Little Miss Sunshine

Recapturing the spirit of Billy Wilder at his best, Little Miss Sunshine jumps up and says make mine a screwball with a shot of cyanide to go. This wonderfully dark debut comedy from music video supremos Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris has already done outstanding business for an independent film and should – with any justice – repeat the trick on this side of the Atlantic.
It’s familiar territory – quirky family hit the road to get their poignantly plain daughter (Breslin) to one of those horrendous kiddie beauty pageants, all the while arguing about money, about grandpa’s porn, about everything. So far, you say, so Sundance. A brilliantly witty script – think Annie Hall or The Graduate – should soon convince you otherwise. Yes, these characters are oddballs, but they’re far, far more than the usual collection of tics and eccentricities. Steve Carrell – perfecting a deadpan delivery that makes you wonder what Bill Murray might be like on ketamine – is a gay Proust scholar recently cuckolded by the Second Best Proust Scholar In America. Toni Collette is the frazzled mom. Greg Kinnear – simultaneously charming and smarmy – is a failing motivational speaker. Paul Dano is the Nietzsche-obsessed tortured adolescent, and grandpa (Arkin), is mostly in the bathroom snorting smack.
If you can find more enjoyable company between now and Christmas, then you must live in the party house to end them all. Good for you.