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Can Being Charlie Tell Us Anything about the Reiner Murders?
In the wake of the shocking double murder last Sunday of the celebrated director Rob Reiner (When Harry Met Sally, Misery) and his wife, Michele, apparently committed by their son, Nick, I decided to check out the 2015 movie, Being Charlie, that Rob directed from a script co-written by Nick and that was based on Nick’s troubled youth (by age 22, when the film was released, Nick had already been in rehab 18 times) and their equally troubled father-son relationship.
A plot summary. Our protagonist is 18-year-old Charlie Mills (Nick Robertson), a rich kid turned homeless heroin addict. We’re introduced to him in a series of brief vignettes: he’s a surly brat at his own birthday party; he destroys the stained-glass window of a church in Utah; hitchhiking back home to his parents’ breathtaking mansion in L.A. after a period of wandering in the desert, he manages to steal some Oxycodone along the way from a poor old woman who’s dying of cancer.
Charlie, it turns out, isn’t just the son of rich parents. Like Nick Reiner, he’s also the son of a celebrity: his dad, David, is a famous star of a series of hit pirate movies. (In what comes off as a rather disorienting inside joke, David is played by Cary Elwes, who, a lifetime ago, played a pirate in Reiner’s The Princess Bride.) As Charlie arrives home, David is in the middle of a campaign for governor. While he’s the high-achieving negligent father from Central Casting, viewing his son mainly as a distraction and a liability whose drugged-out antics threaten to sink his nascent political career, his wife, Lisanne (Susan Misner), is the unwaveringly adoring and supportive mother from Central Casting — and, as far as you can see here, not much of anything else.
The minute Charlie walks into his parents’ spectacular house, he discovers that they’ve arranged an intervention and a stretch in rehab — far from his first. Those places, he screams at them, don’t work. But he goes anyway. The ensuing scenes are enough to convince you that becoming a heroin addict might not actually be the best idea in the world, after all. For Charlie, rehab is “prison,” with its painfully earnest and endlessly repetitious group-therapy sessions at which some of the women sob uncontrollably while he and a couple of his male pals look on cynically. (One of them, by the way, does a terrific impression of Nicholson in Cuckoo’s Nest, which serves to remind you that this is a movie directed by the guy who directed Nicholson in A Few Good Men.)
At rehab, one of the counselors is a relentlessly cheery spouter of boosterish slogans about such programs that are now tiresomely familiar to him: “Take it one day at a time.” “Let go and let God.” “Addiction is a disease like any other.” To this last one, Charlie counters, in thunder: “No! The disease is this place!” (Incidentally, Nick Reiner met his co-writer, Matt Elisofon, in rehab.) Soon, because he’s kept his nose clean, Charlie is granted an overnight stay at home. David, fixated on his campaign, rejects the idea; Lisanne, behind her husband’s back, gives Charlie the keys to the family’s beach house — which turns out to be even more spectacular than their house in the city.
But then things go downhill. Charlie falls off the wagon, spends part of a night in a homeless shelter, is beaten up in an alley by two thugs, and finally seeks refuge with Adam (Devon Bostick), his smart, funny, and affectionate best friend from high school. As the two of them snort coke, Charlie expresses his envy: Adam, now in college, seems somehow never to have been damaged by his own bouts with drugs. It turns out that Charlie has spoken too soon.
I won’t go into detail about the rest of the movie, except to say that the wind-up is inexcusably on the nose. It takes place, of course, on Election Day. And the final scene brings a heart-to-heart that could have been lifted out of a TV movie from the 1970s. (Or written by AI.)
A couple of things about the movie made me scratch my head. Why the need to make the Mills family every bit as rich and famous as, well, the Reineers? Obviously, it makes the movie far less relatable to a wide audience — and makes Charlie far less sympathetic, easily dismissed as a spoiled nepo baby. Are we expected to think that these three characters’ wealth and celebrity somehow make their welfare more important than that of an ordinary family?
As for Charlie, he’s supposed to be based on Nick. But in reality, as we’ve all learned, Nick was known for a long time to have a violent side — and Charlie doesn’t have a hint of violence about him. Nor, frankly, does he ever look like a heroin addict. The other guys at rehab are broken down, used up, worn out; not Charlie. He’s baby-faced. Even when he’s shooting up, he comes off as a wholesome choirboy, and when he’s telling dirty jokes onstage, he almost seems embarrassed.
A random observation or two. First, Being Charlie was a surprisingly low-cost project — a $3 million budget, a gross of $30,000. For that price tag, it looks preetty good. Second, guess what political party David belongs to? The Democrats, naturally, because it’s meant to signal that whatever his faults may be, he’s basically a good guy. Third, Reiner’s very best work is Stand By Me, and this one, like that one, shows off his sensitivity to the inner lives of teenage boys.
Could there be, I wonder, a connection between Reiner’s private suffering and his public fury?
A word about President Trump’s instantly notorious online post about the Reiner murders. Briefly put, the president joked that Rob had been killed by Trump Derangement Syndrome. I didn’t find it funny or remotely appropriate. But a thought did occur to me apropos of the TDS angle. We now know about Reiner that, while feeling compelled all along to project to the world a cheerful celebrity image, he spent two decades or so living with one of the most terrible personal problems that one can imagine — namely, a son with a crippling drug problem. We also know about Rob that, of all the big names on the Left Coast, he was arguably the one most profoundly afflicted with TDS — so much so, in fact, that he took an active part in a serious effort to bring Trump down. People who knew him well, including prominent showbiz conservatives like James Woods and Ben Stein, have testified that in real life, Reiner was a nice guy who didn’t let politics ruin his friendships — and whose politics were, in any case, not so far to the left as those of many other famous Tinseltown progressives.
Which makes Reiner’s obsessive, Ahab-like hatred for Trump an aberration, and a mystery.
Could there be, I wonder, a connection between Reiner’s private suffering and his public fury? Could all that otherwise barely explicable anger at Trump be nothing more than a good old-fashioned case of transference? Did Reiner take the rage that he felt about Nick — but didn’t dare direct at him — and redirect it at Trump?
Just wondering.
What to say, in the end, about Being Charlie? When Carrie Fisher died one day with cocaine, ecstasy, and heroin in her system, and her devoted mother, Debbie Reynolds, died the next, apparently of a broken heart, it made me watch with even more admiration than before the movie that Fisher had written about their messy but essentially loving relationship, about her own addiction, and about the challenge of belonging to a show-business dynasty. Fisher’s screenplay for Postcards from the Edge was beyond admirable, exhibiting an abundance of openhearted honesty and mature self-understanding.
But to watch Being Charlie is to experience a movie co-written by a son, and directed by a father, both of whom were determined to blame the former’s problems on the latter’s decision to practice “tough love,” in accordance with the advice of so-called experts — and determined, too, to tack onto a still unresolved story about a far darker relationship than that of Debbie and Carrie a simplistic, sentimental Hollywood ending that doesn’t follow logically or emotionally from anything that’s preceded it. Yes, there are touching, human moments here, but not enough of them. Perhaps the most touching thing about it, in the end, is that Being Charlie was, above all, a well-intended but misguided act of love — and a desperate attempt to heal — by a father who, as a second-generation filmmaker of the first rank, seems to have believed, or wanted to believe, that celluloid could conquer all.
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