Jenkins developed the script at the Sundance Institute after studying at the NYU film school and working as a performance artist. Set in the summer of 1976, it's about Murray Abramowitz (Alan Arkin), a divorced exile from the East Coast who moves with his three children in and out of cheapo rental apartments on the outskirts of Beverly Hills in an attempt to keep the kids in the school district. But Murray--with his teenage daughter Vivian (Natasha Lyonne) and two sons Ben (David Krumholtz) and little Rickey (Eli Marienthal)--shows little evidence of being enriched by anything remotely resembling education. That may be the point--education is a convenient alibi for status-seeking.
Everybody in this film is outfitted with a cute eccentricity. Murray is fond of rousting his kids in the middle of the night and shunting them commando-style to the next crummy apartment slightly higher up the social ladder. Ben is a wiseacre who seems to subsist on Trix breakfast cereal. He's like a standup comic in embryo--he's always on. Rickey is his foil, but sometimes he fights back, as in the scene when he pounds Ben for calling their dad (rightly) a senior citizen. It's the most offhanded, touching sequence in the movie because it points up just how confused the boy is about having a father everybody keeps mistaking for his grandfather.
Jenkins wants Vivian to carry the show, and she does so by bringing out areas of female experience that we haven't quite seen before in a movie. One of the funniest recurring bits is the way Vivian's sudden blossoming in the bustline becomes the centerpiece for family gawking. She feels like a freakazoid--the star attraction in her own home. When her nutsy cousin Rita (Marisa Tomei) moves in, she introduces Vivian to vibrators and the joys of disreputability. Rita has just left rehab, and she means to rehabilitate Vivian in the ways of the world. In a family circle with no other women, Rita, of all people, becomes Vivian's role model.
Jenkins has a bemused way of looking at family combat, and her film is never less than enjoyable. The cast, which also includes Kevin Corrigan as a courtly horny dope pusher, is just-so. But Jenkins' ambitions here are so slim that at times the movie seems to vaporize before our eyes. She's modest to a fault--she doesn't do justice to her best ideas. What, for example, do the kids actually think about their father's status- climbing? The brood is made to seem oblivious to the Beverly Hills shimmer, but that doesn't ring true--at least not for these kids. When we get a quick scene at the end with Rita's nouveau-riche parents, we perk up--the parents, after all, are played by those expert farceurs Rita Moreno and Carl Reiner. But they seem to exit the movie almost as quickly as they entered it. We get a lickety-split glimpse of what might have been. These actors know how to make gaudiness glow, and that's a glow this film truly needs.
Jenkins may be tiptoeing around an aspect of her movie that's too close for comfort. The upward mobility of Beverly Hills Jews is a ripe satirical target, but the film barely acknowledges it--even though it's the core of the story. Was she afraid to make the film "too Jewish"? But the more "Jewish" Slums is, the better it is. When Jenkins tries to make everything generic and loopy, the film seems fake (as in a lot of Rita's scenes). Young filmmakers who bring the Italian-American experience to the movies are generally anything but shy about it. Why should the travails of upwardly mobile Jews--even in this wafer-thin, revue-sketch format--be bleached by misplaced good taste? Jewish humor is about how people often are at their best--their funniest and most vital--when they are at their worst. Slums of Beverly Hills could use a shot of chutzpah.
Slums of Beverly Hills
Directed by Tamara Jenkins; with Natasha Lyonne, Alan Arkin, Marisa Tomei and Carl Reiner.