Directed by Jay Duplass and Mark Duplass. Starring Jason Segel, Ed Helms, Judy Greer, Rae Dawn Chong, Susan Sarandon 15A cert, general release, 82 min
TO DATE, the much-feted US mumblecore movement has failed to produce a new Tarantino or a new Cassavetes.
We’ve been asked to get excited about the commodified, anti-feminist, risibly racist gunk at the dark, patriarchal heart of the Judd Apatow-Lena Dunham spawned Girls, and to cheer when Greta Gerwig can hardly bring herself to. Say. The. Next. Word. (Damsels in Distress fans can attest that the same actor is capable of much better than mumbling.)
Jeff, Who Lives at Home is written and directed by the Duplass brothers, two masters of the milieu. It’s a dramedy, a subgenre that couldn’t be any more mumblecore, and it boasts a stoner hero who lacks even the wherewithal required to qualify as what the great Harlan Ellison has dismissed as “slackers, or Y generationals, or millennials, or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves these days.”
The film starts as it means to go on: in a haze of stupidity and bong smoke. “I watched Signs again last night,” says the hapless protagonist of the title (Jason Segel) before outlining how the M Night Shyamalan film has influenced his own personal Zen philosophy. Jeff’s exasperated mother (Susan Sarandon) calls to send her 30-year-old, basement-dwelling son on an errand, but not before a wrong number inspires a search for “some motherfucker called Kevin”.
“What if there are no wrong numbers?” reasons Jeff between tokes. Sure enough, Jeff does find a Kevin, who, in turn, leads him on an odyssey involving his brother (Ed Helms) and his sister-in-law (Judy Greer). In common with Signs – or more Maguffin-driven Seinfeld episodes – the patient viewer will be rewarded with a “perfect moment”.
But long before the Duplass’ plan comes together, there’s plenty to admire here. Helms bursts onto the screen as a Porsche- and Hooters-loving jerk (“Gandhi was a pussy”), but softens during the second act. Greer’s shrill nagging gives way to warmth, and even the experienced Sarandon manages to expand her repertoire.
Their character development is matched by Jeff’s childlike determination to find meaning
and interconnectedness. Segel, meanwhile, channelling a more benevolent, ganglier Rupert Pupkin, ultimately walks off with the stash and the movie.
