A movie script written on toilet paper, as told to the world’s most hackneyed screenwriter by Alabama’s most inarticulate NASCAR fan, would still be worth watching if the film’s two stars were Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Writer-director Tamara Jenkins’ The Savages isn’t quite on par with the aforementioned Akiva Goldsman/Jethro Federline-Spears Project, but it’s far from worthy of the critical praise and Oscar buzz already garnered.

See, what we’ve got here a perfect storm.  The Savages is about a pair of fairly ordinary, white, middle-class, middle-aged siblings who deal with the fallout of putting their ailing father into a nursing home.  Also, they’re both writers.  Know who else is an ordinary, white, middle-class, middle-aged writer, and probably dealing with the very same real-life issues as this film’s fictitious characters?  About 90% of the film critics in North America.  Suddenly, the exaltations seem a lot less impressive, eh?

Armed only with the one-sentence outline described above, I can honestly say The Savages was exactly like I thought it would be for about 96 of its 113-minute running time.  It’s depressing stuff, with enough dark humor blended in to keep viewers from reaching for the pills that normally quell the heartache and hand-wringing associated with subject matter like this.  Most of the laughs come at the expense of the elderly, which I don’t have a problem with, but some of you clowns might take offense to that sort of thing.

Savage is both the name of the movie’s family, as well as an adjective to describe their monstrous behavior.  Viewers are given hints that patriarch Lenny (Philip Bosco) didn’t do a great job of raising his two children in a loving household, so we’re not supposed to be surprised at their distance when it comes to dealing with dear old dad’s transition to the wonderful world of shit-smearing dementia.  Mom was never around to dole out hugs and cupcakes, either, which is probably why Wendy (Linney) is an office supply-stealing, adulterous, grant-abusing, compulsive liar; and John (Hoffman) a schlumpy, hyper-critical, commitment-phobe who’d rather finish his paper on Brecht than deal with any of his familial obligations.  Don't plan on identifying with either of them, unless you're a bigger mess than you think.

The performances, though chock full of shallow whinging, are typically strong and offer the only real attraction here (aside from Chris Ware’s brilliant one-sheet).  It’s the script and direction that ultimately undo this cinematic experience (Jenkins’ last full-length feature – Slums of Beverly Hills – was released nearly a decade ago).  I’m still not sure if the whinging is warranted, or if Wendy and John are just miserable, self-serving douches for no reason.  Maybe a flashback or two their childhood could have helped to put things in perspective.

1:53 – for some sexuality and language