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In the opening moments of Get Low, we observe Felix Bush (Robert Duvall) so closely that it's possible not to realize right away that the film is a period piece. Felix is a bushy-bearded, shotgun-wielding semi-hermit, fond of "No Trespassing" signs, who inspires children to literally vomit in terror. He lives in the woods on the outskirts of a small Depression-era town, and doesn't appear to have much contact with his neighbors apart from the aforementioned young intruders.
For reasons not immediately clear, Felix, who is getting on in years, decides to throw himself a funeral -- a living one, open to any and all gawkers, complete with a lottery to inherit his property. He enlists Frank Quinn (Bill Murray), struggling owner of the local funeral home, and Frank's assistant Buddy (Lucas Black), to put it together. They regard Felix with wariness, but can't afford to refuse him. There's also a built-in fascination factor; they're gaining access to a local curiosity, and planning a party for him. "Is it just me," says Frank after one prickly planning session, "or is he extremely articulate when he wants to be?"
It's Murray, an actor who may understand a thing or two about reclusive behavior, who best fits into director Aaron Schneider's spare, low-key rhythm -- or maybe the rhythms of the movie shift to accommodate him. On paper, I don't imagine the screenplay is very funny beyond some amusing nods to Felix's adorable old-timey hermit lifestyle (and the subtle ways that Felix milks his legend). But Murray, offering his usual hilarious line-readings and deadpan reaction shots, plays his scenes opposite Duvall and Black beautifully as a pragmatic huckster, lending them a bemused comic grace. He breaks through potential tedium with such consistency that he strings the movie along, threatening to make the whole thing work.
This isn't a buddy comedy, though, and Murray must recede as the movie turns to Felix's haunted past. As colorful as the old and grizzled Felix is, the movie lacks the imagination to hint at the intervening years between his defining traumatic event and his emergence from hiding. Ultimately, the long exile of Felix Bush feels like a writer's conceit, and I wonder if screenwriters Chris Provenzano and C. Gaby Mitchell see it that way, too: a folksy, dignified short story (based apparently on fact).
Regardless, it doesn't sustain a feature film, even if spending time with these actors is rarely less than agreeable. Duvall, usually adept at disappearing into his roles, gets caught up in tics: growling, squinting, and finally monologuing in a climactic scene that is supposed to offer revelations, but feels no less grandstanding than its larger-scale, big-studio counterparts. Not enough happens in Get Low to disguise the fact that it's basically about an old guy with a terrible confession to make, who plans to finally make it, and then does; as protracted buried-secret melodrama, it's hoary and trifling, especially when it reaches its town-square-style confession. I guess this is what people used to do before they wrote memoirs.
