Almost Famous
dir. Cameron Crowe
Dreamworks SKG

In the middle of Almost Famous, Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup), reluctant front man of roots band Stillwater, takes William Miller (Patrick Fugit), Rolling Stone's 15-year-old future of rock journalism, on a walk through middle America in search of something ... real.

Before you waste time drawing parallels between that quest and the mission-statement movement of Jerry Maguire, the last film from writer/director Cameron Crowe, remember that the great strength of Maguire was not its resounding, almost out-of-place spirituality but its ability to delve into a setting — the world of the pro sports agent — with, not behind, its characters.

Crowe was never a professional football player; he was, however, a teenage Rolling Stone journalist, and Almost Famous is a chronicle of and tribute to that experience. Unfortunately, Crowe apparently has an easier time illustrating a world he doesn't know (the NFL) than one he does ('70s band on tour). The shallow treatment of concerts, the business of music and journalism at large, all pillars of the plot, make Almost Famous almost forgettable.

At a glance, the movie makes music look easy. Yes, the band fights, but has all its tour tickets punched for it in advance. Yes, it takes a touch of luck for William Miller to get tapped by Rolling Stone, but the depth of his profession never exceeds one tape recorder, one article and one deadline (All The President's Men this is not). And yes, the magic happens onstage, but the sensation of the live concert is so simplified, so rudimentary, that a second grader could just as easily have penned the scenes.

The story itself is of Stillwater, a band on the verge — and the heels — of rock stardom, methodically plodding across America, dealing with no permanent consequence of its high lifestyle. All of the sin contraptions are painfully familiar (the sex, the drinking, the overdose), but in contrast to the generic morality play, Almost Famous bears a soul, courtesy of Crowe's experiences. Part of the entertainment this film provides is guessing which '70s-era rocker said which line (for the record, Robert Plant donated "I am a golden god!"), because, as is the strength of an autobiographical piece, Almost Famous is littered with dedications.

To that degree, it seems as though Almost Famous is a gift from Crowe to his friends, a silver screen Post-It note that he says he still remembers the good ol' days. If he is enlightening us with his storytelling, though, why did Crowe choose Fugit, a clunky line-dropper with no prior claim to earning this role, to tell these stories? Fugit can barely escape a scene without giving a line as if he's thrilled he didn't have to call book for it. His performance leaves the taste that young William has in fact failed at his quests of maturity, professional accreditation and rock friendship. Had this been a stronger actor (Elijah Wood, Brad Renfro), the film might not have wandered.

Also wandering is the role of Penny Lane, played curiously by Kate Hudson. Lane, a glorified groupie with an entourage, is that familiar character written to absorb pain and deliver sunshine. Hudson will be lauded for a breakthrough role purely on the screen time given her shallow keg-party-queen performance, but she never gives Penny that martyrdom that raises other teen characters (Will Hunting, Ricky Fitts of American Beauty) to screen immortality. The film lags because Lane is nowhere near strong enough to broadcast any message, hopeful or otherwise.

While the heart of the movie awkwardly rests on Penny and William, the soul is firmly planted in the competition between Russell Hammond (Crudup) and Elaine Miller (Frances McDormand), William's mother. Hammond, the public's choice for the face of Stillwater, pulls William into the rock world as firmly as Elaine yanks him back toward home. The two meet in a chance phone call halfway through the film, and it is at that point when Crudup and McDormand clearly place themselves as the film's major talents. McDormand's steadfast morality and Crudup's search for definition play themselves against each other on a plane entirely separate from the rest of the cast, and in competition, they find delightful harmony. Here is Crowe's jewel, his Jerry Maguire and Rod Tidwell, sharing their hearts and lives with wide-eyed viewers.

The rest of the cast seems functional at best. The story builds itself on Joseph Campbell's monomyth, the familiar formula that gave birth to Star Wars. All of the usual suspects are here: the herald (Zooey Deschanel as William's sister), the guide (Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lester Bangs in another clinic of character acting), and on down the line. Thirty minutes into the film, you're trying to guess which character will be Crowe's Darth Vader: Is it Hammond, the obvious choice? Is it Lane, the blessing with a curse? Is it lead singer Jeff Bebe (Jason Lee, in a clear regression of skills after Mumford)? Is it industry man Dennis Hope (Jimmy Fallon)? Is it his mother, drawing him to the dark world of suburbia?

Instantly recognizable, though, is the clunky fashion in which the film is shot. Although the formula rarely strays from conventional Hollywood, Crowe (with cinematographer John Toll) shoots some scenes so awkwardly that the camera, and likewise the audience, intrudes on would-be special moments like an obnoxious younger brother, almost to the point of apology. Maguire had Janusz Kaminski's stellar cinematography to make mundane moments truly special (Tidwell's touchdown, for example). Famous tries the same, but is filled with dozens of forced close-ups and jump cuts. Any chance of a precious film moment is destroyed by a shot that must have been circled repeatedly in neon green in the script.

Crowe's last two stories have a goal beyond the journey. Beyond the game, Rod Tidwell was in pursuit of the all-pro contract, and above the concerts was Stillwater's quest for the cover of Rolling Stone. And as sure as Kate Hudson landed that coveted cover the week of the movie's release, be sure that you will leave Almost Famous with one question on your mind: If the goal of making a film is to tell a story, how can Cameron Crowe have an easier time telling the story of a wide receiver for the Arizona Cardinals and his agent than the story of his own childhood?

— Andy Stilp (andy.stilp at gmail dot com)