Beaver, The

There was a time amidst the release of Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ (a great film), his infamous run-in with the law at a traffic stop and the ensuing phone misogyny he blathered at his ex-wife, when I thought about forgiving him (in the meaningless way a fan can exculpate) for his verbal transgressions. He is a celebrity and artist after all, blinded by a spotlight that none of us have to contend with on a daily basis (oh, the quotes the media would get from you if followed!) and, perhaps, deserved the benefit of the doubt.

Hell, I even liked most of Apocalypto despite my better nature.

Fuck him though, really. I drink to excess too, but I've never done anything as belligerently stupid as threaten my wife, badger a cop or practice Catholicism.

I have also voiced opinions derogatory to minorities and women in the past, but most of them stemmed from behavioral issues I felt were directly attributable to a horseshit stance or act caused by a misguided devotion to their ethnicity or gender which defied good taste, reasonableness or logic. Joe Lieberman, Rosie O'Donnell and Jesse Jackson come to mind per exemple. The LORDS OF FUCKITRY.

On the other side of the ideological aisle? You can actually witness it like a cattle auction. It is innate.

It should be mentioned, at this juncture, that I break white people's balls all the time, for behaving white. We have not the time nor energy to go into that cavalcade of wrong right now.

It also needs to be mentioned that I am a fucking bigot. Most of us, if not all, are. But, as Woody Allen so eloquently stereotyped Carol Kane in Annie Hall, fortunately, "For the left."

Gibson's outbursts had a feel of pure, fundamental hatred. Religion born. Deep-seated. Unwavering. There were too many instances. Too much publicity depicting it. A more careful bigot would have kept that shit in the vault. And Mel Gibson can afford a few vaults. And a driver, by the way. What millionaire drives their own fucking car? That's just asking for trouble. And a separate post.

Which is why it is very hard to see his movies nowadays without the poisoned feeling that you are watching a semi-repentant bigot try to make money off public apathy and forgetfulness, instead of a culture and fan base which believes he has atoned and changed.

The Beaver was very smart in starting to rebuild some cred-- small, personal, sympathetic, with a hint of Harvey built in. But they missed the nut. His character is delusional and crazy enough to talk to a puppet and saw off his own hand. He sleeps constantly, interacts with few, owns his own company and presides ignorantly over its failure. Yet, is without remorse.

Not a giant stretch.

That's probably where Mel Gibson is right now. Particularly if he felt his left hand was controlled, via Castor canadensis, by the ghost of Irving Thalberg or handcuffed by a fucking Kike cop.

More than a mediocre movie, The Beaver acts as director/star Jodie Foster's attempt at helping her once accepted friend find his audience footing again. I would argue that portraying him as a failing businessman, depressive figure and father who can only speak through a beaver puppet does little to alleviate the collective fear that he is, in real life, a floundering, deranged egoist of his own design.

But, I love Jodie. And by that I mean I am in love with Jodie, despite her predilection for the hand, fingers, fist, arm or tongue of women for her sexual satisfaction. Not Hinkley love, mind you. I just find her to be ethereal, talented and beautiful. With the exception of Nell and Flightplan, she has rarely disappointed me in her adult film life.

Her latest poses a bit of a problem for me, however. While The Beaver is certainly adult and high minded in its aspirations, it lacks the weirdness and scene-by-scene irony that a film like this should have. It pushes boundaries, but always pulls back into sentimentality or melodrama when the going gets strange. There is never humor where there should NOT be (a true sign of failed dark comedy) and it lulls into easy laughs and smarminess at the most obvious of times. The rest is a surprisingly pat telling of a family on the brink, with teen angst, troubled love, a cute child and a 1980s challenge/success montage firmly in place. It's American Beauty without the edge.

Jodie Foster as director/actor made a wonderful, small film in 1991 called Little Man Tate, which had many of these elements but stayed charmingly off-kilter throughout. I'm sure she was shooting for the same thing here, but the baggage was just too great and she unfortunately got lost in trying to save Mel's acting career along the way.

My nagging question was, amidst all of this suburban ennui, where was Ward Cleaver to soothe the Beaver's woes with his words of paternal wisdom? Or Wally, to punch him in the arm and call him a creep?

Interesting note: Gibson's voice for "The Beaver" puppet is a dead ringer for actor Ray Winstone. Also interesting is that his performance is very good. If done by anyone other than a recalcitrant, Catholic douchebag, it would have received more praise. Certainly from me.

I still don't like him. And, by that, I mean Australians. Dumb, criminal pig-fuckers, every last one of them.