I really wanted to like this movie (and I suppose I did, slightly), especially given how much I enjoyed Baghead (2008) in a completely different manner than I expected going into it. Though devoid of the element of surprise present in the filmmaking and construction of Baghead, there are things to admire here starting with the assured and likable cast. Jonah Hill plays Cyrus who, at 22, still lives with his mother Molly, near-convincingly brought to life by the embodiment of can-do-no-wrong, Marissa Tomei. (If I could take credit for pulling this observation from the mire I would: my wife Melissa pointed out that in Molly, we have a seemingly rational, intelligent, genial person who is so inept at recognizing the co-dependent relationship she has with her son and detecting his devious and parasitic activities that the minute you start questioning how these contradictive qualities can exist in the same person—which is almost immediately—her character, along with the film itself, crumples beneath the weight of it.) And the always excellent John C. Reilly plays divorcée John, the poor sap whose falling in love with Molly (apparent immediately in a well-scripted yet entirely unbelievable post-modern “meet cute”) threatens—at least in Cyrus’s eyes—to decimate the all-encompassing bond between mother and son.
The film has a few other grace notes. One worth mentioning, oddly, is the use of locations, especially the house where Cyrus and his mother live and setting where a pivotal party scene unfolds, which uncannily ground the proceedings in reality, nearly making you believe the goings-on as they unfold. Also, the film’s ending is better than most of its kind, and Cyrus has exactly one great, kinetically giddy scene, where John confronts Cyrus in the middle of the night: the momentum builds to a fever pitch, but rather than capitalizing on this momentum, the film subsequently grinds to a halt without ever regaining its footing.
I admire the gentle nature of the screenplay and that the film never goes for a cheap and easy laugh; say what you will, but Cyrus isn’t lazy. But in the end, it’s either a comedy that’s not particularly funny or a drama that’s a little too quirky to resound with any gravitas. Cyrus is generically sweet like kindergartners’ exchanging valentines that they’ve each scribbled their perfunctory signatures on, because that’s what they do, rather than achingly sweet like a working stiff trying to find the perfect Valentine’s Day present for his lady when he only has $20 in his bank account and doesn’t get paid again until the 15th, because that’s what he has to do. Which is what, I think anyway, the Duplass brothers are aspiring to here.
