I suspect those viewers all-too-familiar with the relentless stresses of caregiving and being cared for will find little hilarity in Mikhanovsky’s Job-like portrait of a young medical transport driver, Vic (Chris Galust), who carries the weight of a broken system on his slender shoulders. Perhaps I would’ve laughed more at his plight if I wasn’t busy having a panic attack. As the film opens, he’s already running late in busing various clients to appointments, since the sheer ineptitude of America’s health care apparatus has caused him to take on more responsibilities than one can adequately tackle. Upon realizing that a van hasn’t arrived for an elderly group of singing mourners—including his grandfather—on their way to a funeral, Vic can’t resist cramming them into his vehicle alongside others bound for Eisenhower Center, the nonprofit job training program for people with disabilities in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Tagging along for the ride is Dima (Maxim Stoyanov), an irreverent con man posing as a long-lost nephew of the deceased. After swiping candy from a passenger, he’s mortified to see her endure a diabetic attack, prompting the funeral goers to make an emergency stop at the Center, where they’re faced with an empty vending machine and dog treats. Left stranded in the vehicle is Tracy (Lauren “Lolo” Spencer), a woman with ALS who dryly quips, “I’m so glad the accordion got off the van before I did.”
This is one of a handful of moments that did elicit a chuckle from me, in part because the incessant shouting matches had temporarily subsided, allowing the absurdity of the situation to sink in. Spencer, a YouTube star de-stigmatizing people who use wheelchairs on her channel “Sitting Pretty,” proves here to have a riveting screen presence, exuding the inherent frustration of her circumstances without ever allowing herself to be defined by them. It’s a pity that many of her most affecting scenes are fragmented by Mikhanovsky’s tirelessly visceral editing, which is so restless that it causes some key sequences—particularly the climax—to verge on incoherence, with the soundtrack periodically becoming out of sync with the footage. The best thing that can be said about the script, penned by acclaimed playwright Alice Austen, is that it never sounds written. Most of the dialogue seems as if it were improvised by the film’s remarkable ensemble, particularly when scenes of prolonged verbal altercations reach Cassavetes-level decibels. Long before the film’s first half has concluded, Vic has run up against enough obstacles to permanently freeze his face into a replica of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” yet he keeps plugging along for reasons he keeps to himself, much to the bewilderment of his mother.
If this movie is actually intended to be a comedy, then its overarching gag may be that our country’s failure to care for those in need requires a “scam artist” like Dima to ensure that things get done rather than remain in stagnation. Though he initially appears to be a nuisance offering little more than strained comic relief, he eventually emerges as somewhat of a good luck charm for Vic, helping him open an apartment for a post-funeral gathering by putting the moves on a jaded security guard. I didn’t buy this scene any more than I did Dakota Johnson’s abrupt transformation from a rule-abiding nursing home employee to a carefree spirit upon falling for the oily charms of Shia LaBeouf in “The Peanut Butter Falcon.” Time and again, both films build up to conflicts that would likely result in a dire outcome before backing away from them with a shrug and a smile. A serious conversation about a young man’s future suddenly devolves into laughter. A violent brawl somehow evaporates before anyone gets mortally wounded. A guaranteed firing is prevented merely by the forces of luck. In the production notes, Mikhanovsky refers to Austen and himself as idealists who believe that the American Dream is still within reach for all who carry it within them. I appreciate this sentiment, though their film’s inability to follow through on what it sets up is more indicative of denial than enlightenment.
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