“Labor Day”

Rated PG-13 for thematic material, brief violence and sexuality

Labor Day is a quagmire for me. It is a lose-lose proposition because it is, at its core, a bodice-ripper — chick porn — a fem-fable. That means there will be a specific group of film fans — say book club ladies of a certain vintage — who prefer their erotica, romance and mythology disguised so expertly that it appears to be a simple love story when it is, in fact, pure poppycock (pun intended). And so, if I throw certain opinions and observations at it, I shall be spoiling the fantasy — and thereby a party-pooper — a cad — and a killjoy. On the other hand, if I write about it purposely obfuscating its hidden message, I am a duped moron. Let me dwell on my fate as I describe the plot.

The story is narrated by Henry, a sensitive and gentle man. I know this because the voice is Toby McGuire’s. Need I elaborate? I think not. The soft-voiced narrator, kind but melancholy, tells us of a time back in 1986 when he was 13 years old living in his dilapidating house with his mother, Adele (Kate Winslet). She is depressed and afflicted with a case of agoraphobia. Her husband has left her for his secretary (the insensitive jerk!). He went on with his life (selfish twerp!) and fathered another child. (This is a plot point hint.)

It is the Friday before the Labor Day weekend. Henry (Gattlin Griffith) helps mom get through the day battling her sadness to help her cope. It is even a struggle to go to the department store. It is at the store the trouble (and the story) begins.

While troubled Mom is selecting some clothing, young Henry wanders off to ogle at pictures of girls in Glamour magazine when a stranger bearing a very scary goatee comes up to him. He is bleeding and ominous indeed but his voice is polite when he asks for the boy to take him to his mother. He asks to be given a ride. Of course we know where this is going, right? 

(I mean in the true-crime books of Ann Rule not in the pages of romantic schlock novels.) 

But we are wrong. Of course we are right about part of it: he is a murderer and an escapee of prison (he had an appendectomy and jumped out of the second story a hospital) but he is not a snaggle-toothed, tattooed, bonified member of the Aryan Nation, eager to rape, bind, murder, and dismember. Oh, no, he is a gentleman! His name is Frank. Such a manly name, Frank, and is played by Josh Brolin. Does that not tie it all up in a nice little bow of pheromonal ecstasy?

His soft but firm pectorals, his paternal generosity and beneficence to young, sad Henry, his compassion for the mentally handicapped boy next door, his handiness with a socket wrench, and his ability to bake a peach pie with both man-woman sensuality and familial bonding is so heady, so intoxicating, it causes a merciless case of knee-buckling vapors and repeated spasms of swooning if one’s estrogen exceeds one’s testosterone.

Over the next four days (or is it five?) Frank and Mom and Henry become family, rooted in sweetness and bliss. But, then, the fantasy must break like a fever and tragedy prevails over the best laid plans of pulp fantasists.

The shattered Adele shatters even more. Henry survives despite the cruelty of mistakes made and societal dispassion for the unfortunate. Love and romance has no place in a society that insists on rules that take not into consideration those tragic slings and arrows of misfortune.

A love story must end with love, must it not? Can there still be romance for the gray hairs who have suffered life’s spittle and slaps? Can the poor woman, abandoned by the callous husband, not have the better of it and leave her scoundrel of an ex-husband drown in regret and guilt?  By jiminy, by jingo, yes. Can a saga about love after loss featuring Mr. Brolin and Ms. Winslet be told without bare breasts and buttocks flashed upon the screen? Might not love-making occur off camera, gentle and sweet without sweat, shouts, and grunts? Why, indeed, yes, for this is a bodice-ripper made cinematic, like the making of the perfect peach pie, where crust and fruitiness are in flawless harmony.

I cannot let it go, I have to take my chances with the truth. Is Labor Day balderdash? Absolutely! It is hopelessly, moronically, “dupifyingly,” fantastical nonsense but it has a happy ending. And any movie that takes five minutes to show how to make a peach pie has to be boldly going for the schlock without any sense of shame. I have to admire that. The cynic in me wants to throw up; the romantic sitting next to me (and the sucker in me) falls for it.

Look, here is the final verdict: it is unmitigated foolishness; it is a total con. It is romantic dementia-inducing saccharine baked into a pie, but if you like your love story sickening-sweet and devoid of reality with an ending that will moisten the eye and melt your heart, this is a peachy treat. Just program your brain for “simpleminded” and tamp down any trace of your cumbrous misanthropy; surrender to your inner schmaltz.

I would normally give this movie two bow ties but I have been lobbied to give it three. So, I will compromise and give it three romantic hearts — it is close to Valentine’s Day, after all.