Site Presented By
Tuesday, Nov 24, 2009
Madonna and Rupert Everett star in a gay-themed family comedy that goes seriously awry.
Mar 3, 2000 | There's nothing as frustrating as a promising idea undone by a failure of nerve. In John Schlesinger's "The Next Best Thing," a single woman in her late 30s, played by Madonna, bears the child of her best friend Robert (Rupert Everett), who's gay, after a single drunken assignation. The two decide to raise the kid together, and the arrangement seems perfect: Robert is a remarkable father, Abbie a patient and sensible mother. Their son, Sam (Malcolm Stumpf), is bright, well-adjusted and free of the brattiness that filmmakers so often try to foist off as cuteness.
But alternative-family arrangements come with their own set of problems: When 6-year-old Sam asks his dad why he doesn't sleep in the same bed with his mom, as his friends' parents do, Robert tells him it's because she snores. It's a funny, clever dodge, but we know as well as Robert does that it's only temporary.
The problem with "The Next Best Thing" is that instead of wrestling with some of the thorny, delicate problems that might come up in such a family, it struggles to manufacture and hand over big, clumsy ones -- as if the inherent drama (and comedy) in such a socially unorthodox family could never be enough to fuel a movie. "The Next Best Thing" is two or more confused films shoehorned into one, a picture that spends its first half straining against conventionality and its second half bowing and scraping to it.
Madonna's charisma as a personality -- and even though it's dwindling rapidly, I'm willing to believe she might still have some left -- has never translated particularly well to the big screen, and "The Next Best Thing" doesn't do much to help. Her role is conceived so that she can pretty much play herself -- her character is a yoga instructor with a fondness for bindis and other eastern trappings -- but perhaps she's changed personas so many times that she can't even pull that off. She seems wooden and unnatural, and it's tough to watch, because she's clearly trying her damnedest.
Everett, conversely, in an effortless and enjoyable performance, scoops up the whole movie with one hand. He has a charming rapport with his co-star, spinning out offhandedly funny lines like the one that begins, "If I were you -- and I practically am ..." He plays a landscaper, so we get the occasional glimpse of him in rugged workwear, for those inquiring minds who want to know; he's beautiful to watch, and there's both dignity and unabashed sexiness in his presence. He plays a character, not an orientation.
In many ways, his role is carefully written: In the picture's first half, when we see the easy, warm relationship he has with his son, there's no doubt that he's a nearly perfect father. And there are lovely touches that Everett plays beautifully: Reading to Sam at one point, he turns the book upside-down and makes up his own ridiculous story involving a giant purple booger that's enough to feed a large family. It's just the sort of silly gross-out that kids love, and it's an especially appealing bit of goofiness given Everett's unflappable smoothness.
But the story -- the screenplay was written by Tom Ropelewski -- takes a jarring spin at the movie's midpoint and never recovers. It makes the movie feel suddenly baffling, almost as if Schlesinger, a veteran director with a spotty record, simply didn't think to guide us through the weird, inexplicable tone shift. (And of his recent pictures, at least, it would seem from the charmingly eccentric "Cold Comfort Farm" that he has some feel for delicacy of tone.) When Abbie finally finds herself a straight love interest -- an investment banker who also happens to be a pretty decent guy (Benjamin Bratt) -- Robert feels threatened in his role as Sam's father. That's the point at which the movie seems to be taken away from Everett -- a serious mistake -- and veers into "Kramer vs. Kramer" territory. Abbie's character changes overnight in a way that just doesn't make sense; she behaves in a way that's almost incomprehensibly cruel.
In its last half-hour, "The Next Best Thing" hurtles toward high drama like a runaway train, as if Schlesinger and Ropelewski had decided that there wasn't much to be said about alternative families after all -- a weird choice and a cowardly one, given that we live in a country where gay marriages aren't officially recognized and conventional family units are still held up as a prized ideal.
And "The Next Best Thing" deprives us of some fairly essential pleasures: One minute Abbie is about to give birth to Sam; the next minute the action has jumped bumblingly ahead to his sixth year. We see her flipping through a photo album, only briefly lingering on a snapshot of Robert holding Sam as an infant. Wouldn't it have been a good idea to include at least a few scenes of the couple adapting to life with their new charge? I want to see Everett reduced to a complete blathering idiot in the presence of a tiny baby. As it is, "The Next Best Thing" takes so many wrong turns it's barely an also-ran. It isn't the next best thing at all. Not even close.
