My Salinger Year
‘People never notice anything.’ J.D. Salinger once uttered such wisdom, cementing his mark in history as one of the great American novelists. Those involved with the creation of My Salinger Year must surely hope Salinger’s quote rings true, with director, Philippe Falardeau concocting a vile aroma that, if studied too long, will strike horror into the heart of any fan of The Catcher in the Rye. Noticing the one, isolated draw this Margaret Qualley-led film has, is that its cast is littered with stalwart actors, responsive to the tones and themes found in Falardeau’s odd prose and inconsistencies. Still, ‘the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly’, and considering Falardeau has no intent or purpose in gathering much more than feeble writing, he is perhaps cream of the crop when it comes to maturity.
His humble story here is one of oddly bland and boring proportions. A college graduate takes a clerk position working alongside the literary agent of the great novelist, J.D. Salinger. Assuming My Salinger Year is a love letter to culturally significant work, it is rather ironic that this film will never hit the heights it hopes for. Based on the memoirs of Joanna Rakoff, My Salinger Year does not present a recount of events that changed the life of this budding journalist, but it is rather a miserably spiralling cliché look at how the writing of old affects the innovators of new. Balancing itself between the cusp of affluence and poverty, Qualley’s leading performance is far from incredible, but provides a scope and range necessary to the few messages the film has on offer.
Qualley would be the best part of the film had she not been scuppered by the supporting performances from Sigourney Weaver and Colm Feore. Their efforts, as strong as ever, are futile considering how little they appear when compared to the collection of dense and bland ‘creative minds’ that Qualley lingers around. Pretentious snobs living in The Big Apple – it couldn’t be more stagnant an idea had they tried. The tropes and underhand comments present pretentious artists who have little success; they bask in such notions of failure and rejection, viewing themselves as enlightened and far more talented than the dishevelled trash that is published in their place. These moments should not dominate the film but, tragically, they do, and often.
My Salinger Year presents a publishing company stuck in the past, trying to push on through into the realms of modernity. It, much like its director, cannot keep the changing times at bay. Inevitably, something so poorly crafted and uninteresting as this is a fatal blow to a story that should be at least amicable. Falardeau is inconsistent here, often wanting to innovate but not knowing how. Panic stretches across the screen, pouring into every orifice and soon consuming the film, which flatlines around the ten-minute mark and never recovers from there. What brief quality is alluded to is not enough to carry such an unresponsive film, where trivial matters are at the forefront, dragging its leading character down kicking and screaming into the murky waters of mediocrity.