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Sometimes a filmmaker's second movie gets labeled as a sophomore slump. David O. Russell (
Spanking the Monkey) shreds that fate with
Flirting with Disaster, an outrageous, free-spirited comedy about private people forced into public situations. Mel Coplin (Ben Stiller) finds the opportunity he's been waiting a lifetime for: an adoption agency rep (Téa Leoni) has located his birth parents and the agency will fly him to California if they can record the reunion. With wife Nancy (Patricia Arquette) and new son in tow, the neurotic Mel is compelled to discover his origins, despite the protests of his neurotic adoptive parents (a wonderful Mary Tyler Moore and George Segal). To give away the plot any more would be a crime, but as the title states, Mel is on a collision course of Oedipal proportions. Russell, who made incest an intriguing black-comedy topic in
Spanking, is very liberal with sex and permits dangerous situations. His characters mix it up at a moment's notice. The two women along for the ride are not just bit players: Leoni (
Deep Impact) keeps her high-energy comic routine flying, while the grounded Arquette keeps the baby in arm, despite the mad wanderings of her husband. Stiller is a perfect comic foil.
--Doug Thomas
From The New Yorker
David O. Russell's farcical road movie sets a thirtyish New Yorker (Ben Stiller), adopted as a small child, on a cross-country search for his biological parents, accompanied by his wife (Patricia Arquette) and an adoption-agency official (Téa Leoni). His quest for an identity turns into a tour of older-generation life styles which gives him a frightening glimpse of what it means to have a strong, invulnerable sense of self. Russell turns this fairly witty conceit into a film of flat one-liners, dumb sight gags, and shockingly corny mixups. Despite some expert performances-by George Segal and Mary Tyler Moore as the adoptive parents (nervous urban kvetches), and Alan Alda and Lily Tomlin as the biological ones (devious ex-hippies)-the picture remains as confused as its hero; unlike him, it never does find its identity. -Terrence Rafferty
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker