The Pursuit of Maudlynness
Will Smith attempts dirt-poor, opts (again) for pay dirt.
BY GREGORY
I had never heard of Chris Gardner before viewing The Pursuit of Happyness (sic), and now I’m not sure that I care.
This is a rags-to-riches story designed to yank the heartstrings of the intellectually impoverished, and I’m supposing that
even the widest- (and teariest-) eyed connoisseur of shiny happy weepies has a good chance of professing their P.C.
adoration for it whilst also admitting over a beer or two that it’s really just another TV Movie of the Week writ large. No
offense to the real Chris Gardner (who shows up in a cutesy walk-across at the tail), but as portrayed by Will Smith in
this brief but significant segment of his life he seems like the kind of guy who sincerely believes that all is well in the
world as long as he has a Benz in the driveway, a plasma on the wall and no bitch in the way. Not my sort of hero.
Which isn’t to say that Happyness (sic) isn’t functional, if in a totally by-the-numbers, offend-nobody sort of way. It’s a
watchable slice of maudlin averageness for those seeking easy inspiration, and I’d call it Cinema du Hallmark except that
Hallmark’s movies tend to be quite thrilling by comparison. Italian director Gabriele Muccino’s previous work is not
presently known to me, but I do find it somewhat alarming that he got a crack at Big Studio Money here and refused to
attempt anything but this transparent, 2006-compliant American Movie Drama style (shake camera for tense exchange,
pull back to reveal lonely desperation, repeat). Evincing not a whit of uniqueness or credible soul, the movie settles for a
visual middleground to match its emotional one, and the tidy, harmless result sings the blues with all the authority of
Barry Manilow.
This is probably less the fault of the project’s director than of its star and producer Smith, who gamely takes on poverty
and single fatherhood (not to mention a D-minus haircut) but, as is revealed within a few minutes, simply cannot sidestep
or override his own star power (the movie’s best moments are its sparse chuckles). Will Smith as Poor, Beleaguered
Homeless Man does not play. I like the guy and admire his energy (and shall long be grateful for a funny, non-vicious rap
line like, “I picked up my car-phone to perpetrate like I was talkin’”) -- but throughout Happyness (sic) his performance,
while clearly noble in intent, did not prove adequate to distract me from thoughts of him viewing the edits with his three
assistants in his umpteen-bedroom SoCal mansion. Sorry, Will, it’s way too late to play the Everyman. And anyway,
where the hell is Jazzy Jeff?
Gardner’s semi-fictionalised story takes place in San Francisco, circa 1981, with Reagan dishing Reaganomics on the
boob-tube while everybody’s fascinated by the Rubik’s Cube. Walked through the movie by Smith’s matter-of-fact voice-
over, we learn that Chris never met his biological father until he was twenty-eight, and thus vows to keep his own young
son, Christopher (Smith’s own young son, Jaden Smith -- who allegedly “beat out” all other contenders for the role;
shyeah, whatever) close at hand, emphasis on no matter what. As the story rolls along and Chris keeps failing at the cold-
call peddling of get-rich-quick-NOT! bone-density scanners (!), his partner Linda (Thandie Newton with her gorgeous
left armpit) decides to leave him for a real life with relatives in NYC. Does Chris get a clue and, at least briefly, allow his
woman to share custody of their panicking child while he attempts to rebuild his broke-ass existence? Of course not! His
overarching pride in this matter is never addressed, nor is the fact that he and Linda did actually hook up again very
briefly in real life, and via that union suddenly created a daughter. Glossing over this tricky humanity (couldn’t Smith at
least punch a wall or something?) robs the movie of much of its potential zap. It also doesn’t help to see a Raging Bull
ad roll past atop a taxicab; segueing by association, I’m no fan of Taxi Driver, but this movie would have benefited
tremendously from a couple of drops of its vitriol.
