Taking It Out on the Beaver

The Beaver.  Written by Kyle Killen.  Directed by Jodie Foster. 

Let’s face it—you’ll probably never see Jodie Foster’s The Beaver. You just can’t forgive Mel Colm-Cille Gerard Gibson for his intermittent rages against Jews, blacks, his ex-wife, and anybody else who might cross his twisted path. Khalid Sheikh Mohammad was water-boarded 183 times by the CIA, but he doesn’t seem half as tortured as Gibson. The actual extent of his racism and/or anti-Semitism is a matter of debate in Hollywood, inevitably against the background of his Holocaust denying father and some Jew-baiting chestnuts featured in his Passion of the Christ (2004). Yet most of those who know him testify that—aside from a messy divorce and that infamous traffic stop in 2006 (which was most likely a half-hearted attempt at “suicide by cop”)—he’s actually a pretty sweet-natured guy.

            Mostly we just hope Gibson will have the good sense to go away, to disappear with his demons and his shame, and leave those atavistic hatreds where they belong—roiling under the surface of our collective life. But here’s the inconvenient thing: Jodie Foster, whose credentials in the circles of political correctness are impeccable, still believes in her friend and costar from Maverick (1994 ). And in exchange for giving him the plum role in The Beaver, Gibson gives her a terrific performance that, with any other star, would probably be on the short list for Oscar nominations. (As we all know, Oscar "hearts" mental illness). Oh dear.

            Gibson plays Walter Black, the son of a toy entrepreneur who is so deeply sunk in  depression he can barely function. Giving up on him after  years of suffering, his wife Meredith (Foster) kicks him out, much to the grim approval of their teen-aged son (Anton “Mr. Chekhov” Yelchin). Walter is just about to end his miserable life when someone else enters the picture: a beaver hand-puppet that proves to be the therapist/life-coach he always needed. By interacting with himself and the world through his “prescription puppet”—in a gruff Australian accent, no less—Walter finds a way to work through his feelings of gross inadequacy.

            This is, in a sense, another version of the American Beauty (1999) scenario, with another middle-aged guy salvaging himself from the dead end of his life—albeit in unique fashion. Also like American Beauty, The Beaver includes a subplot about how the sins of the fathers are visited on the sons, likewise in surprising ways. But unlike Kevin Spacey’s performance in Beauty, there’s no winking self-awareness to Gibson’s. Though occasionally funny in an un-ironic way, he’s absolutely convincing here, and he’s not playing games. The Beaver may not be as good a film as American Beauty (Foster lacks Sam Mendes’ visual flair), but Gibson’s performance is arguably deeper and most definitely darker. As a portrayal of the corrosive effect of depression on an outwardly average American family, this is far the more honest effort.

            The script by Kyle Killen displays the kind of structure they teach in screenwriting seminars, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it lacks heart. Killen is on to something when he makes the “prescription puppet” a beaver—he is, after all, is an industrious and productive little fellow, much like how modern males supposed to be. But the beaver, who is cute and cuddly and spends virtually all his time on home-improvement projects, seems pretty domesticated for a wild animal. He’s definitely not what five million years of evolution has prepared the modern American male to be.

            As for Jodie Foster, The Beaver is her first directorial effort in 16 years, since the forgettable Home for the Holidays. This certainly represents a step up—perhaps even into Sarah Polley (Away From Her) territory. Indeed, Foster’s instincts are surprisingly self-effacing here, insofar as she puts herself very much in a supporting role, allowing her film to rise or fall with Gibson. In a way, her belief in him represents one of the most compassionate artistic choices she’s ever made.

            To this critic, whether Gibson really has issues with the tribe of Abraham is about as irrelevant to his art as Woody Allen’s romantic liaison with his adopted daughter, or Roman Polanski’s choice of hot tub mates. The centuries tend to be kind to such character flaws anyway. (The painter Caravaggio, for a single example, is lionized today, although he once killed a guy in Rome.) Indeed, what Gibson really shouldn’t be forgiven for is making Bird on a Wire (1990), a comedy with Goldie Hawn that was predicated entirely on the shapeliness of his butt. Some things you just can’t get past. But let’s not take it out on The Beaver, OK?

© 2011 Nicholas Nicastro