Foster & Gibson's 'The Beaver' a Bust

Out of all the films so far released in America this year, The Beaver is surely the weirdest.

For months, journalists and bloggers have been poking fun at its unseemly title, which suggests a tone of irreverence that the picture itself is oddly lacking. Imagine a wholesome sitcom crossed with a deranged psychodrama, and you’ll have a fair approximation of this achingly sincere mess.

It’s doubtful whether many moviegoers still desire to see the film’s star, Mel Gibson, onscreen ever again. The tapes released last year by his former girlfriend, Oksana Grigorieva, feature the self-destructive actor spewing racial slurs that may be deemed unforgivable by some. And by some, I mean the entire human race.

So many careers have ended as a result of comparatively minor offenses. But in the age of profitable train wrecks like Charlie Sheen and Chris Brown, it’s clear that celebrities can get away with murder just as long as they continue to rake in the dough (and, for the record, Gibson’s Beaver did gross $104,000 at just 22 screens, according to Box Office Mojo).

Of course, it also helps to be well-connected, and Gibson is fortunate enough to be friends with director and co-star Jodie Foster. Here’s a woman whose compassion and devotion skirt on the edge of sainthood. She sought out Gibson for the lead role while most of Hollywood was avoiding him like the plague.

After multiple outbursts on the press tour for his would-be comeback vehicle, Edge of Darkness, Gibson’s tattered reputation reached its lowest point after the Grigorieva tapes were made public. Production on The Beaver took place somewhere between these two incidents, and it’s utterly impossible to view the film without being constantly reminded of the notorious actor’s offscreen struggles.

Gibson’s deep-seated masochism and tendency toward self-destruction have always played a major role in his films. His post-Passion of the Christ work has routinely included homages to Christ’s gruesome suffering in Gibson’s now widely reviled 2004 biblical horror show. Sure enough, in the opening scenes of The Beaver, suicidally depressed family man and toy executive Walter Black (Gibson) strikes a crucifixion-like pose and scourges himself with his belt. No explanation is given for why Walter has fallen so far, thus making it all the more difficult for audiences to view him as anything other than an extension of the actor’s internal demons.

After Walter’s wife, Meredith (Foster), kicks him out of the house, the lifeless shell of a man finds himself standing on the precipice of self-inflicted death. That’s when his hand suddenly develops a voice of its own. Outfitted with an ugly beaver puppet that Walter inexplicably dug out of a trash bin, the hand starts offering inspirational advice in a Cockney accent, resulting in some of the most peculiar scenes in recent memory.

Though Walter is dependent on speaking solely through the puppet, it initially provides him with a mode of re-entry into the world, allowing the incapacitated head case to appear functional--connecting with his children, romancing his wife and brainstorming brilliant ideas at work. 

Unfortunately, his brooding teenage son, Porter (Anton Yelchin), still wants nothing to do with him, and harbors an odd habit of beating his head against the wall (literally). But it isn’t until Meredith starts tiring of the Beaver that the tables start to turn, transforming the puppet into a possessive embodiment of Walter’s psychotic depression.

This deeply unusual subject matter could easily make for an intriguing drama, but Kyle Killen’s script is both undercooked and overstuffed. A subplot involving Porter’s romance with the school valedictorian (played by a wasted Jennifer Lawrence, the radiant Oscar nominee from Winter’s Bone) is entirely unnecessary and unconvincing.

What’s worse is that Walter’s familial relationships are never developed beyond the level of a formulaic sketch. There’s a revealing moment when the Beaver chastises Walter’s family on national television for not properly caring for him, which hints at Walter’s repressed feelings of being treated like a burden by his put-upon wife and eldest son. Yet the film never finds time to build a convincing family dynamic that would allow this conflict to evolve or resonate.

Instead, we’re treated to a series of increasingly uncomfortable scenes between Walter and his alter-ego, while Marcelo Zarvos’ misplaced score strains for whimsy.

Foster is a wonderful actress, but she’s never been a particularly stellar filmmaker (her last directorial effort was 1995’s forgettable Home for the Holidays). The Beaver’s wildly conflicting tones seem representative of Foster’s own confusion in how to approach the material. What we’re left with is a handful of good performances in search of a worthy story.

Gibson is particularly riveting, since he’s using this role in much the same way Walter uses the Beaver--to project the negative aspects of his personality into a fictitious persona, thus gaining distance from them. He’s still an actor of the highest caliber, but this flimsy vehicle is hopelessly incapable of upstaging his personal life. 

I suspect that the film’s numerous glowing reviews are largely a result of the lengthy press tour taken by Foster, whose infectious charm and good-hearted intentions could’ve easily swayed susceptible critics.

Shawn Edwards of FOX-TV went so far as to deem it “a crowning achievement in American cinema.” Give me a break. The Beaver is little more than a horrendously titled vanity project resembling an ill-advised public relations campaign.

I shudder at the thought of other washed-up actors tackling copycat projects. Imagine Lindsay Lohan playing a troubled young woman who speaks only through a rooster hand puppet. I can only imagine what that film would be called...

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