Instead what we get is Smith spending the entire movie alternating among three basic actions: 1. Arduously struggling
against Whitey in the Business World (upon spying a red Ferrari, he decides to become a stockbroker intern!);
2. Endlessly chasing down bone-scanners purloined (via his own clumsiness) by Filthy Hippies (I rather wish Muccino
would have lobbied to get this movie re-titled The Portable Bone-Density Scanner Thief); and 3. Constantly insisting to
his son that Everything’s Gonna Be Alright (when fast-accumulating evidence points entirely to the contrary -- the local,
scowling Chinese day-care lady can’t even spell “Happiness” right). By the time Chris -- having lost his primary
residence, his motel flop, and even his dimly-lit occasional cot in the homeless shelter -- is forced by screenplay plot-
points to sleep with his son on the floor of a BART-station men’s room (a small, public San Francisco toilet with a
locking door? Oh, do go on!), I was rolling my eyes and feeling slightly guilty for it -- one hopes not the movie’s
intention. When Chris, reduced to near-nothingness, gives blood for cash, and Muccino insists that we actually observe
his lifeblood entering the bag, I’m sorry, but I had to stifle a giggle. By the time Roberta Flack started up with “Bridge
Over Troubled Water,” I was thinking about how good pizza tastes.
Mind, this is not to poke fun at the real human being upon whom this story is (loosely?) based (I asked the director if the
real Gardner really impressed a head honcho of Dean Witter with his Rubik’s Cube skills, and was told that this detail, at
least, is fiction) -- but if you’re going to send a protagonist (and son) through hell, please don’t make it so darned nice!
(Even in the direst circumstances screenwriter Steve Conrad can concoct, the otherwise charming score by Italian -- and
male -- composer Andrea Guerra never wavers from pretty Merchant-Ivory cheeryness…er…cheerIness.) Not once did
I fear for Chris and Christopher (except that they have fallen prey to the very disagreeable tendency for an adult to be
called by a childish nickname while a child is called by a proper adult name: Weird!). Chris doesn’t even have a real
adversary in the movie (yeah: himself; bleh) apart from a bunch of shit going wrong that, frankly, happens to everybody
(income dries up, arrested for parking tickets, hounded by landlord, screwed over by taxman, abandoned by lover,
annoyed by rich people, BOO HOO!). It’s not unpalatable to watch Smith running around looking vaguely worried
(particularly when he dons his nerd-specs, which make him a shoo-in for The Herbie Hancock Story -- or, heck, The
Elvis Costello Story; I’m not closed-minded), but as with the heroes he plays in the blockbusters, I never experienced
one iota of concern for his wellbeing.
Well, actually, there was one moment. Quite late in the film, a Dean Witter cracker who could best be described as “a
cracker” (having thrice used our hero as his personal boy) summons Chris from his cubicle for God Knows What.
Earlier in the movie, Chris had essentially temporarily stolen the man’s car for what he deemed to be a vital meeting.
Naturally, a parking ticket was acquired. Late at night in a diner with his son, Chris dutifully pays it. But…what if some
record of the incident and location surfaced? Although the plot-turn would have demanded a cumbersome Act Four, I
had my fingers crossed that the cracker was going to fire Chris and throw him out on his ass -- just so we might, in the
end, get a sense of him really triumphing over adversity (not to mention a deeply crippling load of lost time and effort).
But no such luck. As aforementioned, this is first and foremost a nice movie, full of socially redeeming stuff, featuring a
major, major star whose comfort, security and success never seem to be in any real jeopardy.
Accidentally being far less generous (if stunningly astute), the director himself recently referred to The Pursuit of
Happyness (sic) as “Crash with Tom Cruise in it.”
Ha! Damn, dude -- you and I should trade jobs!
The Pursuit of Happyness (sic)
Entertainment Value: 6/13
Style: 5/13
Philosophical Insight: 6/13
The Bottom Line: Schmaltz R Us
-Gregory Weinkauf, 11 December, 2006
Will Smith attempts dirt-poor, opts (again) for pay dirt.
