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FLIRTING WITH DISASTER at 25: To Break Things and Be Forgiven

Sara is big into reading and writing fiction like it's her job, because it is. That doesn't mean she isn't real as it gets. She loves real stuff like polka dots, indie rock, and underground fight clubs. I may have made some of that up. I don't know her that well. You can tell she didn't just write this in the third person because if she had written it there would have been less suspect sentence construction.
Sara

Mel Coplin cannot name his child. This is the inciting plot point of writer-director David O. Russell’s second and, in my opinion, best film: 1996’s Flirting with Disaster, which celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary this year. It belongs in the same upper echelon of satirical road trip comedies as Albert Brooks’ Lost in America and Preston Sturges’ Sullivan’s Travels but is rarely granted that level of recognition, perhaps overshadowed in the popular imagination by Russell’s flashier but less soulful later efforts. Watching it now, there’s something quaint, even wholesome, about Disaster’s more pint-sized focus and ambitions; its entire budget could probably match the cost of one of American Hustle’s needle drops. It’s a portrait of a distinctly dysfunctional family, released during the height of the Clinton years, picking up on the ambient anxieties of the you-can-have-it-all era and mining it for painful laughs. But, like pretty much every character in the film, I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

Let’s get back to Mel, who is played with exquisitely calibrated neuroticism by Ben Stiller. Mel cannot name his child because he doesn’t understand where he came from. Mel was adopted as a baby by Pearl and Ed Coplin, played by an uncharacteristically ribald Mary Tyler Moore and perpetually harried George Segal, respectively. Though they are not his birth parents, it’s easy to see how they’ve rubbed off on Mel once they’re introduced in the sort of madcap multilayered “everyone talking at once and about different things” dinner sequence that will become this film’s recurring set piece. For someone like me, who grew up in a household that insisted on sedate nightly meals together that often unfolded with the television on in the background, these scenes hit the same pleasure centers as Moonstruck or Raising Arizona. It’s not that I recognize my own family in them, but the particularities of the arguments and the tangled affection informing them invite me, if only briefly, into a new, more emphatic one. Pearl and Ed are upset with Mel because, deep down, they fear they haven’t been enough for him. Because this is a David O. Russell comedy, that’s expressed by Moore boasting about the defiant buoyancy of her late-middle-aged breasts and Segal cautioning about the carjacking problem in San Diego, where Mel has just announced he’s heading with his wife Nancy (Patricia Arquette, expertly capturing the heightened-stakes sensuality of new motherhood) and his hapless caseworker Tina (Tea Leoni, never sexier), who is recently divorced and feeling pressed for time, biologically speaking. Tina has identified San Diego as the residence of Mel’s birth mother, Valerie Swaney.
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Mitty on Mitty

Michael likes The Fountain and does not like Pay It Forward. If you meet him in person, he will let you know about it.
Michael
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The lights in the theater darkened so that the glowing black of the screen was the only illumination. Multiple noises began to cease, rustling candy wrappers hushing, settling shoe soles snacking against dried soda, settling fabrics brushing seatbacks. The film critic dashed off notes on a reporter’s pad.

This passion project faces high expectations. How will Stiller stretch this short story out to feature length? I doubt it can retain the core of the original. I wonder how he pitched it.

The lavishly appointed Hollywood meeting room erupts in applause and cheerful congratulation. The executive had just explained the gist of the film, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, about an office worker who feels ignored by his peers, but is secretly awesome, and eventually shares his secret awesomeness with the rest of the world. The chief, able to greenlight projects without checking with anyone, smiles with round shining cheeks. No champagne is popped, but the atmosphere in the room is one of champagne-popping.

A script reader standing against the wall at the far end of the room clears his throat. No one hears.

He stands more erect and declares, “Excuse me.”
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