The King of Staten Island: Should be de-throned

The King of Staten Island (2020) • View trailer 
One star. Rated R, for drug use, sexual candor, brief violence and gore, and relentless profanity and vulgarity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 6.12.20

I cannot imagine this film’s target audience.

For starters, calling it a comedy is false advertising; nothing is funny here. Not even remotely amusing.

Scott (Pete Davidson) sees nothing wrong with staying home with his mother (Marisa
Tomei) most nights, and watching mindless television. Alas, when this cozy dynamic is
threatened by a newcomer, Scott becomes even meaner than usual.

If writer/director Judd Apatow has made this for millennials, it’s a savagely damning portrait. Are we seriously to believe that anything about this misbegotten drama’s protagonist is endearing?

Even given Apatow’s decency-shredding tendencies, and fondness for vulgarity, The King of Staten Island is way, way beyond tolerable. 

It’s available as an on-demand streaming rental, at a premium price.

At its core, the script — by Apatow, Dave Sirus and star Pete Davidson — is a redemption saga. Meaning, we spend the first two acts watching ruthlessly selfish, 24-year-old, weed-smoking degenerate Scott Carlin (Davidson) abuse everybody in his orbit … after which we’re supposed to cheer him on during the third act, when he starts getting his act together.

Sorry, but no; this formula works only if the character in question deserves redemption. Which Scott most certainly does not.

On top of which, the character dynamics here don’t exist in anything remotely approaching reality. While higher than a kite, and egged on by his “friends,” Scott starts to tattoo a 9-year-old boy … and he doesn’t get locked up for child abuse? Worse still, the boy’s father — following an initial furious tirade — quickly turns forgiving, because he wants to start dating Scott’s mother?!?

This is supposed to seem reasonable?

Not in this universe. This script — and premise — are forced contrivances stretched far beyond the snapping point.

Scott, a foul-mouthed Failure To Launch, still lives with his mother, Margie (Marisa Tomei, who does her best to bring some class and charm to these dire proceedings). Their lives have remained on hold ever since her husband, Scott’s father, died in action as a Staten Island fireman. Margie maintains a living room shrine to her late husband; Scott has weaponized his grief as an excuse to be nasty to everybody.

White Boy Rick: Not worth the bother

White Boy Rick (2018) • View trailer 
Two stars. Rated R, for profanity, drug content, violence, sexual candor and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang

The point of this film — the reason for its existence — eludes me.

The press notes proclaim it a “moving story” of a blue-collar kid who “enters into a Faustian bargain” and ultimately is “manipulated by the very system meant to protect him” and “betrayed by the institutional injustice and corruption that defined Detroit, the home they loved.”

The hook is planted: Ricky (Richie Merritt, left), not wanting his father to be arrested,
reluctantly agrees to a dangerous undercover scheme proposed by FBI agents
Snyder (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Byrd (Rory Cochrane).

Like, wow. Lay it on a bit thicker, could you?

Makes me wonder if these folks watched their own film.

At no time can the narrative in White Boy Rick be considered “moving” to any degree, nor is there room for an ounce of sympathy for any of these individuals. It’s impossible to chart a fall from grace, when somebody hasn’t any to begin with.

Nobody in director Yann Demange’s film is likable:  not for a nanosecond. Nor are they interesting/captivating in the manner of characters in a Martin Scorsese crime film. These are just mopes,  and spending 110 minutes with this gaggle of amoral scumbags and opportunists is a bewildering waste of time. 

We reach the conclusion and wonder, okay … to what purpose?

Demange’s filmmaking skills are acceptable, and several performances are noteworthy. Screenwriters Andy Weiss, Logan Miller and Noah Miller adhere respectably to the real-world facts, and Tat Radcliffe’s grainy, gritty cinematography gives this saga the feel of a documentary; there’s a sense that these events are happening in real time, and we’re granted access as invisible observers.

An argument can be made that law enforcement officials shouldn’t take advantage of ingenuous minors, but Ricky Wershe Jr. was hardly a poster child for exploited innocence. He was a seasoned delinquent without a trace of conscience long before the FBI came calling; blame for that undoubtedly falls on the shoulders of his low-life father, who cheerfully schooled his son in a life of crime.

We meet 14-year-old Ricky (Richie Merritt) as he helps his father (Matthew McConaughey) out-hustle a bent dealer at a Detroit gun show. It’s immediately apparent that Rick Sr. is a blue-sky dreamer who flits from one unlikely get-rich-quick scheme to another; his current “occupation” involves selling illegally enhanced AK-47s to local thugs.

Ricky, his older sister Dawn (Bel Powley) and their father eke out a lower middle-class existence in a predominantly African-American eastside neighborhood, roughly seven miles from downtown Detroit. Ricky’s grandparents — Ray (Bruce Dern) and Verna (Piper Laurie) — live across the street, grimly hanging onto their memories of a time when the area was booming, and filled with Chrysler employees and their families.