The Cloying, Awful Labor Day

An extended unpacking of why director Jason Reitman's latest movie is (by far) his worst
Paramount

What. Just. Happened.

When those are the words passing through one’s head as one exits the cinema, it typically means that the film just viewed was either exceptionally good or exceptionally bad. In the case of Jason Reitman’s latest movie, the lugubrious Labor Day, I’m afraid it’s the latter.

To date, Reitman’s work had been distinguished by an acerbic, pop-inflected sense of irony: his promising debut Thank You for Smoking; his out-of-nowhere charmer Juno; his Clooneyfied mainstream affirmation Up in the Air; and his interesting but ultimately half-baked Young Adult. All four had their moments of sentiment, but none were what one would call overly sentimental. Indeed, I’d assumed that if Reitman were ever to deliver a genuine stinker, it would be by erring on the side of sarcasm.

But deliver a genuine stinker he has, and its failings lie in precisely the opposite direction. Labor Day (based on the novel by Joyce Maynard) is the heart-string-tugging tale of a teenage boy, his lonesome mother, and the escaped fugitive who, as they say, “changes their lives forever.” It is the most cloying, maudlin movie I’ve seen in a long while, so saccharine that its very memory makes my teeth ache to the root. The audience at the screening I attended seemed largely to agree: It is surely a bad sign when a film’s would-be weepiest moments primarily elicit tears of laughter.

That said, there is a place in the world for cloying, maudlin melodrama (it’s called “Lifetime”), and if you find yourself in the mood for something akin to The Bridges of Madison County only more so, then feel free to make your way to the nearest showing of Labor Day. But by all means stop reading this column now. For in the interest of explaining what an astonishing pile of overwrought mush the movie is, I intend to offer a great many spoilers. You’ve been warned.

The year is 1987, and divorced, damaged mom Adele (Kate Winslet) lives alone with her 13-year-old son, Henry (Gattlin Griffith). “I don’t think losing my father broke my mother’s heart, but rather losing love itself,” Henry explains in Hallmarkian voiceover. (More on this later.) But one day, when mother and son make their monthly pilgrimage to Price-Mart—post-divorce, Adele has become so twitchily neurotic that she is virtually incapable of leaving the house—a handsome, goateed stranger (Josh Brolin) asks them, with just the slightest hint of menace, for a lift. He has escaped from prison, it turns out, where he was serving an 18-year sentence for murder. He has Adele take him to her house, where he very gently ties her to a chair, explaining that this way she will be able to truthfully tell authorities that she is a kidnappee, rather than a criminal abettor.

And that is the very last even marginally unpleasant thing the escaped felon, Frank, does for the remainder of the film. That night he cooks Adele and Henry chili; in the morning it’s homemade biscuits. (Barbeque will have to wait a day or two.) Over the course of the long Labor Day weekend for which the film is named, Frank fixes a basement wall, a loose stair, and a squeaky door; conducts auto repairs and an oil change; replaces electrical fuses and the filter on the furnace; does the laundry (and irons it); washes the floor (and waxes it); and, using Amish techniques, single-handedly raises a barn in the backyard. Okay, I made up that last one.

Between his bouts of This-Old-House fervor, Frank teaches shy, awkward Henry how to hit a baseball, and sweetly connects with a disabled, wheelchair-bound neighborhood boy whose mother is cruel and negligent.   

And then there’s The Pie. When the man who lives across the street (J.K. Simmons, onscreen for approximately 12 seconds) drops off a bucket of peaches at the house, Adele frets that there are too many to eat and she’ll likely wind up throwing them away. Not so, declares Frank, who evidently shared a cell with Martha Stewart: They will make pie. It would be difficult to overstate just how much screen time is devoted to the pie-making, and how aggressively the process is fetishized. One shot, in which Frank, Adele, and Henry knead a bowl of peach-mush together, fingers pulpily entangled, would have earned the movie an NC-17 rating if the MPAA were doing its job. Throughout, Frank maintains a steady patter of culinary homilies: “people pay too much attention to recipes, when all you have to do is feel,” “all these fancy gadgets, but sometimes the best tool is right there attached to your body.”

Speaking of which: Yes, Frank and Adele do get it on. And while they do—I promise I’m not making this up—Henry sits in the bedroom next door, contemplating the word “rhythm.”

By Frank’s third day at the house, he and Adele have concluded they are in love, and have concocted a plan to run away to Canada with Henry. Yeah, that’ll work.

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Christopher Orr is a senior editor and the principal film critic at The Atlantic. He has written on movies for The New Republic, LA Weekly, Salon, and The New York Sun, and has worked as an editor for numerous publications.

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