In this incredibly subtle film from Marc Forster, Will Ferrell gives a nuanced, measured, beautifully generous performance as doomed Harold Crick, the hero of a novel being written (and narrated to Harold in a voice only he can hear.) Ferrell heads a cast of equally superb actors (Dustin Hoffman, never more engaging, Emma Thompson, always almost regally perfect, Maggie Gyllenhaal, adorably sexy) in an intimate absurdist fable that gently asks profound questions.
Among those many questions the film asks as it views the nature of one man’s existence as a blueprint, perhaps for all of us: what is the purpose of our lives, are we responsible for our happiness, is there a destiny or can we control our fate, what do we owe each other, what do we owe art and most important, what do we owe ourselves?
Crick’s lonely, solitary days as a possibly obsessive compulsive, robotic IRS agent with no love or life in his life end when his wristwatch stops working and decides to tilt Harold’s world on its side, as if with a sudden sweep of the second hand.
Without warning signs to prepare Crick for the extreme changes he is about to experience as Emma Thompson’s novelist --suffering from a terrible case of writer’s block—begins to “narrate” his life back to him, tracking every moment of his existence, counting the brush strokes he makes while brushing his teeth, making him aware of every aspect of his now-examined life. Thompson’s miserable novelist Karen Eiffel, battling a monstrous case of writer’s block , is known for only writing tragedies, a fact that Crick learns from a literary theorist (Dustin Hoffman as Jules Hilbert) who helps Crick understand his place in literary history and realize that his death is imminent. But Crick realizes there is a tragic irony in his death, as he falls in love with Gyllenhaal’s delicious pastry chef Ana Pascal, (whom he meets when he begins to audit her tax return;) Ana’s breezy revolutionary baker teaches him the anarchy of love (as it takes over his life and forces him to change) as well as the mysteries and simple pleasures of milk and cookies and for the first time in his life, he is truly awake and alive, daring to live his life fully. His love for his Ana removes his need for crutches and counted brushstrokes at the same time that his “life” clock begins to tick loudly.
Except for many scenes in which the boom mic is prominent, I found almost every frame of this small, thoughtful film irrresistable. (In retrospect, I can’t help but wonder if the mic being left in the frame is just a mistake; perhaps it is not relevant that the mic appears only in scenes where the narration of his character is being discussed—I don’t remember it in scenes, for example, when he is busy “living” his new, richer life,)
Whether or not you buy the premise (that an author with writer’s block could actually be “writing” and “narrating” a person’s life and could plausibly, cause his death) “Stranger Than Fiction” is worth seeing for at least the following few reasons: Ferrell’s dramatic gifts are enormous and deserve your attention; Zach Helm’s writing is witty but not over-the-top/ sledge-hammer “intellectualized” and the cast, as an ensemble, are seamless and as powerful as Crick’s own “magic” watch.
