'The Holdovers' briefing

3 ½ (out of 4)

            Holy shit, is that an identifiable modern classic? Did Alexander Payne just radically rebound after his sci-fi social satire and all too prematurely self-declared “epic masterpiece” Downsizing blew up right in his face and diminished his reputation?

While I could be upset that certain auteurs (like David Fincher with The Killer or Sofia Coppola and Priscilla) are just sticking with their proven routines and subjects, for Payne that means tart, touching, remarkably textured, sneakingly sublime dramatic comedies with simmering sadness and just enough commercial appeal, those special, simple ones only dexterous writer-directors ever manage, offering joyful melancholy or vice versa. As one of his best (and admittedly one of two directed features he did not write), The Holdovers is too tasteful to beat its farcical nature into broad banality and too realist to let schmaltz spoil the who-hash. Somehow even with the gimmickry of so brashly and ironically shooting the film in digital and then modifying the footage to look as if it were out of its period, all the seasonal, sentimental trimmings of 1971 are in service of knowingly wielding nostalgia as a powerful theme rather than just some stylistic element to exploit. Even the sound design is appropriately, convincingly vintage.

In form, it could’ve easily been pure pastiche but in total The Holdovers is authoritatively authentic courtesy of one of those depressively-funny, emotionally scopic screwball scripts by longtime TV writer and first-time screenwriter David Hemingson, the second Payne film born of other scripts including another debut in Bob Nelson’s underrated Nebraska, the one you’d assume to be from Payne’s hand considering the strong representation for the cornhusker state throughout his ‘ography. The narrative doesn’t waste a beat, and though it emits a certain air of pop-cynicism along with potentially hokey Hallmarkiness, there’s no denying how genuine and veritable this throwback really is, especially as it instantly ascends to the ranks of alternative Christmas classics.

There aren’t really much of any Christmastime films worth popping on regularly, at least none in the last few decades that can measure to this beautifully bittersweet communication. Are you actually gonna say The Holiday qualifies? Why not Love Actually at that point? Bending the definition to fit Kiss Kiss Bang Bang or Carol or Tokyo Godfathers feels like cheating so I honestly ask: When was the last time there was a Christmas classic, for real? Elf? Eyes Wide Shut? The Holdovers is pure and potent enough for multiple viewings (like annual viewings) to feel like some grown-up Peanuts special in its utter, irrefutable wholesomeness — there’s even a crappy Christmas tree moment for Christ’s sake. Melding meditations on grief, late-pubescent angst and Scrooge-esque redemption, The Holdovers is the early miracle of awards season, an effortlessly endearing, wildly wistful tearjerker even divided from the wintertime wash. Traditional hymns and Auld Lang Syne color the holiday break time-lapse outside of hearty, agreeable background folk feels from many eras, all of it rubbing off like Leonard Cohen’s ghost blessed us with sound pieces to set your weary spirit on (thank you to Damien Jurado and Labi Siffre for the film’s excellent respective refrains “Silver Joy” and “Crying Laughing Loving Lying”).

So Holdovers has the Christmas/New Year season wrapped up, and equally checks out as well as unlikely hangout flick (with its troupe of lonesome misfit lead characters), a sorta satire on prep school rich kids and ultimately a renewing, soul-searching road movie, a sustained Payne staple — About Schmidt and the superior, aching Americana of Nebraska have the tired, elderly existential crisis down pat, even Citizen Ruth’s brutal consideration of the politics of abortion, The Descendants’ cathartic, comical Hawaiian telenovela and Downsizing’s overpopulation overcorrection all did some plot-pushing journeying. As the chilly foil to Sideways’ sensationally well-balanced Californian escape, still Payne’s apex as well as Paul Giamatti's, The Holdovers now makes a pair of complimentary west coast/east coast, soft-lit, feel-bad road trippers. On top of it all, it’s a new take on the typically quaint tale of professor and pupil going through all the expected relational hurdles, and as such this is like the antithesis of Election’s teacher v tryhard setup, its premise retaining just enough sap to remind you of a cuddlier, marginally less suicidal Dead Poets’ Society, curiously one of the only "influences" to which I’ve seen the familiar film compared.

Giamatti is nothing less than a phenomenal talent, handing in a career-best work, topping his similarly disgruntled characters from American Splendor, of course Sideways, Cold Souls and Win Win. His only other Oscar nom was for Cinderella Man — geez does he makes quite the loudmouth in your corner, so of course Paul is pigeonholed as the cranky curmudgeon, this time the pedantic pariah professor, but my is he caught in some splendid typecasting as he murders a classic, timeless role. And obviously the writing behind the articulate academic asshole persona is dripping with wit, Goddammit he has some great lines and, best of all, some sublime truths interspersed alongside the insults. Our newcoming lead Dominic Sessa — whose performance makes the film its own longing, glowing, Caulfield-esque coming-of-age criterion — is also superbly sparring with his seasoned co-star, panning out like a professional with places to go. Meanwhile Da’Vine Joy Randolph, at least this far out, seems due for an Academy Award and it wouldn’t be even slightly unearned, rounding out a delightfully mismatched trio with her devastating performance moments and uncommon warmth. She sincerely sells the thematic strand that no one’s suffering is as simple as it looks, a notion that could read like syrupy swill in lesser hands.

The Holdovers really does sound truly trite when you spell it out on paper, but this movie’s tact in imparting compassion and criticism makes it Academy-friendly and also more than worth recommending casually — it’s the perfect package, like Green Book without any of those trickier topics you have to deal with or ignore. There’s hilariously verbose put-downs, blindsiding emotional developments, fuzzy superimposition transitions, camerawork viscerally employing the techniques, not just the garnishes, of New Hollywood grit (Snap zooms! Wipes! Dissolves!) all in tandem with a wonderfully nimble, agreeably accessible, all but perfect script — this movie’s such a glimmering gem it’s like it already existed, 70s simulacra be damned. It would be at fault as feel-good tissue-box fodder if Payne’s film didn’t occasionally force you to sink so low, taking what rubs off as some recognizable ready-made romp to touch on everything from parental neglect to mental illness, exploiting a certain melodramatic undercurrent enough to remain true to the tragedy cloaking each character.

Payne’s eighth feature is a caustic, copiously enthralling crowd-pleaser and lovingly, introspective affair, a paradoxical pleasure to a range of the senses of cinema — The Holdovers has the comfiest of auras, a verifiable glow, that thin-stripped ember essence that sends you off beaming, brightened and bettered. It may not make you feel great about life but damn it’ll renew whatever remaining faith you have in filmmaking as art, so I’ll personally wade through general discomfort if and when it hurts just right.