BY GREGORY
I had never heard of Chris Gardner before viewing The Pursuit of Happyness (sic), and now I’m not sure that I care.
This is a rags-to-riches story designed to yank the heartstrings of the intellectually impoverished, and I’m supposing that
even the widest- (and teariest-) eyed connoisseur of shiny happy weepies has a good chance of professing their P.C.
adoration for it whilst also admitting over a beer or two that it’s really just another TV Movie of the Week writ large. No
offense to the real Chris Gardner (who shows up in a cutesy walk-across at the tail), but as portrayed by Will Smith in
this brief but significant segment of his life he seems like the kind of guy who sincerely believes that all is well in the
world as long as he has a Benz in the driveway, a plasma on the wall and no bitch in the way. Not my sort of hero.
Which isn’t to say that Happyness (sic) isn’t functional, if in a totally by-the-numbers, offend-nobody sort of way. It’s a
watchable slice of maudlin averageness for those seeking easy inspiration, and I’d call it Cinema du Hallmark except that
Hallmark’s movies tend to be quite thrilling by comparison. Italian director Gabriele Muccino’s previous work is not
presently known to me, but I do find it somewhat alarming that he got a crack at Big Studio Money here and refused to
attempt anything but this transparent, 2006-compliant American Movie Drama style (shake camera for tense exchange,
pull back to reveal lonely desperation, repeat). Evincing not a whit of uniqueness or credible soul, the movie settles for a
visual middleground to match its emotional one, and the tidy, harmless result sings the blues with all the authority of
Barry Manilow.
This is probably less the fault of the project’s director than of its star and producer Smith, who gamely takes on poverty
and single fatherhood (not to mention a D-minus haircut) but, as is revealed within a few minutes, simply cannot sidestep
or override his own star power (the movie’s best moments are its sparse chuckles). Will Smith as Poor, Beleaguered
Homeless Man does not play. I like the guy and admire his energy (and shall long be grateful for a funny, non-vicious rap
line like, “I picked up my car-phone to perpetrate like I was talkin’”) -- but throughout Happyness (sic) his performance,
while clearly noble in intent, did not prove adequate to distract me from thoughts of him viewing the edits with his three
assistants in his umpteen-bedroom SoCal mansion. Sorry, Will, it’s way too late to play the Everyman. And anyway,
where the hell is Jazzy Jeff?
Gardner’s semi-fictionalised story takes place in San Francisco, circa 1981, with Reagan dishing Reaganomics on the
boob-tube while everybody’s fascinated by the Rubik’s Cube. Walked through the movie by Smith’s matter-of-fact voice-
over, we learn that Chris never met his biological father until he was twenty-eight, and thus vows to keep his own young
son, Christopher (Smith’s own young son, Jaden Smith -- who allegedly “beat out” all other contenders for the role;
shyeah, whatever) close at hand, emphasis on no matter what. As the story rolls along and Chris keeps failing at the cold-
call peddling of get-rich-quick-NOT! bone-density scanners (!), his partner Linda (Thandie Newton with her gorgeous
left armpit) decides to leave him for a real life with relatives in NYC. Does Chris get a clue and, at least briefly, allow his
woman to share custody of their panicking child while he attempts to rebuild his broke-ass existence? Of course not! His
overarching pride in this matter is never addressed, nor is the fact that he and Linda did actually hook up again very
briefly in real life, and via that union suddenly created a daughter. Glossing over this tricky humanity (couldn’t Smith at
least punch a wall or something?) robs the movie of much of its potential zap. It also doesn’t help to see a Raging Bull
ad roll past atop a taxicab; segueing by association, I’m no fan of Taxi Driver, but this movie would have benefited
tremendously from a couple of drops of its vitriol.
