perhaps most appealing to any wanting something of
the “Kaye Unleashed” spirit of the original).
Without misdeeds, there must be (mis-) adventures, so Conrad
has instead settled on a quest. Walter is a negative asset manager (of the film
variety) who is unable to locate the vital negative of star Life photojournalist Sean
O’Connell. Life is set to close shop and continue online only, requiring
numerous lay-offs. To facilitate this transition, Adam Scott’s Managing
Director Ted Hendricks has been brought in. O’Connell’s picture is destined to
be the cover of the last print issue. Unlike Kaye’s Mitty, this Walter has
little in the way of encumbrances. His family are doting (mum Shirley MacLaine
and supremely irritating sister Kathryn Hahn) and he has the meagerest of
crises of confidence in wooing co-worker Cheryl (Kristen Wiig; great, as if
that needs to be said, but served a thoroughly undercooked love interest role).
It isn’t like Walter’s a failure; O’Connell values him as the master preserver
of his work of 16 years standing. His zone-outs, that announce he is off to fantasyland,
are relatively unobtrusive. He’s also far from a bumbling fool, as he is a
one-time shit-hot skateboard kid. All
that is counting against him is Hendricks being a prick, and it simply isn’t
enough to inspire this quest or root for it. He’s doing perfectly well with
Cheryl without needing an impetus to boost his confidence.
And so, when he sets of on his mission to track down Sean (I
was half expecting there to be no 25th negative; that he had set out
a breadcrumb trail to encourage Walter to realise himself, so upfront is the
movie about achieving one’s inner unrealised whatever), each new challenge
isn’t really much of one. He can leap from helicopters, dodge sharks, skateboard
across Iceland, powwow with Afghan warlords. Without breaking a sweat. So what
exactly is the picture about again? Where’s the struggle for growth when it’s
all there served on a plate?
Conrad wrote the underrated The Weather Man for Verbinksi, so perhaps he came aboard under Gore.
Where that picture had a bit of
downbeat heart, his Mitty bears more
resemblance to the unfiltered feel-good of Pursuit
of Happyness. That picture at least had a rags-to-riches trajectory,
though. We don’t even superficially care about what Stiller’s Walter has in
store. As noted, the fantasy sequences hardly inspire. He saves a dog from a
burning building, has a fight (or two) with his boss, appears as a bronzed
explorer (recalling Zoolander's Blue Steel/Magnum more than anything, but without raising a smile),
has a bizarre (in a woeful, rather that whacky sense) Benjamin Button interlude and shows up on Conan (now, that’s
loopy!)
Only one actually has the kind of effect on the plot it
should, as he imagines Cheryl singing Space
Oddity, which inspires him to board a helicopter. But, by this point, the
spectacular scenery, courtesy of cinematographer Stuart Dryburgh, has taken
over and ensures the fantasy holds no precedence. If anything, his world of
dreams is weak in comparison. Maybe this is the point, but has Stiller really
thought through the message he is sending out? That the only point in dreaming
is if you aren’t sufficiently fulfilled? He even says it at the end, when he
admits that he has been daydreaming “Lately,
less” and the responses is “Good, good”.
Is that good? Was Walter suffering from some truly aberrant condition that
needed remedy? In Stiller’s mind, yes. But I guess he’s the type of millionaire
40-something who can bring about acute insights through a few skateboard flips
against stunning vistas. Speaking of which, the Stretch Armstrong moment in Iceland is frankly baffling. How stupid
are Icelanders supposed to be, that they’d exchange a crappy rubber man for
skateboard?
It’s surprising that there are so few laughs in here. It’s all utterly sincere, which one would
expect to be anathema to Stiller. Scott wrestles a few chuckles from behaving odiously,
but Stiller, Wiig, and Patton Oswalt (as an online dating customer relations
guy; how much product placement is there in here? On the other hand, does
product placement have any effect if you don’t know it’s a real product? I
hadn’t even heard of eHarmony before)
are in barren territory. Stiller presumably thought all the positive
affirmations would be undermined by his usual approach. But this smoothed-out
ride limits the picture on every level. When everything comes so easily it
can’t really be called a hero’s journey, making the absent of the diversion of
laughs all the more glaring. Penn’s rugged explorer comes on as an embodiment
of the manly ideal Walter aspires to, but it’s an indifferent piece of casting
and undemanding performance.
What the picture does
have is visual sense. The imagery is frequently dazzling, with locations, colours
and camera speeds that pop off the screen. It’s a shame this skill is in
service of something so fragile and undemanding. From Walter running by a wall
of Life posters that show him on the
covers, to planes taking off on a billboard runway, to Walter skating down a
glacier, Stiller the director has a sharp eye for the sumptuous (Penn’s
beckoning finger is less effective). He really should direct more. And maybe
act less.
There’s something a little repellently self-congratulatory
and indulgent about The Secret Life of
Walter Mitty. It’s an admirable piece of technical filmmaking but an almost
wholly empty experience. Walter Mitty has no mountain to climb, only a volcano
to effortlessly traverse. He needs make no demands on our emotions because
Stiller the director is always on hand with a “rousing” piece of soundtrack (Arcade Fire, really?!!) telling us just
how he thinks we should feel, and a choice sequence of slow motion to rub it
in. This would be stunningly effective, master-manipulative filmmaking if only
anyone had remembered to put in anything or anyone to care about.
***
