Directed by Anand Tucker

Buena Vista Pictures

2 STARS



A couple weeks ago, I caught the preview for “Shopgirl” and was pretty much sold on the spot. It looked pretty and quirky and thoughtful—perfect way to spend an evening. Besides, Steve Martin in a movie adaptation of a book he wrote? Two hours of alone time with Claire Danes and her supernaturally perfect hair? Jason Schwartzman (“I Heart Huckabees”), period? Going.

My admiration for the trailer made me forget that my family’s book version of “Shopgirl” ended up on the charity sale pile, after nobody in the house could muster the interest to finish it. No one was quite sure what exactly was wrong with it, but somehow it was a little too off to hold our interest for the whole 130 pages.

The movie has the same problems. It’s hard to figure out quite what they are: a bizarre feeling of pointlessness about the whole thing (and not in that pretentious French movie way); an irritating voice-over that sounds creepily like a bedtime story being read to toddlers; forays into slow-motion.

There’s nothing really wrong with the plot—a lonely young woman, Mirabelle (Danes) meets an unsuitable struggling musician (Schwartzman), who is obsessed with her, and a wealthy older man (Martin), who is willing to spoil her in exchange for sex; as expected, she must choose between the two.

Unfortunately, though, the whole movie seems to be trying so hard to get arrive at some sort of point that you’re just left feeling bored and vaguely depressed.

Steve Martin, playing Ray Porter, wealthy divorcee and admirer of Mirabelle’s, is strangely robotic, and the accentuated age gap between him and Danes just makes the whole affair less palatable. Watching their physical relationship progress, I grew overly concerned for the health of his heart. Happily, his complete lack of chemistry with Danes assured that not enough passion could be generated for this to be an issue. The only question left to answer is why Danes’ character bothered with him at all—surely the money couldn’t be good enough to make up for the tedium?

Admittedly, her other option is Jason Schwartzman, in the role of Jeremy. Armed with a wardrobe of stained clothing and the shiniest bob to grace screens since the late ’20s, Jeremy is the prototypical Slacker—Doritos and all. He’s got some funny lines and introduces the novel idea of using a sandwich bag in lieu of a condom, but for the most part, you just want to back away slowly in the likelihood he has scabies.

All the best parts of the movie are fully embodied in the form of the lovely Claire Danes. In the role of Mirabelle Buttersfield, the titular Shopgirl, Danes has suddenly fully grown up to the woman we’ve seen her become through such movies as “Igby Goes Down,” and she delivers an enchanted performance. Mirabelle is an aspiring artist transplanted to L.A. and then marooned behind the glove counter at Saks. She never wears pants but drives a pickup truck. She is so endearingly out of touch with the modern era that you can’t help but adore her.

Danes, wafting around in vintage dresses, is so beautifully understated that she melds right into the part. There is no way that Mirabelle could be played by anyone other than her. It’s a perfect match, and she is a pleasure to watch.

“Shopgirl” tries to add a new dimension to the poor, younger woman/disenchanted, older man theme that was popularized in “Pretty Woman” and recently re-explored in “Lost in Translation.” Unfortunately, the film doesn’t take enough risks to add anything to the subject. The movie seems relentlessly obsessed with detailing the quirks and mundanities of life, but somehow forgets to clue the audience in to why exactly it is they’ve bothered to tear themselves away from their own lives to witness this exercise in filmmaking.

At the end of the day, even the mighty combination of Claire Danes and one of the most hilariously awkward sex scenes ever filmed can’t quite hold up the movie. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and vaguely worth seeing, if you’re enough of a devoted Steve Martin fan to wish to partake of his fantasy of producing “high art” (underscored by the moody lighting), but frankly, not worth the ten dollars. There are much cheaper ways to feel bilious.