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On paper, Cyrus sounds so much like a reshuffled version of several Judd Apatow arrested-development comedies that it's almost confusing: John C. Reilly plays John, an awkward, divorced sad-sack who finds his promising romance with Molly (Marisa Tomei) hitting a roadblock in the form of her twenty-year-old son Cyrus (Jonah Hill), who still lives at home. So: Reilly and Tomei have a relationship not so far removed from the Steve Carell/Catherine Keener dynamic in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, while Hill inhabits the type of role that Reilly himself dove into with great abandon in Step Brothers. Keener herself is on hand, too, as John's ex; it sounds like one of those plays where the leads exchange parts every night.
Cyrus, though, comes not from the Apatow collective but from Jay and Mark Duplass, the brothers behind some of the best work from the so-called mumblecore movement. The Duplasses have always shown a touch more ambition than some of their contemporaries: The Puffy Chair was about a road trip, not just killing time, and Baghead nodded toward lo-fi horror amidst its self-aware twentysomething bed-hopping. Cyrus has a touch of horror, too: Hill slows down his normally breathless delivery and masters the art of the semi-vacant stare. After a few visits to Molly's home, John visibly wonders if he can trust this kid with a kitchen knife.
The whole character, in fact, flips the model of the arrested Apatowian male. Rather than an adult who flaunts the behavior of a teenager (or in the case of Step Brothers, eleven-year-old boys), Cyrus is a young man who hides his stunted nature behind unnerving civility. He seems to open up to John, inviting him to dinner and speaking directly about his mother's relationships. But John notices that Molly insists on sleeping with the door open. And that his shoes may be missing.
The movie is a comedy of sorts, but while it gets some awkward laughs out of John and Cyrus illustrating neediness at two very different stages of life, as well as some big ones from their simmering animosity, this isn't a dark satire about the refusal to grow up. Reilly and Hill have shown aptitude for broad comedy, starring in some of the best ones of recent years, but here they play a similar situation with humanity and restraint. Even a broader early moment, where Reilly makes a spectacle of himself at a party, circumvents boorishness or even cringe comedy, and, when Reilly sings along to "Don't You Want Me" by the Human League, becomes oddly joyful (while also providing a new twist on that old mumblecore standby: the rambling party scene).
Though it employs recognizable stars for the first time in the Duplass filmography, Cyrus maintains a striking intimacy. The directors' tendency to use small, shaky zooms and handheld close-ups pays off particularly well with Tomei, whose conflict between mothering her needy son and embracing her own happiness registers almost entirely on her face rather than in hoary dialogue. Yet the characters do talk to each other and make decisions that seem logical even as they backfire; it's not one of those comedies that depends on pointless, elaborate deception.
Like The Puffy Chair and Baghead, Cyrus produces a compelling and enjoyable ninety minutes, but, also like its predecessors, it does so without generating much suspicion about hidden depths. The Duplasses' directorial touch is too gentle to score satirical points off of these characters, and too sweet and honest to launch off into the comedic deep end. (Step Brothers, in the end, is a more exciting and experimental treatment of this material.) Put another way: I've never had a bad time watching a Duplass movie -- nor have I ever had the urge to rewatch one again. Cyrus is smart, affecting, and funny. It's also maybe just a little too polite.