Instead what we get is Smith spending the entire movie alternating among three basic actions: 1. Arduously struggling
against Whitey in the Business World (upon spying a red Ferrari, he decides to become a stockbroker intern!);
2. Endlessly chasing down bone-scanners purloined (via his own clumsiness) by Filthy Hippies (I rather wish Muccino
would have lobbied to get this movie re-titled The Portable Bone-Density Scanner Thief); and 3. Constantly insisting to
his son that Everything’s Gonna Be Alright (when fast-accumulating evidence points entirely to the contrary -- the local,
scowling Chinese day-care lady can’t even spell “Happiness” right). By the time Chris -- having lost his primary
residence, his motel flop, and even his dimly-lit occasional cot in the homeless shelter -- is forced by screenplay plot-
points to sleep with his son on the floor of a BART-station men’s room (a small, public San Francisco toilet with a
locking door? Oh, do go on!), I was rolling my eyes and feeling slightly guilty for it -- one hopes not the movie’s
intention. When Chris, reduced to near-nothingness, gives blood for cash, and Muccino insists that we actually observe
his lifeblood entering the bag, I’m sorry, but I had to stifle a giggle. By the time Roberta Flack started up with “Bridge
Over Troubled Water,” I was thinking about how good pizza tastes.
Mind, this is not to poke fun at the real human being upon whom this story is (loosely?) based (I asked the director if the
real Gardner really impressed a head honcho of Dean Witter with his Rubik’s Cube skills, and was told that this detail, at
least, is fiction) -- but if you’re going to send a protagonist (and son) through hell, please don’t make it so darned nice!
(Even in the direst circumstances screenwriter Steve Conrad can concoct, the otherwise charming score by Italian -- and
male -- composer Andrea Guerra never wavers from pretty Merchant-Ivory cheeryness…er…cheerIness.) Not once did
I fear for Chris and Christopher (except that they have fallen prey to the very disagreeable tendency for an adult to be
called by a childish nickname while a child is called by a proper adult name: Weird!). Chris doesn’t even have a real
adversary in the movie (yeah: himself; bleh) apart from a bunch of shit going wrong that, frankly, happens to everybody
(income dries up, arrested for parking tickets, hounded by landlord, screwed over by taxman, abandoned by lover,
annoyed by rich people, BOO HOO!). It’s not unpalatable to watch Smith running around looking vaguely worried
(particularly when he dons his nerd-specs, which make him a shoo-in for The Herbie Hancock Story -- or, heck, The
Elvis Costello Story; I’m not closed-minded), but as with the heroes he plays in the blockbusters, I never experienced
one iota of concern for his wellbeing.
Well, actually, there was one moment. Quite late in the film, a Dean Witter cracker who could best be described as “a
cracker” (having thrice used our hero as his personal boy) summons Chris from his cubicle for God Knows What.
Earlier in the movie, Chris had essentially temporarily stolen the man’s car for what he deemed to be a vital meeting.
Naturally, a parking ticket was acquired. Late at night in a diner with his son, Chris dutifully pays it. But…what if some
record of the incident and location surfaced? Although the plot-turn would have demanded a cumbersome Act Four, I
had my fingers crossed that the cracker was going to fire Chris and throw him out on his ass -- just so we might, in the
end, get a sense of him really triumphing over adversity (not to mention a deeply crippling load of lost time and effort).
But no such luck. As aforementioned, this is first and foremost a nice movie, full of socially redeeming stuff, featuring a
major, major star whose comfort, security and success never seem to be in any real jeopardy.
Accidentally being far less generous (if stunningly astute), the director himself recently referred to The Pursuit of
Happyness (sic) as “Crash with Tom Cruise in it.”
Ha! Damn, dude -- you and I should trade jobs!
The Pursuit of Happyness (sic)
Entertainment Value: 6/13
Style: 5/13
Philosophical Insight: 6/13
The Bottom Line: Schmaltz R Us
-Gregory Weinkauf, 11 December, 2006
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