This dour and avoidable semi-dramatic rethink of The Guilt Trip finds Helen Hunt – cosmetically stretched tighter than a bongo drum, thus the one expression – half-convincingly donning three creative hats (writer/director/actor). Hunt the actress hikes up the wiseguy earnestness as the erudite, singularly unlikeable mother of an equally brainy (and sullen) dropout (Brenton Thwaites) who chooses surfing over schoolwork. Given the formality of the frames, I’m guessing that mumblecore-bred cinematographer Jas Shelton (finally working with a budget large enough to cover the cost of a tripod) called the shots. The film’s biggest shortcoming is Hunt the writer’s inability to supply her leads with distinct voices. Mother and son sound the same, and as directed, the hare-footed dialog jounces like overlapping machine guns. And bring a neck brace to cushion the inevitable reveal of Hunt’s heartbreaking, character-justifying backstory. With Luke Wilson as the love interest, and Richard Kind and David Zayas lending colorable support (2015) — Scott Marks
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