Stranger than
Fiction
Dustin Hoffman is one of the most significant actors of his generation, a seven-time Oscar nominee and two-time winner known for roles in serious films like The Graduate and Rainman. Emma Thompson is similarly famed for her Oscar-winning performance in Howard’s End and roles in numerous other “literary” films.
Will Ferrell has played an elf. A manic NASCAR driver. A clueless anchorman.
It’s hard to imagine these folks even being in the same studio, let alone the same movie. What are the odds, then, that Stranger Than Fiction would be one of the most satisfying comedies of the year?
But it is – not rolling-in-the-aisles funny, but a sweet romantic comedy suffused with postmodern complications that derives much of its humor from a surprisingly subdued performance by the usually over-the-top Ferrell.
He plays Harold Crick, a bland IRS auditor whose life revolves around numbers until he hears a female voice (Thompson) narrating his daily life. His settled routine – even his coffee break is timed precisely to a tenth of a second – is irrevocably shattered.
Is he crazy? The agency psychologist suggests a vacation, and a hug. Another psychologist (Linda Hunt) diagnoses schizophrenia. Then, when he tells her, “I feel like a character in my own life,” she refers him to a literature professor (Hoffman).
Harold’s efforts to find out what kind of story he is living in allow for some discussion of the nature of narrative, logically enough for a film built around the conceit of a character in a story becoming aware of the fact that he is a character.
Don’t let that turn you away from the film, though. The intellectual touches are slight (the distinguished professor’s analysis is reduced to the simplistic formula, “If it’s a tragedy, you die; if it’s a comedy, you get married”) and played for laughs rather than profundity.
Ferrell’s deadpan incomprehension of the world outside his beloved numbers and IRS regulations is priceless, as are his fumbling attempts to break out of the box. When he meets a sexy baker (Maggie Gyllenhall) he has been sent to audit, he blunders through nervous small talk, bumbles at flirting, and finally, sweetly, brings her “flours” to show his desire for her.
Gyllenhall, who’s had a busy year (Monster House, World Trade Center), dominates the screen whenever she is on. Her character, Ana Pascal, refuses to pay 22 percent of her taxes to protest policies she disapproves of, but Harold isn’t really listening – he’s immediately infatuated.
And why not? With a tattooed upper arm and a penchant for halter tops, Gyllenhall oozes sexuality. When Ana tells Harold how she became a baker, Gyllenhall gives the most sensuous list of baked goods (treats she baked for her fellow Harvard Law students) anyone has ever heard. Not just Harold but any man in the audience could easily fall in love with her.
As Kay Eiffel, the author whose novel threatens Harold’s life, Thompson is all jangling nerves and frustration. Eiffel looks completely wrung out as she struggles with a 10-year writer’s block, brought on by her inability to decide how to kill off Harold – because, you see, she always kills the heroes of her novels.
Will she finish the novel? Will Harold have to die? Will Harold and Ana get together? To tell you would be to reveal whether this is a tragedy or a comedy (see above). Perhaps, though, “tragicomedy” would be the best term. Go see for yourself.
This review appeared in the Aberdeen American News on November 12, 2006.
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This page last updated on November 15, 2006.