This movie was good because it was so awful. I saw The Jerk within the last two years, and once I overcame the urge to walk out of the theater I laughed more at Shopgirl. (For those who've seen it, remember Steve Martin's Ray Porter "heroically" pushing a pill out of the foil for Claire Danes? Words fail to capture how pathetic that scene was, but on screen, the magic of cinema reveals the wonderful power of unintentional comedy.) Not even Mariah Carey's Glitter or Keanu Reeves' Sweet November could rival this film for unintentional humorous scenes. For that quality alone, it should still be showing nationwide. And for that, too, Steve Martin should return to comedy. His crossover to drama, apparently in imitation of his colleague Bill Murray, is sad and misguided. Who read his script and okay-ed it? The director Steve Martin as Executive Producer paid to make his film? For that matter, who read his novella and recommended it? Steve Martin needs to make at least a single friend who will tell him the truth no matter what, truths like "Shopgirl sucks, and you have idea how deeply embarrassed you will be after it." Thank God there were some negative reviews. The problems with this movie occur on so many levels (script, direction, shot selection, continuity, editing, etc. ad nauseum), a thorough critique would undoubtedly be longer than Mr. Martin's "novella." To begin with, Mr. Martin's notion of human personality types is, put kindly, immature. Apparently, women in LA are either artistic quiet non-natives who dress with quirky (i.e., absolutely terrible) vintage/thrift styles incapable of manipulating people's emotions OR Beverly Hills stereotypes -- women who only want trinkets from men, dress ostentatiously, act like expensive prostitutes, etc. Even the "doctor" friend of Mr. Martin in the film has only her own satisfaction in mind. In the end, however, a major contradiction occurs. After hurting Claire Danes' character, she discovers that Steve/Ray has paid off her student loans. Her Beverly Hills counterparts at the department store would never be capable of getting $39,000.00 in one fell swoop from the men they bilk and cheat through sex. Girls from Vermont, runs Mr. Martin's logic, are even bigger whores than the plastic clichés he shoves down the audiences throat. The men fare little better. Ray Porter and Schwartzmann's characters (the latter being the ONLY redeeming role in the film, and not until the second half of the film -- and without Rushmore, the role would've seemed even weaker) are ridiculous. Both are wildly improbable lovers for Danes' character. Why would a pure, wholesome, ingénue from Vermont like Ray Porter? Steve Martin isn't good looking enough to seduce a younger woman even with millions of dollars. His wealth also reduces any chance that middle-class men will relate to him in any imaginable way, other than their pathetic salivation at Mr. Martin's quotidian middle-aged fantasies.
Two great lines (slightly paraphrased), both Schwartzmann's, and INtentionally comedic show why Mr. Martin needs to abandon his sad-old-rich-guy schtick and pick up a banjo: 1) "It feels like marshmallows hitting my balls." 2) "I was reading this book-on-tape..." These harken back to Martin's glory days, days when he said things like, "This is the best pizza-in-a-cup I've ever had." I have to finish. I apologize for going on. I have no animus toward Steve Martin, but this film was shockingly bad turns wonderfully open to attack. See it without accepting its premises, and I promise you'll be shocked how funny it is.
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