Bill Murray is the king of underacting, or perhaps non-acting. So much of his performance, particularly in his later years, is just a reflection of the circumstances around him. He kind of meanders through the story, absorbing the light silliness of everyday life around him, the only clues to his emotional state being subtle expressions and, if we’re lucky, the occasional word or gesture. He’s very interesting to watch.
That said, it’s important that Murray picks the right projects. Here, we have a story that forces Murray out of bed each morning to face another day (remember Groundhog Day?), but this one’s overly contemplative and slow. Or maybe I just don’t get it.
Jarmusch is a poor man’s Wes Anderson.
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