Broken Flowers - The Atlanta Journal-Constitution movie review

'Broken Flowers': Bill Murray film is odd, but interesting

By ELEANOR RINGEL GILLESPIE
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

"Broken Flowers" is one odd duck of a movie. It does about a dozen things carelessly — probably more — yet you never lose interest in Jim Jarmusch's story or Bill Murray's existential deadpan.

Murray plays Don Johnston with a T, prompting a number of "Miami Vice" jokes. A wealthy bachelor who made his fortune in computers, Don now refuses to have one in his house — an early hint of the character's inherent contrariness.

Focus Features

'Broken Flowers'

B-

The verdict: A strange yet fascinating bouquet from the strange yet fascinating team of Bill Murray and Jim Jarmusch.

Director: Jim Jarmusch
Starring: Bill Murray, Jeffrey Wright, Sharon Stone, Frances Conroy, Jessica Lange
Run time: 105 minutes
Release date: August 5, 2005
Rating: R for language, some graphic nudity and brief drug use.
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As the movie starts, his too-young-for-him girlfriend (Julie Delpy) is moving out — more frustrated than angry. Don's lackadaisical response may be one reason why; he can barely muster a please-stay plea. So he's left in his mausoleum of a mansion, watching TV, listening to opera and occasionally connecting with other human beings thanks to the boisterous family next door headed by Winston (Jeffrey Wright).

Then one day a pink letter arrives, saying Don fathered a son with one of his girlfriends years ago — and now the 19-year-old is set on looking up his dad. There's no signature, no return address, even the postmark is illegible.

Don's willing to let the thing go, but Winston, who fancies himself an amateur Sherlock Holmes (he gingerly handles the letter as if it were "CSI" evidence) bullies Don into taking a road trip through his past, Mapquesting him from one former girlfriend to the next. "A stalker in a Taurus" is how Don describes himself.

The old flames include: Sharon Stone, a randy recent widow; Frances Conroy, a tentative, defeated real estate agent; Jessica Lange, who confidently plays against type as a potentially goofy "animal communicator" (not a psychic, she insists); and biker-chick Tilda Swinton, made up to look a little like Cher in "Silkwood."

Jarmusch isn't interested in an answer to Don's quest, and the film's coda, involving a teenager who may or may not be his Rosebud, seems like overkill. As does Don's spelling out the movie's message when he says near the end, "The past is gone. The future is not here yet. All there is is the present. That's it."

Gee, no kidding.

Further, Jarmusch isn't a perfect match for Murray. In "Lost in Translation," Sofia Coppola surrounded his bored, fading movie star with frenetic energy — everything from media handlers to Tokyo neon. Jarmusch's style is to suck the air out of a scene, which isn't the best counterpoint to his star's sealed-off, airtight performance. We're left with competing ironies that clash rather than complement each other. Dueling minimalisms, you might say.

And yet, the darn thing works. I'm not even sure why. You're never bored. You can't wait to see who the next old girlfriend will be. The character interaction is fascinating. And Murray brilliantly treads a thin line between caustic and comatose. Ultimately, the Jarmusch-Murray matchup, for all its flaws, offers a uniquely bittersweet experience, a movie with some broken funny bones and a questioning heart.