Mel Gibson communicates through flea-ridden hand puppet: the premise for ‘The Beaver’ might sound bizarre, but this is a film that sees the potential for insanity and quickly runs in the opposite direction. Defying expectations, director Jodie Foster has made a serious, if quite unusual, film exploring the more obscure sides of depression.
Gibson stars as the “hopelessly depressed” Walter Black, a man so encumbered with sorrow that he divides his time between sleep and self-flagellation. Tired of strained family relations, wife Meredith (Jodie Foster) kicks him out, pushing Walter further into the void.
After a failed suicide attempt, he inexplicably attaches himself to a mangy beaver hand puppet he discovered in a dumpster, talking through this new furry friend (or foe?) for the rest of the film. As Walter and the Beaver begin to “blow up your entire god-damn life”, his family, especially equally troubled son Porter (Anton Yelchin), must learn to cope, all the while dealing with their own problems and issues.
Considering that he’s no stranger to breakdowns himself, Gibson unsurprisingly delivers an impressive, believable performance as an ordinary man – and left hand – in crisis. In fact, the entire cast is more than credible, giving sympathetic portrayals of what aren’t all immediately likeable characters. They have enough sub-plots going on here to make for interesting watching if you’re not into the “man-talks-to-own-hand” variety.
The main problem is that, like its protagonist, the film can’t decide what it wants to be. Foster insists this is a drama, not a comedy. Maybe she forgot that the sight of a grown man having conversations with a puppet that speaks in a Cockney accent bordering on Dick Van Dyke territory is, and should be, funny. She clumsily switches between genuinely farcical moments – awkward bedroom antics being a particular standout – and some dark observations on the “blood-sucking rabble” of depression. You could forgive that – the balance is always hard to strike – if the film wasn’t as predictable as it is.
The inevitable is never too far away: unfinished jokes that call for “beaver” punch-lines, the looming spectre of redemption, and the excruciatingly obvious use of Radiohead’s Exit Music (For A Film) at the melodramatic peak being the main offenders.
If this all seems a bit harsh, it’s down to disappointment at the potential ‘The Beaver’ has missed out on. There’s a great, quirky, and endearing film to be had here, but the clunky editing and dependence on some unoriginal plot arcs has let it down.
By Orlaith Grehan.
