Those who thought “Little Miss Sunshine” was all manufactured quirk and no soul had best avoid the Steve Buscemi-starring film “Saint John of Las Vegas.” Actually, that advice goes for everyone. Except that woman who blocked me from the train entrance while she talked on her cell phone today. I’ll even buy her some popcorn.
With names like Buscemi, Stanley Tucci, and Spike Lee attached as executive producers, “Saint John of Las Vegas” has plenty of promise. Buscemi’s co-stars include “Weeds” favorite Romany Malco, Sarah Silverman, Peter Dinklage, and Tim Blake Nelson, so the fault doesn’t lie in the cast. Instead, poor first-time director Hue Rhodes is–to quote a beloved film also starring Buscemi–out of his element. This feels like a facsimile of a successful small film, as though it were done by someone who has watched enough off-kilter comedies to understand the elements that pervade them. His script is episodic and flakier than Silverman’s smiley-face-obsessed character, but it’s not the only problem here. “Saint John of Las Vegas” tries too hard, from its forced awkwardness to its overly obvious palette of primary colors, designed as if by a child using the three crayons he was handed at a family restaurant.
Buscemi stars as the title character, a man who tries to escape Las Vegas and his gambling addiction by moving to Albuquerque. But even though the New Mexico city lacks slot machines, there’s still the lottery, and John can still get his fix. His days are spent at Townsend Insurance, where the bright spot is his cubicle neighbor, Jill (Silverman), who has her desk, her nails, and her clothes plastered with yellow smiley faces. John wants a raise, and when he asks his boss (Dinklage) for more money, he is given more responsibility. He must tag along with Virgil (Malco) as he travels to Las Vegas to investigate a possibly fraudulent claim. Along the way, John encounters a nudist (Nelson), a man on fire (John Cho), and an accident victim, a stripper in a wheelchair named Tasty D Lite (Emmanuelle Chriqui). Of course he does.
Malco earns some of the film’s few laughs, particularly in a scene that has him recreating a car crash in the middle of the desert. He can be grateful that at least this is better than “The Love Guru,” but Malco is hilarious, and he deserves better than this. The rest of the supporting cast is as good as they can be under the circumstances, with Danny Trejo giving a too-brief turn as a junkyard heavy.
Buscemi has made many great films — “Fargo,” “Reservoir Dogs,” “Ghost World,” and even last year’s little-seen, much-loved “The Messenger” — but “Saint John of Las Vegas” will fall squarely in the “Mr. Deeds”/”Domestic Disturbance” part of his otherwise esteemed resume. He’s fine here, playing a role that requires uncomfortable interactions and stares right into the camera. He’s as engaging an actor as ever, but no one could save this film. There’s more awkward dialogue here than at a middle-school dance, but it’s not entertaining, especially when it tries to be. The film seems to be frantically waving its arms at the audience, begging for attention and affection that it doesn’t deserve. [D]
